Stephen growled, "So I did--but--but I funked it.... I was drunk." Then
he burst out, "But, damn it, it's nothing to do with you.... Turn her
round--I'm soaked."
And then, at the sullen bitterness of his voice and his words, John
Egerton remembered his rage, he remembered the black grievance and
suspicion he had against this man. And though the impulse to pity and
forbearance struggled still within him, he fought it down. He would be
firm for once. The boats swung sideways in the wind, and drifted,
rolling, round the bend.
He put his hand behind him on the starting-handle of the engine, as he
said:
"We're not going back yet, Stephen. I want to ask you something. What
have you--what have you been--been doing to Muriel? What have you said
to her--about me, and about--?"
"Oh, _hell_, John! I'm frozen, I can't sit jawing here. Start the boat
and let me get home--or let _me_, damn you!" And he too seized the
handle, gripping John's hand; and they sat there, crouching absurdly
over the back of the seat, glowering at each other in the noisy wind.
And John nearly gave way; he felt that he was being unreasonable,
perhaps foolish--this was no place for talk. But he was very angry and
resentful again, and he said he would be firm for once. And so do the
tragedies of life have their birth.
He shouted, "We're not going back till you've told me the truth--you've
been telling lies to Muriel--you've made love to her. God knows what
you've done--and you've got to tell me--_now_!"
"_Will_ you let go of this handle, damn you? It's _my_ boat!"
John held on. Then Stephen gave a great heave with his body, so that
John nearly went overboard; but his grip held firm. So they fought with
their bodies for a minute, heaving and panting and muttering low curses,
and clutching still the disputed handle. The boat rocked dangerously,
and the forgotten dinghy drifted away. They were beyond the houses now,
and beyond the brewery, moving slowly past the flat and desolate
meadows. There was no one to see them. But no one could have seen them.
The rain was coming and it was really dark now; a huge black cloud had
rolled up out of the west and blotted out the last stars. John looked
once towards the meadows, but he could not see the bank--only an endless
flickering blackness. They were alone out there in the howling dark, and
they knew that they were alone. And at last, when nothing came of this
insane struggle, Stephen suddenly took his hand from the handle and
struck John a fierce blow on the side of the head; and John staggered,
but gripped him immediately by the throat with his left hand, clinging
still to the handle with his right. So they sat for a moment, Stephen
clutching at the hand at his throat, and black hatred in the hearts of
both of them, and their eyes fixed in a staring fury. Stephen was the
stronger man, and with a supreme effort he tore away the hand from his
throat. He dived forward over the thwart and seized one of the oars.
Then he turned to attack, standing up in a crouching posture. But John
Egerton had seen red at last, and he dimly knew that Stephen was yet
more mad with fury than himself. He had no weapon except the
starting-handle in his hand, but as Stephen turned, he whipped this from
its place and sprang forward; he struck out fiercely with the iron
handle. Stephen lifted his oar to guard himself, and the handle struck
it with great force, with a heavy thud upon the wood. Stephen swayed a
little, but he was unhurt, and the handle fell from John's hands into
the boat. Then Stephen lifted his oar again and swung it in a wide
circle, like a great sword, a vicious, terrible blow. But John ducked,
and it swept over his head. And while Stephen was yet recovering
himself, he sprang up, and he sprang at Stephen, and he lunged at him
with his fist. John Egerton was no boxer, but fate was with him in that
fight, and all the hoarded resentment of the summer was behind that
blow. It caught Stephen on the jaw as he raised his head. It caught him
on the point of the jaw with the uncanny completeness of precision and
force which no man can endure who is struck in that place. His head went
up, and the oar dropped from his hands. For a moment he tottered, and
then he fell, without a word, without a cry, forward and sideways, into
the water. And John himself fell forward over the thwart, and lay
panting in the rolling boat. When he looked out at last, he could see
nothing, nothing but the empty water, and the empty meadows, and, far
off, the lights of Barnes.
He searched the water for a long time, and after a little he found the
oar, which Stephen had dropped; but he found nothing else. And at last
he was sure that Stephen was dead. He went home slowly against the tide;
and Margery was waiting in the garden, looking out into the wind. He
told her simply that he could not find Stephen; and this time he lied
easily.
* * * * *
That night she did not show him the paper which she had found in the
dining-room. But in the morning she gave it to him, and John tore it
carefully into small pieces and threw them on the fire. And this he did
without the sense or the circumstance of drama. For John Egerton was no
artist. But he was a good man.