He went down the steps into his tiny dinghy—a minute, fragile, flat-bottomed affair, just large enough and strong enough for a single man. It flitted lightly on the surface like one of those cumbrous-looking waterflies which move suddenly on the quiet surface of ponds with a startling velocity. He called it The Water Beetle.
With a few strokes Stephen shot out into the lovely sun, and drifted a little, faintly stirring the oars as they rested flatly on the golden water with a movement which was almost a caress. It was very delightful out there, very soothing and warm. It was inspiring, too. Stephen thought suddenly of the long poem. He must have a go at that—now that things were better, now that his mind was easier.
Then he saw John walk down to the end of his garden, smoking comfortably the unique and wonderful Sunday morning pipe. He rowed back immediately to the wall, framing smooth explanatory phrases in his head. John, he saw, was gazing with a strained look through his glasses at a muddle of wreckage drifting down from the Island.
“You needn’t worry, John,” he said; “it’s all over—it’s—it’s found. … Come down the steps.”
John came down and squatted at the foot of the steps, saying nothing. Stephen tied up the boat, but did not get out of it.
“A man’s been here this morning—a policeman—with the sack … he wanted to know if we knew anything about it. … Cook saw him first, and let out that it was ours—said we’d lent it to you—silly fool … about three weeks back … when I saw him it was too late to say anything else. …” He stopped and looked up. Surely John was going to say something.
John looked steadily at him and said nothing.
“She said Mabel went round and asked you for it, and you said—what did you say, John?”
John looked out across the river and thought. Then he said in a faraway voice:
“I said I’d taken it out to pick up wood—and lost it. Overboard … I had to say something.”
“Hell!” Stephen hoped that this exclamation had an authentic note of perplexity and distress. He was conscious of neither, only of a singular clearness and contentment.
“Well, what are we going to do now?”
There was no answer.
“Margery’s very bad this morning,” he went on, with seeming irrelevance. “We’re very worried. The doctor …”
John interrupted suddenly, “What can we do? What will the police do next? Will they come and see me?” He had a sudden appalling vision of himself in a stammering, degrading interview with a detective.
“No, John, they won’t bother you. … I’m the man they’ll bother. … There’ll be an inquest, of course. … And I’m afraid you’ll have to give evidence, John … say what you said before, you know … say you lost it … about three weeks ago … that’s what I said … somebody must have picked it up. … I’m awfully sorry, John—but it will be all right. …” Then, doubtfully, “Of course, John … if you’d rather … I’ll go at once and tell them the whole thing. … I hate the idea of you … but there’s Margery. … The doctor said … I don’t know what would happen. …”
John was roused at last. “Of course not, Stephen … you’re not to think of it … it’ll be all right, as you say. … Only … only …” with a strange fierceness, “I wish to God it had never happened.” And he looked at Stephen very straight and stern, almost comically stern.
“So do I,” said Stephen, with a heavy sigh. For the first time since the policeman left he had the old sense of guiltiness and gloom.
“There’s one thing, Stephen …” John hesitated and stammered a little. “I’ve heard some awful rumours about … about that girl … immoral and so on … they’re not true, are they? … anyhow, don’t let’s encourage them, Stephen … it’s not necessary … and I don’t like it. …” He stopped, and was aware that he was blushing.
It was a lame presentation of what he had intended as a firm unanswerable ultimatum: “If you want me to help you, you must drop all this.” But Stephen somehow always intimidated him.
Stephen thought, “The damned old prig!” He said, “What do you mean, John? You don’t imagine I … these servants, I suppose … but I quite agree. … I must go and see Margery now. So long, John … and thank you so much.”
John went up into his garden and into his house and sat for a long time in a leather chair thinking and wondering. Stephen walked briskly in and whispered to the nurse. Mrs. Byrne was asleep.
He sat down at the sunny table in the study window, and drew out again the long poem. It was a good idea—a very good idea. He read through what he had written; uneven, yes, but there was good stuff in it. A little polishing up wanted, a little correction. All that bit in the middle. … He scratched out “white” and scribbled over it “pale.” Yes, that was better. The next part, about the snow, was rather wordy—wanted condensing; there were six lines, and four at least were very good—but one of them must go—perhaps two. He sharpened a pencil, looking out at the river.
VIII
After the inquest The Chase had plenty to talk about.
