In the morning he went out as usual to feed the sea-gulls before
breakfast, as if nothing had happened or was likely to happen. He was
pleased as usual to see from the window that they were waiting for him,
patient dots of grey and white, drifting on the near water. The sun
broke thinly through the October haze, and the birds circled in a
chattering crowd against the gold. And he had as usual the sense of
personal satisfaction when they caught in the air, with marvellous
judgment and grace, the pieces of old bread he flung out over the water,
and was disappointed as usual when they missed it, and the bread fell
into the river, though even then it was delightful to see with how much
delicacy they skimmed over, and plucked it from the surface as they
flew, as if it were a point of honour not to settle or pause or wet
their red feet, tucked back beneath them.
And he had breakfast as usual with Margery and chattering Joan, and as
usual afterwards went out with Joan to feed the rabbits, and again
enjoyed the mysterious and universal pleasure of giving food to animals
and watching them eat. He noted as usual the peculiar habits and
foibles of the rabbit Henry and the rabbit Maud, and the common follies
of all of them--how they all persisted, as usual, in crowding impossibly
round the same cabbage leaf, jostling and thrusting and eating with the
maximum discomfort, with urgent anxiety and petulant stamping because
there were too many of them, while all around there lay large wet
cabbage leaves, inviting and neglected. He listened as usual to little
Joan's insane interminable questions, and answered them as usual as
intelligently as he could. And he puffed as usual at the perfect pipe of
after-breakfast, and swept as usual the dead leaves from the path. But
all these things he did with the exquisite melancholy enjoyment of a
schoolboy, knowing that he does them for the last time on the last day
of his holidays at home.
And he had decided nothing. Margery, too, moved as usual through the
busy routine of after-breakfast, "ordering" food for herself and Stephen
and the children and the servants, and promising Cook to get some lard
and "speaking to" Mary about the drawing-room carpet, and arranging for
the dining-room to be "done out" tomorrow, and conferring with Nurse and
telephoning for some fish. She did these things in a kind of dream,
hating them more than usual, and now and then she looked out of the
window, and wondered what Stephen was doing, and what he was thinking.
For she knew that he had not decided. And she would not speak to him;
she had said her say, and some instinct told her that silence now was
her best hope.
So all day they went about in this distressful tranquillity, pretending
that this day was as yesterday, and as the day before. At midday the
tide was down; the grey sky crept up from the far roofs and hid the sun.
There was the damp promise of a drizzle in the air, and the bleak
depression of low tide lay over the mud and the meagre stream and the
deserted boats. They had lunch almost in silence, and after lunch a thin
rain began. Stephen stared out at it silent from the window, thinking
and thinking and deciding nothing; and Margery sat silent by the fire,
darning. And her silence, and the silent riot of his thoughts, and the
silent miserable rain, and the empty abandoned river, united in a vast
conspiracy of menace and accusation and gloom. They were leagued
together to get on his nerves and drive him to despair. He went out
suddenly, and down to the dining-room, and there he drank some whisky,
very quickly, and very strong.
Then, because he must do _something_ or he would go mad, he dragged the
dinghy over the mud and shingle down to the water, and he rowed up to
the Island to pick up firewood from the mud-banks, where the high tides
took it and left it tangled in the reeds and young willow stems.
It was an infinite toil to get this wood, but all afternoon he worked
there, crashing fiercely through the tall forest of withes and crowded
reeds, and slithering down banks into deep mud, and groping laboriously
in the slush of small inlets for tiny pieces of tarred wood, and filling
his basket with great beams and bits of bark, and small planks and
box-wood, and painfully carrying them through the mud and the wet reeds
down to the boat. He worked hard, with a savage determination to tire
himself, to occupy his mind, cursing with a kind of furious satisfaction
when the stems sprang back and whipped him in the face. The sweat came
out upon him, and his hands were scratched, and the mud was thick upon
his clothes. But all the time he thought. He could not stop thinking.
