II

It was nearly high tide. Stephen Byrne stood at the end of his garden

and regarded contentedly the River Thames. The warm glow of sunset

lingered about the houses by Hammersmith Bridge and the tall trees on

the Surrey side. The houses and the tall trees and the great old elms by

William Morris' house stood rigid on their heads in the still water, and

all that wide and comfortable reach between the Island and Hammersmith

Bridge was beautiful in the late sun. There were a few small clouds

flushed with pink in the southern sky, and these also lay like reefs of

coral here and there in the water. The little boats in the foreground,

moored in ranks in the tiny roads off Hammerton Chase, lay already deep

in the shadow of the high houses of the Terrace, and the water about

them was cool and very black. The busy tugs went by, hurrying up with

the last of the flood, long chains of barges swishing delightfully

behind them. The tug _Maud_ went by, and _Margaret_, her inseparable

companion. On their funnels were a green stripe and a red stripe and a

yellow stripe. On their barges were reposeful bargees, smoking old pipes

in the stern, and pondering, no doubt, the glories of their life.

_Margaret_ this evening had a glorious barge, a great black vessel with

a light blue line along the gunwale and a tangle of rigging and

coffee-coloured sails strewn along her deck. As they fussed away past

the Island the long waves crept smoothly across the river and stole

secretly under the little boats in the roads, the sailing-boats and the

rowing-boats and the motor-boats and the absurd dinghies, and tossed

them up and heaved them about with pleasing chuckles; and went on to the

garden-wall of the houses and splashed noisily under Stephen's nose and

frothed back to the boats. And the boats rolled happily with charming

ripply noises till the water was calm and quiet again. A swan drifted

lazily backwards with the tide, searching for something in the back of

its neck. It was all very soothing and beautiful, and Stephen Byrne

could have looked at the high tide for ever.

High tide was a great moment at Hammerton Chase. It had a powerful

influence on the minds of The Chase. There was a tremendous feeling of

fulfilment, of achievement, about the river when the flood was still

sweeping up, wandering on to the road on one bank and almost topping the

towpath on the other, making Hammerton Reach a broad and dignified

affair. The time went quickly when the tide was high. There were long

hours when the tide was low, when the river dwindled to a mean and

dejected stream, creeping narrowly along between gloomy stretches of mud

and brickbats and broken crockery, where the boats lay protesting and

derelict in uncomfortable attitudes. There was a sense of disappointment

then, of stagnation and failure. Those who lived by the river and loved

and studied it were keenly susceptible to the tides.

And this tide seemed particularly copious and good. For one thing, he

had dined well. He had drunk at Brierley's a satisfying quantity of some

admirable Château Yquem, followed by some quite excellent old brandy. He

was by no means drunk; but he was conscious of a glow, a warm

contentment. Life seemed amicable and prosperous and assured. After all,

he was a fortunate young fellow, Stephen Byrne. The life of a successful

poet was undoubtedly a good life.

And he was happily married. His wife was pretty and loving and almost

perfect. Very soon she was to have another baby; and it would be a boy,

of course. The first was a dear, delightful, incomparable creature, but

she was a girl. The next would be a boy.

And he loved his home. He loved Hammersmith and the faithful

companionable river, the barges and the jolly tugs and his little garden

and his motor-boat and his dinghy and the sun-steeped window-seat in the

corner of his study, the white conservatory he had whitewashed with his

wife, and the exuberant creeper they had trained together.

Stephen's house was The House by the River, which stood with one other

in an isolated communion between Hammerton Terrace and the Island. The

bank swung out widely above the Terrace, so that Stephen's house and its

neighbour were on a miniature promontory, commanding unobstructed the

ample curve of the river to Hammersmith Bridge, a mile away. The houses

were old and ill-appointed within, with rattling sashes and loose doors,

but dignified and beautiful without, modest old brick draped generously

with green. And they were full of tall windows drinking in the sun and

looking away to the south towards the hills about Putney and Roehampton,

or westwards to the remote green of Richmond Hill. They were rich with

sunshine and an air that was not London's.

