The House by the River Part 2

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 s.p.a.ce for her to pa.s.s. Stephen made no move. He said fatuously, "Had a nice bath, Emily?" and he put one arm around her as she pa.s.sed, 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d! 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 G.o.d!" he whispered. "My G.o.d!... my G.o.d!..."

A bell jangled in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Some one with his head lowered was peering through the frosted gla.s.s of the front door.

III

In moments of crisis the human mind can become extraordinarily efficient. Before the bell was silent in the bas.e.m.e.nt, the mind of Stephen Byrne, kneeling in a sweat by the dead body of a housemaid, had covered a vast field of circ.u.mstance and performed two or three distinct logical processes. His first instinct was to put out the light. With that person peering on the doorstep the light in the hall had better be out. He felt exposed, naked, illuminated. On the other hand, one could see practically nothing through the frosted gla.s.s from outside, only the shadow of any one actually moving in the hall. That he knew from experience. Probably the person--whoever it was--could see nothing that was on the floor, nothing that was below the level of his or her interfering eye. If Stephen stayed still as he was, the person might never know he was there, might even go away in disgust. To put the light out would be a gratuitous advertis.e.m.e.nt that somebody was in the house.

Besides, it would look so rude.

Stephen did not turn out the light. He knelt there on two knees and a hand, staring like a snake at the front door. With his right hand he was stealthily scratching his left armpit. It was itching intolerably.

And his dress-collar was sticking into his neck. He was intensely conscious of these things.

But all the time the precipitate arguments were jostling in his brain.

What sort of person would peer through the gla.s.s? Surely a very familiar thing to do. He could think of a few people who would do it--the Whittakers--but they were away; his wife--but it was too early, and she had a latch-key; John Egerton--but Stephen thought he was out. Or a policeman, of course.

A policeman who had heard the screaming, or been told of the screaming, might do it, or even a neighbouring busybody, if he had heard. But they would have clattered up to the door, run up or stopped importantly on the doorstep--probably hammered with the knocker. The person had not done that. He had only rung that d.a.m.nable bell.

The person's head disappeared. He gave a loud knock with the big bra.s.s knocker which Stephen had bought in Jerusalem. Just one knock. Then the whole world was silent. Stephen's heart thumped like a steam-engine going at slow speed. He thought, "It's true what they say in the books.... I can hear it."

The person shuffled its feet on the step.

"My G.o.d!" said Stephen again. "My G.o.d!"

In the hall there was an enormous silence. A tug hooted dismally on the river. Stephen started scratching again. He was thinking of his wife now, of Margery. He loved Margery--he loved her very truly and well. And she was just going to have a baby. What would she--How would she--O G.o.d!

But she must not know. He would do something in a minute when the d.a.m.ned fool had gone away. Why the h.e.l.l didn't he go away, and leave a man alone? It must be some kind of visitor--not a policeman, or a panicky neighbour. They would have been more impatient. Why the h.e.l.l didn't he go? It was Whittaker, perhaps. Or that South American chap.

The person did not go away. For the person had only been on the doorstep for thirty seconds in all, and the person was in no hurry.

Soon he would go away--he must go =away=, Stephen thought. The _hours_ he had been out there. It must be a long time, because Stephen's knees were so sore. And he did want to get on with doing something--he was not clear what--but something. "G.o.d will provide," he thought.

And as he uttered that hideous blasphemy the person began to whistle. He whistled gently an air from _I Pagliacci_, and to Stephen Byrne, it was merciful music. For it was a favourite tune of John Egerton's, bowled often by both of them at casual gatherings of the Hammerton Choir in Mrs. Bryne's drawing-room. It must be John, after all, this person on the doorstep; good old John--thank G.o.d! If it was John, he would let him in; he would tell him the whole story. John must help him.

It was suddenly revealed to Stephen that he could not bear this burden alone. It was too much. John was the man.

But one must be careful. One must make sure. A cunning look came into his eyes. With elaborate stealth he crawled backwards from Emily's body and so into Emily's bedroom, which looked over the street. Under the blind he reconnoitred the front doorstep. The back of the person was turned towards him, but it was clear to him that the person was John Egerton, though he could only see part of the back and nothing of the head. No two persons in Hammerton Chase, or probably in the world, wore a shabby green coat like that. It was certainly John, come round for some singing, no doubt. He walked back boldly into the hall. He was cooler now, and his heart was working more deliberately. But he was horribly afraid. He put out the lights.

Then he opened the front door, very grudgingly, and looked round the corner.

"Hullo!" said Egerton.

"Hullo!" said Stephen. "Come in," and then, with a sudden urgency--"_quick!_"

John Egerton came slowly in and stood still in the dark.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

Stephen said, "I'm in a hole," and turned on the light.

It was very badly managed. No doubt he should have hidden Emily away before he opened the door; should have led up gradually to the ultimate revelation; should have carefully prepared a man like Egerton for a sight like the body of Emily Gaunt. For it was a coa.r.s.e and terrible sight. She lay on her back by the hat-stand, with her dark hair tumbled on the floor, her face mottled and blue, her eyes gaping disgustingly, her throat marked and inflamed with the fingers of her employer. The coat of Cook was crumpled beneath her, and she had torn great rents in her night-dress in her desperate resistance, so that she lay half-naked in the cruel glare of the electric light. Her two plump legs were crossed fantastically like the legs of a crusader, but so that the feet were wide apart. Her pink flesh glistened and smelt powerfully of soap.

It was not the kind of thing to spring upon any man, least of all should it have been sprung upon Egerton. For he was a highly sensitive man and easily shocked. He had not been, like Stephen, to the war--being a Civil Servant and imperfect in the chest--and in an age when the majority of living young men have looked largely on, and become callous about, death, John Egerton had never seen a dead body.

And he was a person of extraordinary modesty, in the sense in which most women but few men possess modesty. He had a real chast.i.ty of thought which few men ever achieve. John Egerton was no prig. Only he had this natural purity of outlook which made him actually blush when indelicate things were said on the stage or hinted at in private society.