And somehow the fierce energy of the work communicated itself to his
thoughts. As he struck down the brittle reeds he fancied himself
striking at his enemies, manfully meeting his Fate. All his life he had
done things thoroughly, as he was doing this foolish wood-gathering. He
had faced things, he had not been afraid. He would not be afraid now. He
would give himself up. No, no! He couldn't do that. Not fair to
Margery--a long wait, prison, trial, the dock--hanging! Aah! He made a
shuddering cry at that thought, and he lashed out with the stick in his
hand, beating at the withes in a fury of fear. No, no! by God,
no!--hanging--the last morning! Not that.
But still, he must be brave. No more cowardice. That was the worst of
all he had done this summer--the cowardice. No more sitting tight at
John's expense. Whatever Margery said. It was sweet of her, but later it
would be different. When all this was forgotten, she would remember ...
she would be living with him, day after day, knowing every night there
was a murderer in her bed, a liar, a coward, a treacherous coward....
Very soon she would hate him. And he would hate her, because she knew.
He would be always ashamed before her, all day, always.... Just now they
did not mind, because they were afraid. But they _would_ mind.... She
had not even minded about Muriel, when he told her--and he had told her
everything. But she would mind that, too, in the end.... She would
always be imagining Muriels.
No, there must be no more cowardice. It must finish now, one way or
another. But there was only one way.
The rain had stopped now, and a warm wind blew freshly from the
south-west. The two swans of the Island washed themselves in the
ruffled shallows, wings flapping and necks busily twisting. In the west
was a stormy and marvellous sky, still dark pillows of heavy clouds,
black and grey, and an angry purple, with small white tufts floating
irresponsibly across them, and here and there a startling lake of the
palest blue; while low down, beneath them, as if rebellious at the long
grey day, and determined somehow to make a show at his own setting, the
sun revealed himself as an orange dome on the roof of the Quick Boat
Company, and poised grotesquely between the tall black chimneys, flung
out behind the Richmond Hills a narrow ribbon of defiant light, and away
towards Hammersmith all the windows in a big house lit up suddenly with
orange and gold, as if the house were burning furiously within. The boat
was heavy now with wood, and Stephen pushed her off, to row home with
his face to the sunset and the storm. Now the light was caught in the
mud-slopes by the Island, and they, too, were beautiful. And as he rowed
he said a self-conscious farewell to the sun and the warm wind and the
river which he loved. No one loved this river as he did. They lived
smugly in their drawing-rooms like Kensington people, and they looked
out at the river when the sun shone at high tide, and in the summer
crept out timidly for an hour in hired boats like trippers. But when it
was winter and the wind blew, they drew their curtains and shivered
over their fires and shut out the river, so that they hardly knew it was
there from the autumn to the spring. They did not deserve to live by the
river; they did not understand it. They did not see that it was lovable
always, and most lovable perhaps when the tide rushed in against the
wild west wind, and the rain and the spindrift lashed your face as you
tossed in a small boat over the lively waves. They thought it was the
noisy storm rushing down a muddy river; they thought the wind made a
melancholy howl about the windows. They did not know that the river in
the wind was a place of poetry and excitement, such as you might not
find in the rest of London, that the noisy wind and the muddy water and
the wet mud at low tide were things of beauty and healthy life if you
went out and made friends with them. These people never saw the sunset
in winter, and the curious majesty of factories against the glow; they
never saw the lights upon the mud; they did not love the barges and the
tugs, sliding up with a squat importance out of the fog, or swishing
lazily down in the early morning, with the hoar-frost thick upon their
decks. They did not know what the river was like in the darkness or the
winter dusk; you could not know that till you had been on the river many
times at those hours and found out the strange lights and the strange
whispers, and the friendly loneliness of the river in the dark.
And when he had gone, no one here would do that; no one would row out in
the frosty noons or the velvet dusks, no one would feed the sea-gulls in
the morning, or steal out in the evening to watch the dab-chicks diving
round the Island. No one would be left who properly loved the river.
They would sit in their drawing-rooms and shudder at the wind, and say:
"That poor fellow Byrne--he was mad about the river--he was always
pottering about on the river in a boat--and then, you know, he drowned
himself in the river--just outside here." Yes, he would do that. There
would be something "dramatic" about that. Just outside here--in the
dark. He had decided now. Not poison, for he knew nothing about that;
not shooting--for he had no revolver. But the river.
