He came out past the Island into the open, and there he saw the dinghy, fifty yards ahead, a dark blot, dancing aimlessly sideways over the short waves. Anyhow, he would pick up the dinghy—it might be useful.
But when he came up with the dinghy he saw that there was something in it, something that was like the carved figures that may be seen brooding over tombs, with curved back and head drooping over clasped knees, a figure of utter dejection. But now and then it moved and paddled feebly in the water with one hand.
John called, with an incredulous question in his voice, “Stephen? Stephen? Is that you?”
And it was Stephen, brooding bitterly over the shame of his last cowardice, and exhausted with the long struggle he had made for life. For the cold clutch of the water had woken up the love of life, and he had swum in a scrambling terror after the boat, and climbed with infinite difficulty back into the oarless boat. He was sodden and cold, and sick with humiliation. And John Egerton of all people must come and find him. So he turned his head and said with a great bitterness, “O God! It’s you, is it?”
When John saw that miserable figure, there began to take hold of him that old and fatal softness of heart; he felt very pitiful, and he said gently, “Get in, Stephen.” And Stephen crawled over into the other boat, the water streaming from him; and they sat together on the wide seat in front of the engine as they had sat so often before.
Then John said, “What happened? We thought you—”
Stephen growled, “So I did—but—but I funked it. … I was drunk.” Then he burst out, “But, damn it, it’s nothing to do with you. … Turn her round—I’m soaked.”
And then, at the sullen bitterness of his voice and his words, John Egerton remembered his rage, he remembered the black grievance and suspicion he had against this man. And though the impulse to pity and forbearance struggled still within him, he fought it down. He would be firm for once. The boats swung sideways in the wind, and drifted, rolling, round the bend.
He put his hand behind him on the starting-handle of the engine, as he said:
“We’re not going back yet, Stephen. I want to ask you something. What have you—what have you been—been doing to Muriel? What have you said to her—about me, and about—?”
“Oh, hell, John! I’m frozen, I can’t sit jawing here. Start the boat and let me get home—or let me, damn you!” And he too seized the handle, gripping John’s hand; and they sat there, crouching absurdly over the back of the seat, glowering at each other in the noisy wind.
And John nearly gave way; he felt that he was being unreasonable, perhaps foolish—this was no place for talk. But he was very angry and resentful again, and he said he would be firm for once. And so do the tragedies of life have their birth.
He shouted, “We’re not going back till you’ve told me the truth—you’ve been telling lies to Muriel—you’ve made love to her. God knows what you’ve done—and you’ve got to tell me—now!”
“Will you let go of this handle, damn you? It’s my boat!”
John held on. Then Stephen gave a great heave with his body, so that John nearly went overboard; but his grip held firm. So they fought with their bodies for a minute, heaving and panting and muttering low curses, and clutching still the disputed handle. The boat rocked dangerously, and the forgotten dinghy drifted away. They were beyond the houses now, and beyond the brewery, moving slowly past the flat and desolate meadows. There was no one to see them. But no one could have seen them. The rain was coming and it was really dark now; a huge black cloud had rolled up out of the west and blotted out the last stars. John looked once towards the meadows, but he could not see the bank—only an endless flickering blackness. They were alone out there in the howling dark, and they knew that they were alone. And at last, when nothing came of this insane struggle, Stephen suddenly took his hand from the handle and struck John a fierce blow on the side of the head; and John staggered, but gripped him immediately by the throat with his left hand, clinging still to the handle with his right. So they sat for a moment, Stephen clutching at the hand at his throat, and black hatred in the hearts of both of them, and their eyes fixed in a staring fury. Stephen was the stronger man, and with a supreme effort he tore away the hand from his throat. He dived forward over the thwart and seized one of the oars. Then he turned to attack, standing up in a crouching posture. But John Egerton
