Margery wondered idly how much of all that talk about the Thames was true; whether horrible things were still done secretly beside her beloved river, hidden and condoned by the river, carried away to the sea. … Down in the docks, no doubt. … Wapping and so on.
The prosaic thumping of a tug broke the spell of Margery’s imagination. She looked up and down for Stephen’s boat, a faint crossness in her mind because of his lateness. She got into bed. She was sleepy, but she would read and doze a little till he came in.
She woke first drowsily to the hollow sound of oars clattering in a boat, a murmur of low voices and subdued splashings … Stephen mooring the boat … how late he was.
A long while afterwards, it seemed, she woke again: Stephen was creaking cautiously up the stairs. She felt that he was peeping at her round the door, murmured sleepily, “How late you are,” dimly comprehended his soft excuses … something about the tide … caught by the tide … engine went wrong … of course … always did … raised her head with a vast effort to be kissed … a very delicate and reverent kiss … remembered to ask if Cook was back … mustn’t lock the front door … half heard a deep “Good night, my darling, go to sleep” … and drifted luxuriously to sleep again, to comfortable dreams of Stephen, dreams of babies … moonlight … especial editions … palm trees and water—peaceful, silvery water.
Long afterwards there was a distant fretful interruption, hardly heeded. A stir outside. Cook’s voice … Stephen’s voice … something about Emily. Emily Gaunt … not come home … must speak seriously to Emily tomorrow … can’t be bothered now. Stephen see to it … Stephen and Cook. Cook’s voice, raucous. Cook’s night out … late … go to bed, Cook … go to bed … go to bed, everybody … all’s well.
Stephen turned out the light and crept away to the little room behind, thanking God for the fortunate sleepiness of his wife. The dreaded moment had passed.
He sat down wearily on the bed and tried to reduce the whirling tangle in his brain to order. He ought, of course, to be thinking things out, planning precautions, explanations, studied ignorances. But he was too muddled, too tired. God, how tired! Lugging that hateful sack about. And that awful row home—more than a mile against the tide, though John had done most of that, good old John. … (There was something disturbing he had said to John, when they parted at last—what the devil was it? … Something had slipped out. … An intangible, uneasy memory prodded him somewhere … no matter.) And then when he did get back, what a time he had had in the scullery, tidying the refuse on the floor, groping about under a table … hundreds of pieces of paper, grease-paper, newspaper, paper bags, orange skins, old tins, bottles. … He had gathered them all and put them in a bucket, a greasy bucket, with tea-leaves at the bottom … carried it down to the river on tiptoe … four journeys. God, what a night!
But it was over now—it was over—that part of it. All that was wanted now was a straight face, a little acting, and some straightforward lying. “God knows, I can lie all right,” Stephen thought, “though nobody knows it.” What lie was it he had invented about the sack, tired as he was? Oh yes, that John had borrowed it, and that John had first emptied the rubbish into the river. … Yes, he had coached John on the steps about that … told him to keep it up if necessary. Old John had looked funny when he said that. John didn’t like lies, even necessary ones. A bit of a prig, old John.
Stephen pulled at the bow of his black tie and fumbled at the stud. He took off one sock and scratched his ankle reflectively. It was a pity about John. He was such a good fellow, really, such a good friend. He had helped him splendidly tonight, invaluable. But God knew what he felt about it all. … Shocked, of course. … Flabbergasted (whatever that meant). The question was, how would he get over the shock? How would he feel when he woke up? Would he be permanently shocked, stop being friends? … He was a friend worth keeping, old John. And his opinion was worth having, his respect. Anyhow, it was going to be awkward. One would always feel a bit mean and ashamed now with John—in the wrong, somehow. … Stephen hated to feel in the wrong.
Cook lumbered breathlessly up the stairs, and halted with a loud sigh on the landing. She knocked delicately on Mrs. Byrne’s door and threw out a tentative, “If you please, mum.” Stephen went out. The acting must begin.
“What is it, Mrs. Beach—speak low—Mrs. Byrne’s asleep.”
“It’s Emily, sir, if you please, sir, turned now, sir, and she’s not in the house. I didn’t speak before, sir, thinking she might have slipped out like for a bit of a