When he had decided his heart was lighter. Very carefully he moored the
boat, and took out the wood and carried it in a basket to the kitchen to
be dried. Then he took a last look at the river and the sun and went in
to tea. All that evening he was very cheerful with Margery in the
drawing-room, and at dinner and afterwards. At dinner he talked hard and
laughed very often. And Margery was easier in her mind, though
sometimes she was puzzled by his laughter. But she thought that she had
persuaded him, or that he had persuaded himself, that she was right, and
this gaiety was the reaction from the long uncertainty of mind. And
indeed it was. She saw also that he drank a good deal; but because he
was cheerful at last, and would be more cheerful when he had drunk more,
she did not mind.
By the late post there came a copy of _The Argus_. They looked at the
parcel, but they did not open it, and they did not look at each other.
When she went up to bed he kissed her fondly, but not too fondly, lest
she should suspect--and said that he would sit and read for a little by
the fire. Then he opened _The Argus_ and read through "The Death in the
Wood" from beginning to end. It pleased him now--it pleased him very
much; for it was more than a week since he had seen it, and some of its
original freshness had returned. It was good. But it seemed to him, as
he read it now, to be a very damning confession of weakness and sin, and
while he glowed with the pride of artistic achievement, he was chilled
with the shame of his human record. It was so clear and naked in this
poem that he had written; it must be obvious to any who read it what
kind of a man he was and what things he had done. Margery had known, and
surely the whole world would know. But no matter--he would be too quick
for them. He would be dead before they discovered.
And anyhow he was going to tell the world. Of course, he had forgotten
that. He was going to tell the truth about John before he went. Of
course. He must do that now.
He took some writing-paper and went down into the dining-room. He felt a
little cold--not so cheerful. A little whisky would buck him up. A
little whisky, while he wrote this letter.
He drank half a tumbler, and sat down. How would it go, this letter? To
the police, of course. He wrote:
"This is to certify that I, Stephen Byrne, strangled Emily Gaunt on the
15th of May; John Egerton had nothing to do with it. I am going to drown
myself."
He signed it and read it over. After "strangled" he squeezed in "by
accident." It looked untidy, and he wrote it all out again. That would
do. He drank some more whisky and sat staring at the paper.
Why should he do that? Wasn't he going to do enough, as it was? He was
going to die; that was surely punishment enough. Why should he leave
this damned silly confession behind? Just for the sake of old John. Damn
John! A good fellow, John. A damned fool, John. Was it fair to Margery?
That was the thing. Was it fair? One more drink.
He filled up the fourth glass and sat pondering stupidly the supreme
selfishness. Outside the wind had risen, and Margery shivered upstairs
at the rattle of the windows. Eleven o'clock--why was Stephen so long?
What was that noise? A dull report--like a distant bomb. She sat up in
bed, listening. Then she remembered. The gas-stove being lit in the
dining-room. Something was wrong with it. But why had it frightened her?
And why was it being lit?
Because it was cold in the dining-room, and the wind was howling, and
there was a numb sensation in his hands. A funny dead feeling. The
whisky, perhaps. But when he had turned on the gas, he forgot about it,
and stood thinking, matchbox in hand, thinking out the new problem. It
was difficult to think clearly. Then it exploded like that, when he put
the match to it. He kicked it. Damned fool of a thing. Like John. It was
John who was responsible for all this worry and fuss. John could go to
the devil. He had fooled John before, and he would fool him again. Ha,
ha! That was a cunning idea. Then they would say in the papers, "A great
genius--a noble character--ha, ha!--'The Death in the Wood'--last work,
imaginative writing"--ha, ha! _imaginative!_--and it was all true. But
nobody would know--nobody would say so--because he would be dead. John
wouldn't say so, and Margery wouldn't say so--because he would be dead.
Mustn't say anything about the dead. Oh no! Must burn this silly
confession. When he had had another drink. It was so cold. No more
whisky--hell! "There's hoosh in the bottle still." But there wasn't. Who
wrote that? Damned Canadian fellow. The Yukon. Port. There was some port
somewhere. Port was warming.