Stephen looked up at his high old house and was proud of it. He was

proud of the thick ivy and creeper all over it and the green untidy

garden below it, and the pretty view of the dining-room, where the light

was on, a lonely island of gold in the dusk, seen delightfully through

matted ropes of creeper.

There was a light in the bathroom, too--Emily Gaunt, the housemaid, no

doubt, having a bath. As he looked up he heard the sound of water

tumbling down the pipes outside the house, and deduced absently that

Emily had pulled up the waste-plug.

Stephen looked over his neighbour's wall into his neighbour's garden.

His neighbour was John Egerton and a good friend of his, probably the

best friend he had. But John Egerton was not in his garden. Stephen was

sorry, for he felt that inclination towards human society which normally

accompanies the warm afterglow of good wine. Mrs. Byrne was dining with

her mother, and would not be back for an hour or so. Stephen regretted

that he had come back so early. He could not write. He did not want to

read. He felt full, but not capable of poetry. He wanted company. The

glow was still upon him, but it was growing chilly on the wall. It was

time to go in. He knocked out his pipe. The dottle fell with a fizzle in

the water.

He walked in slowly to the dining-room and poured out a glass of port.

Failing company there must be more glow. The port was good and admirably

productive of glow. Stephen stood by the old oak sideboard, luxuriously

reviving the sensations of glow. The dining-room, it seemed to him, was

extraordinarily beautiful; the sea-picture by Quint an extraordinarily

adequate picture of the sea; the port extraordinarily comforting and

velvety; the whole of life extraordinarily well arranged.

When he had finished the port he heard a timid creaking on the

staircase. He went into the tiny hall, walking with a self-conscious

equilibrium. Emily Gaunt was coming down the stairs to her bedroom,

fresh from her bath. Emily Gaunt was a pleasant person,

well-proportioned, and, for a housemaid, unusually fair to see. Her

eyes, like her hair, were a very dark brown, and there was a certain

refinement in her features. Her hair was hanging about her shoulders and

her face--usually pale--was rosy from her bath. In the absence of a

dressing-gown or kimono, she wore an old coat of Cook's over her

night-gown. Cook was skinny and Emily was plump, so that Cook's coat was

far from meeting where it ought to have met. There was a great deal of

Emily's neck and Emily's night-gown to be seen.

Stephen, so far, had taken little notice of Emily, except that one

evening he had smiled at her for some reason and she had smiled at him;

but at this moment, in the special circumstances of this lovely evening,

she seemed in his eyes surprisingly desirable. In the half-light from

the dining-room it was easy to forget that she was a servant. She was

merely a warm young female creature, plump and comely, and scantily

clad.

And there was no one else in the house.

"Good evening, Emily," said Stephen, looking up the stairs.

"Good evening, Mr. Byrne," said Emily, halting on the stairs. She was a

little surprised to see him. Cook was having her "evening out" and Emily

had thought herself alone in the house.

Now, Emily Gaunt was a well-behaved young woman. She was accustomed to

being looked at by her male employers, and she was accustomed to keeping

them at a proper distance. For so she had been brought up. But when she

was not looked at she was usually sensible of a certain disappointment.

Stephen Byrne had not looked at her enough, and she was undeniably

disappointed. She liked the look of him; she liked his voice when he

said, "Where are my boots, please, Emily?" And she did not get on well

with Mrs. Byrne. Moreover, she had had a warm bath and was conscious

also of a kind of glow.

So that when she had said, "Good evening, Mr. Byrne," she continued at

once her demure and unaffected descent. Cook would have turned and fled

up the stairs, panting with modesty. So would many another domestic

young person.

But Emily descended. If she had waited, or turned back up the stairs, or

faltered, "Oh, _sir_," and scurried like a young hind away from him,

there is no doubt that Stephen would have made himself scarce--would

have left the coast clear.

But she descended. When she came to the bottom of the stairs where

Stephen was standing, there was hardly space for her to pass. Stephen

made no move. He said fatuously, "Had a nice bath, Emily?" and he put

one arm around her as she passed, lightly, almost timidly, just touching

the back of Cook's coat.

