The House by the River

The Whittakers were At Home every Wednesday. No one else in Hammerton Chase was officially At Home at any time. So everyone went to the Whittakers’ on Wednesdays.

There are still a few intimate corners in London where people, other than the poor, are positively acquainted with their neighbours. And Hammerton Chase is one of these. In heartless Kensington we know no more of our neighbour than we may gather from furtive references to the Red Book and Who’s Who, or stealthy reconnaissances from behind the dining-room curtains as he goes forth in the morning to his work and to his labour. Our communication with him is limited to the throwing back over the garden-wall of his children’s balls, aeroplanes, and spears, or⁠—in the lowest parts of Kensington⁠—to testy hammerings with the fire-irons towards the close of his musical evenings. Overt, deliberate, avoidable, social intercourse with any person living in the same street or the same block of mansions is a thing unknown. What true Londoner remembers going to an At Home, a dance, a musical evening, or other entertainment in his own street? Who is there who regards with friendship the occupant of the opposite flat?

Hammerton Chase could scarcely be regarded as a street. A short half-mile of old and dignified houses, clustered irregularly in all shapes and sizes along the sunny side of the Thames, with large trees and little gardens fringing the bank

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.

“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 coarse and terrible sight. She lay on her back by the hatstand, 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 nightdress 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.

Stephen braced himself and went down. The man in the hall was an obvious detective⁠—square built and solid, with hard grey eyes and a dark walrus moustache, a bowler hat in his hand. In the other he held the end of a yellow sack, muddy in patches and discoloured.

“Sorry to trouble you, sir, but can you tell me anything about this sack? I’m a police officer,” he added unnecessarily.

Stephen felt extraordinarily cool.

He said, “Can’t say, Inspector. Sacks are very much alike. We had one in the scullery once, but⁠—” He had the sack in his hands now, looking for the label.

“And what happened to your sack, sir?” said the man smoothly.

“We lent it to Mr. Egerton, and⁠—Hullo! where did you find this, Inspector? It is ours!” And he held it out for the other to see the blurred lines of the label stitched inside the mouth of the sack. The name of Stephen Byrne, The House by the River, W 6, was still legible.

“Very curious, sir,” said the man, looking hard at Stephen. “Do you remember when you lent it to Mr. Egerton?”

Stephen made a rapid calculation. The exact period was seventeen days.

He said, “When was it, Cook? About three weeks ago, wasn’t it?”

“Couldn’t say, sir, I’m sure. All I knows is it went one day, and the other day we asked for it back from Mr. Egerton when the man came about the bottles, and he said⁠—Mr. Egerton said, that is⁠—as he was sorry he’d lost it picking up wood, or so Mabel said, and it was Mabel as went round for it.”

Stephen was feeling cooler and cooler. It was all amazingly easy.

St. Peter’s clock struck eleven, and still she waited, in a flame of longing and impatience. The dew came down, and she was cold; the chill of foreboding entered her heart. And still she waited. She would wait till half-past eleven, till a quarter of twelve, till midnight. She knew now that she loved this man with a deep and consuming love; it had begun lightly, as a kind of diversion, but the game had turned to bitter earnest. And still she waited.

It was slack water now, and the river stood still, holding its breath. Men passed singing along the towpath on the outer side; the song floated over the water, in sentimental tones of exquisite melancholy. From the Island a wild-duck rose with his mate, and bustled away with a startling whir to some sweet haunt among the reeds. A cat wailed at its wooing in a far garden⁠—a sickly amorous sound. The last pair of lovers rowed slowly past, murmuring gently. Then all was still, and Muriel was left alone, alone of the world’s lovers thwarted and forgotten.

Midnight struck, and she crept into the house and into her bed, sick with longing and the rage of shame.

Stephen at midnight went in contentment to his bed. He had written a hundred lines.