The House by the River

seemed⁠—thinking of that; but he was going to do something. And then the inspiration and the chance had come hand in hand that Sunday morning to show him a better way. It was a better way. He knew quite certainly now that he would never own up⁠—not even if Margery was to die. He would never say a word to clear John’s character. He had a fairly clear idea now of what would happen. There would (he hoped) be no further proceedings; the evidence was too thin. All that John would suffer would be this local gossip and petty suspicion; and he would have to live that down. John would not mind⁠—a good fellow, John. But if he did mind, if he ever showed signs of expecting to be cleared, if he ever suggested a confession or any rubbish of that sort, the answer would be simple: “Really, my dear John, the evidence is so strong against you that I don’t really think I should be believed now if I said I did it. And you must remember, John, you’ve anyhow sworn all sorts of things on your oath that you’d have to explain away⁠—the Civil Service wouldn’t like that⁠—perjury, you know. Of course, if you want me, John⁠—but I really think it would be better from your point of view⁠—I only want to do the best for you, John⁠—”

He could hear himself solemnly developing the argument; and he could see John bowing to his judgment, acquiescing.

If he didn’t acquiesce; if he made trouble, or if the police made trouble⁠—but Stephen preferred not to think of that. Yet if it did happen he would be ready. If it was oath against oath, with the scales weighted already against John, he knew who would be believed.

And, after all, John Egerton, good fellow as he was, would leave but a tiny gap in the world. What were his claims on life? What had he to give to mankind? A single man, parents dead, an obscure Civil Servant, at five hundred a year⁠—a mere machine, incapable of creation, easily replaced, perhaps not even missed. What was he worth to the world beside the great Stephen Byrne? Supposing they both died now, how would their obituary notices compare? John’s⁠—but John would not have one; his death would be announced on the front page of the newspapers. But about himself there would be half-columns. He knew what they would say: “Tragic death of a young poet still in his prime⁠ ⁠… Keats⁠ ⁠… unquestionable stamp of genius⁠ ⁠… a loss that cannot be measured⁠ ⁠… best work still unwritten⁠ ⁠… engaged, we understand⁠ ⁠… new poem⁠ ⁠… would have set the seal⁠ ⁠…” and so on.

And it would all be true. Wasn’t it right, then, that if the choice had ever to be made, he, Stephen Byrne, should be chosen, should be allowed to live and enrich the world? It was curious that never before had he so clearly appreciated his own value to humanity. Somehow, he had never thought of himself in that way. This business had brought it home to him.

Anyhow, he must get on with this poem. It was going to be a big thing. The more he wrote, the more it excited him; and the more contented he became with the work he was doing, the more satisfied he was with his material circumstances, the more sure that all would be well for him with the Emily affair.

This is the way of many writers. Their muses and their moods react upon each other in a kind of unending circle. When they are unhappy they cannot write; but when they are busy with writing, and they know that it is good, they grow happier and happier. Then when they have finished and the first intoxication of achievement has worked itself out, depression comes again. And then, while they are yet too exhausted for a new effort, all their work seems futile and worthless, and all life a meaningless blank. And until the next creative impulse restores their confidence and vigour they are, comparatively, miserable.

Stephen Byrne was peculiarly sensitive to these reactions. He had that creative itch which besets especially the young writer with his wings still strange and wonderful upon him. At the end of a day in which he had written nothing new, he went to bed with a sense of frustration, of failure and emptiness. There was something missing. For weeks on end he wrote something every day, some new created thing, if it was only a single verse, apart from the routine work of criticism and review-writing and odd journalism with which he helped to keep his family alive. But ideas do not come continually to any man; and when they come, the weary mind is not always ready to shape them. There were long periods of barrenness or stagnancy when Stephen could write nothing. Sometimes the ideas came copiously enough, but hovered like maddening ghosts just out of his grasp, clearly seen, but unattainable. Sometimes they came not at all. In either case, like a good artist, Stephen made no attempt to force the unwilling growth, but let himself lie fallow for a little. But all these fallow times he was restless and half-content. He had the sense, somehow, of failure. He became moody and irritable, and silent at meals. But when the creative fit was upon him, when he had made some little poem, or was still hot and busy at a long one, the world was benevolent and good, life was a happy adventure, and Stephen talked like a small boy at dinnertime.

So this poem he was working at was an important thing. The “idea” was comparatively old. It had come to him in a fallow time, and had been stored somewhere away. When the policeman’s visit restored his tranquillity, the fallow time was over. The idea was ready to hand, and he had only to take it out and sow it and water it. And as it grew and blossomed under his hand,