Emily said, "Yes, thank you, sir," and looked at him. Only a glance,

quick and fugitive as an electric spark--but what a glance! Yet she made

no attempt to stop; she did not giggle or stammer or protest; she passed

on. In another moment she would have gone.

But Stephen had touched her. He had received and registered that naughty

and electrical glance. He was inflamed.

He did a thing the like of which he had never done before. He closed his

right arm about the girl and firmly embraced her. And he kissed her very

suddenly and hotly.

Emily screamed.

Stephen pulled her closer and kissed her again. And again Emily

screamed. It was all very unfortunate. For it may be that if he had been

less precipitate he could have been equally amorous without encountering

anything more than a purely formal opposition. Emily Gaunt was prepared

to be kissed, but not suddenly, not violently. It should have been

properly led up to--a little talk, a compliment or two, some blushes,

and a delicate embrace. That was the proper routine in Emily's set, or

in anybody else's set for that matter. But this sudden, desperate,

hot-breathed entanglement was quite another thing. It was frightening.

And who can blame Emily Gaunt for that high-pitched rasping cry?

Stephen blamed her. It startled him a little, that screaming--frightened

him, too. It brought him back to reality. He thought suddenly of

neighbours, of John Egerton, of old Mrs. Ambrose across the way. Suppose

they heard. It became urgent to stop the screaming. Playfully, almost,

he put his hands at Emily's throat. And even the touch of her throat was

somehow inflammatory. It made him want to kiss her again.

"Shut up, you little fool," he said. "I shan't hurt you."

But Emily's nerve had gone. She opened her mouth to scream again.

Stephen's hands tightened about the neck and the scream was never heard.

"_Now_, will you be quiet?" he said. "You're perfectly safe, Emily--I'm

sorry.... I was a fool ..." and he released his grip.

But Emily was thoroughly, hideously, frightened now. A kind of

despairing wail, a thin and inarticulate "Help!" came from her. Stephen

put his hand over her mouth, and Emily bit him.

And then Stephen saw red. The lurking animal which is in every man was

already strong in him that evening, though Emily's first scream had

cowed it a little. Now it took complete charge. With a throaty growl of

exasperation he put both hands at the soft throat of Emily and shook

her, jerkily exhorting her as he did so, "Will--you--be

quiet--you--silly--little fool--will you--be

quiet--you--fool--you'll--have--everybody--here--you ..."

He only meant to shake her--he did not mean to squeeze with his

hands--did not know that he _was_ squeezing--mercilessly. He was between

Emily and the dining-room, and in the dim light of the hall he could not

see the starting, horrible eyes, the darkening flesh of poor Emily

Gaunt. He only knew that this silly screaming was intolerable and must

be stopped--stopped for certain, without further bother ... before the

whole street came round ... before his wife came back ... before ...

"Stop it, will you?... For God's sake, stop it!" he cried, almost

plaintively, as his grip loosened a moment, and a strangled gasp burst

from Emily. He was too much possessed with his anxious rage to notice

_how_ strangled it was. What he wanted was silence ... complete silence,

that was it ... screams and gasps, they were all dangerous.... "Oh ...

stop it ... can't you?"

The shaking process had taken them across the tiny hall. They were by

the hat-stand now. Emily's oscillating head cannoned against a hat-peg.

Her weight became suddenly noticeable. Emily's hands stopped scrabbling

at his wrists ... her bare feet stopped kicking. Good, she was becoming

sensible. Thank God! Cautiously, with a vast relief, Stephen took his

hands away. "That's better," he said.

And then Emily Gaunt fell heavily against his shirt-front and slithered

past him to the floor. Her forehead hit the bottom corner of the

hat-stand. Her body lay limp, face downwards, and perfectly still.

In the dark hall the sound of snoring was heard.

He knew then that Emily Gaunt was dead. But it was absurd.... He turned

on the light, groping stupidly in the dark for the switch. His hands

were shaking--that was from the gripping, of course. And they were

sweating. So was his face.

Kneeling down, he pulled at Emily's shoulders. He pulled her over on to

her back.

"My God!" he whispered. "My God!... my God!..."

A bell jangled in the basement. Some one with his head lowered was

peering through the frosted glass of the front door.