Mrs. Beach concluded her remarks with a long, unpunctuated peroration as if fearful that her scanty wind should fail altogether before she had fully delivered herself.
Stephen thought rapidly. Had he sent Emily out on a “herrand,” or had he not seen her at all?
He said, “No, Mrs. Beach, I didn’t see her; I went straight out on to the river. No doubt she went out for a little walk and met a friend, as you say. She’ll be back soon, no doubt, and I’m afraid you’ll have to let her in … very naughty of her to stay out so late. Nothing to be done, I fear. Good night, Mrs. Beach.”
Mrs. Beach caught sympathetically at Stephen’s meaning suggestion of Emily’s naughtiness. “Good night, sir,” she puffed; “she always was a one for the young men, though I says it myself, but there youth will ’ave its fling, they say, and sorry I am to disturb you, sir, but I thought as I’d best speak, it was that late, sir.”
“Quite right, Mrs. Beach. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
Mrs. Beach sighed herself ponderously down the dark stairs. Stephen went back into his room with a startling sense of elation. He had done that well. It would be marvellously easy if it was all like that. That word “naughty” had been a masterpiece; he was proud of it. Already he had set moving a plausible explanation of Emily’s disappearance—Emily’s frailty—Emily’s “friend.” Cook would do the rest. Mentally he chuckled.
Suddenly then he appreciated the vileness on which he was congratulating himself, and the earlier blackness settled upon him. Something like conscience, something like remorse, had room to stir in place of his abated fears. It was going to be a wretched business, this “easy” lying and hypocrisy and deceit—endless stretches of wickedness seemed to open out before him. What a mess it was! How the devil had it happened—to him, Stephen Byrne, the reputed, respectable young author?
Suddenly—like the lights fusing … What, in Heaven’s name, had made him do it? Emily Gaunt, of all people. … Curse Emily! He wasted no pity on her, no sentimental sorrow for the wiping out of a warm young life. Emily had brought it on herself, the little fool. It was her fault—really. … Stephen was too self-centred to be gravely disturbed by thoughts of Emily, except so far as she was likely to affect his future peace of mind. And he had seen too much of death in the war to be much distressed by the fact of death. His inchoate remorse was more of a protest than a genuine regret for wrong—a protest against the wounding of self-respect, against the coming worries and anxieties and necessary evasions, and all the foreseen unpleasantness which this damnable night had forced upon him. It must not happen again, this kind of thing. Too upsetting. Stephen began to make fierce resolutions, as sincere as any resolutions can be that rest on such unsubstantial foundations. He was going to be a better fellow in future—a better husband. … People thought a lot of him at present—and they were deceived. In future he would live up grandly to “people’s” conception of him, to Margery’s conception of him.
When he thought of Margery he was suddenly and intensely ashamed. That aspect of his conduct he had so far managed to ignore. Now he became suddenly hot at the thought of it. He had behaved damnably to Margery. Supposing she had come back earlier, discovered Emily. “A‑a‑ah!” A strangled exclamation burst from him, as men groan in spite of themselves at some story of brutality or pain. Sweat stood about his temples. Poor Margery, so patient and loving and trustful. What a swine he had been! The resolutions swelled enormously … no more drinking … the drink had done it … he would knock it off altogether. No, not altogether—that was silly, unnecessary. In moderation. He slipped his trousers to the floor.
Margery thought too much of him, believed in him too well. It was terrible, in a way, being an idol; life would be easier if one had a bad reputation, even an ordinary “man-of-the-world” reputation. A character of moral perfection was a heavy burden, if you were not genuinely equal to it. Never mind, in future, he would be equal to it; he would be perfect. Tender and chivalrous thoughts of Margery invaded him; the resolutions surged wildly up, an almost religious emotion glowed warmly inside him; he felt somehow as he used to feel at Communion, walking back to his seat. He used to pray in those days, properly. … He felt like praying now.
He tied the string of his pyjamas and knelt down by the small bed. It was a long time since he had prayed. During the war, in tight corners, when he had been terribly afraid, he had prayed—the sick, emergency supplications of all soldiers—the “O God, get me out of this and I will be good” kind of prayer. The padres used to preach sermons about such prayers, and sometimes Stephen had determined to pray always at the safe times as well as the dangerous, but this had never lasted for long. Now his prayers were on the same note, wrung out of him like his resolutions by the urgent emotions of the moment, sincere but bodiless.
He prayed, “O God, I have been a fool and a swine. O God, forgive me for this night’s work and get me out of the mess safely, and I will—I will be good.” That was the only way of expressing it—“being good,” like a child. “In future I will be a better man and pray more often. O