He fumbled in the oak dresser for the decanter, knocking over a number
of glasses. Damned little port left--somebody been at it. Best drink in
the world--port. Good, rich, generous stuff. Ah! That was good. One more
glass. Then he would go out. Half-past eleven. Margery would be
wandering down in a minute--would think he was drunk. He wasn't
drunk--head perfectly clear. Saw the whole thing now. Dramatic
end--drowned in sight of home--national loss--moonlight. No, there was
no moon. Hell of a wind, though. A sou'wester--he, he! Poor Margery,
poor Muriel, poor John! They would miss him--when he had gone. They
would be sorry then. Good fellow, John. Good fellows--all of them. But
they didn't appreciate him--nobody did. Yes, Muriel did. A dear girl,
Muriel. But no mind. He would like to say good-bye to Muriel. And
Margery. But that wouldn't do. Dear things, both of them. Drink their
healths. The last glass. No more port. No more whisky. No cheese, no
butter, no jam. Like the war. Ha, ha!
First-rate port. He was warm now, and sleepy. God, what a wind. Mustn't
go to sleep here. Sleep in the river--the dear old river. Drowning was
pleasant, they said--not like hanging. Would rather stay here,
though--in the warm. Only there was no more port. And he had promised
some one--_must_ keep promises. Come on, then. No shirking. Head
perfectly clear. What was it he was going to do first? Something he had
to do. God knows. Head perfectly clear. But sleepy. Terribly sleepy.
He walked over with an intense effort of steadiness to the door into the
garden, as if there were many watching, and opened the door. The wind
beat suddenly in his face and rushed past triumphant into the house. The
bay-tree tossed and shook itself in the next garden. The dead leaves
rushed rustling up and down the stone path, and leapt in coveys up the
wall, and fled for refuge up the steps and into the house out of the
furious wind. The shock of the cool air and the violence of the wind
sobered him a little, and he paused irresolute at the top of the steps.
Then, with the obstinate fidelity of a drunken man to a purpose once
formed, he walked unsteadily down the steps; he looked up at the lighted
window of Margery's room, and waved his arm vaguely, and shouted a thick
"Good-bye," but his throat was husky, and it was difficult to shout.
Then he passed on down the path, talking to himself. There was a
boathook against the wall and he picked it up, and went down the steps
into the small dinghy. He fumbled for a long time with the rope that
tied her, and pushed off at last with the boathook. He pushed out into
the wind, stupidly paddling with the boathook, because he had forgotten
the oars. But it was no matter. He would not go back. He must go on. Out
into the middle.
Margery, lying wondering in bed, heard the faint sound of a cry above
the wind, and jumped out of bed. From the window she saw nothing but the
hurrying clouds and the faint, wild gleam of the excited river. She
crept down shivering to the drawing-room, where the lights still burned.
A great draught of cold air swept up to the stairs, and she ran down
fearfully to the dining-room. She saw the glasses in the brilliant
light, the empty glasses and the empty bottle and the empty decanter,
and under one of the glasses a sheet of paper flapping in the wind. She
picked it up, stained with a wet half-circle of wine, and then with a
low wail she ran out through the open door into the roaring gloom, her
thin covering whipping about her.
It was dark in the garden, but over the river there was the pale
radiance of water in a wind. And there were some stars now, racing after
the clouds. And away towards the Island she saw the boat, not far off, a
small black smudge against the dirty gleam of the tumbled river. It was
moving very slowly, for the wind was fighting for it with the stubborn
tide. And in the boat she saw a standing figure, swaying as the boat
rocked, leaning with one hand on some kind of a staff, and waving the
other with sweeping gestures in the air, as a man making a speech. As
she looked a squall came over the water, a sudden gust of furious
violence, as if the wind were seized with a passion of uncontrollable
temper. The figure in the boat swayed backwards and recovered itself,
and lurched forward and fell; it fell into the water with a great
splash, which Margery saw, but never heard. Then she gave a wild, high
cry. The wind caught it and flung it away, but many heard it. And none
who heard it in all those houses will ever forget it. She ran crying up
the garden, calling on the name of John Egerton. And John Egerton
heard.