‘Thank you,’ he said, without emphasis; and the hand went fumbling out. In that gesture, even more than in the two whispered words, Philip seemed to discover a deliberate and frugal irony, an irony that would have been simply terrifying at any other time. Now, after so many of his thoughts had gone down this dusty way, it came strangely to reassure him. He was able to cling to the fact that something looked out above the wreckage, unconquered, serene.
Once more refreshed by a sip or two of water their host returned to the shadows and spoke again. ‘No doubt—when you came—they told you. I don’t know what—they told you.’
‘We were told,’ said, Margaret, very quietly, ‘that you were an invalid and in bed.’
‘That is—only the beginning. Was that all?’
Remembering so many things, Margaret felt confused, and looked at Philip. But Philip, not knowing how to begin to answer the question, shook his head. He felt as if the old man were listening carefully to their silence and would soon reply to it.
This he did. ‘You have seen—my brother, Horace—and my sister? And Morgan—you have seen him. You have been thinking—this is a strange house—a strange family. You may have wondered—whether you did well—in coming—even for shelter—out of the storm—into this house—this old dark house. I should like—to tell you everything—to explain. But there’s no time—no time to explain. I like to see you—standing there—very young, younger than you think—and I haven’t seen—anybody like you—so young—for many a year. I had almost forgotten....’ His voice floated into a silence. They waited, unstirring, for him to come groping out of his reverie. Then he went on, more brokenly now: ‘I could have told you—a long story—but no time. And talking—tires me.’
‘I’m sure it does,’ said Margaret. ‘Please don’t trouble. We’re only disturbing you.’
He raised his hand a few inches, as if gently commanding her to be silent. ‘Terrible misfortune,’ he whispered, ‘came—to this house. First death—very early—for two—a young boy—then a girl, Rachel. Then—after years—something broke down—the life ran out—there came—a strain of madness.’ He broke off and there was silence again.
Standing here in this shadowy room, listening to this curiously remote voice, Philip thought, might seem more fantastic than creeping on that landing above or fighting with Morgan outside, than hearing Miss Femm’s screaming or watching Mr. Femm’s hollow eyes; yet he could not help feeling as if a light were about to shine through the house, as if he were coming out at the end of a long tunnel.
‘It didn’t touch me—this madness,’ he began again. ‘At least—I don’t think—it did—though there was a time—years and years ago—before you were born—when I was wild—did mad things—I don’t know. It touched—all the others—various ways—different degrees—but shut them all off somehow—stopped them all really living—passed them through a little death—half-way—then set them going again—with something dead inside. You have seen my brother Horace—still sharp—a kind of cunning—but all empty and brittle—a shell—with something gone—for ever. And then—Rebecca—poor creature—she may have troubled you—nearly deaf—shut off—everything missed—and now with a God—a God behind her—a God who is deaf—vengeful—half-crazed—like she is. Don’t let her trouble you—yet have pity on her—you are young—don’t anger her—only for one night. But you have seen—the last of her perhaps—is she asleep? Is it—very late? I feel—we all ought to be asleep.’