Now, Emily Gaunt was a well-behaved young woman. She was accustomed to being looked at by her male employers, and she was accustomed to keeping them at a proper distance. For so she had been brought up. But when she was not looked at she was usually sensible of a certain disappointment. Stephen Byrne had not looked at her enough, and she was undeniably disappointed. She liked the look of him; she liked his voice when he said, “Where are my boots, please, Emily?” And she did not get on well with Mrs. Byrne. Moreover, she had had a warm bath and was conscious also of a kind of glow.
So that when she had said, “Good evening, Mr. Byrne,” she continued at once her demure and unaffected descent. Cook would have turned and fled up the stairs, panting with modesty. So would many another domestic young person.
But Emily descended. If she had waited, or turned back up the stairs, or faltered, “Oh, sir,” and scurried like a young hind away from him, there is no doubt that Stephen would have made himself scarce—would have left the coast clear.
But she descended. When she came to the bottom of the stairs where Stephen was standing, there was hardly space for her to pass. Stephen made no move. He said fatuously, “Had a nice bath, Emily?” and he put one arm around her as she passed, lightly, almost timidly, just touching the back of Cook’s coat.
Emily said, “Yes, thank you, sir,” and looked at him. Only a glance, quick and fugitive as an electric spark—but what a glance! Yet she made no attempt to stop; she did not giggle or stammer or protest; she passed on. In another moment she would have gone.
But Stephen had touched her. He had received and registered that naughty and electrical glance. He was inflamed.
He did a thing the like of which he had never done before. He closed his right arm about the girl and firmly embraced her. And he kissed her very suddenly and hotly.
Emily screamed.
Stephen pulled her closer and kissed her again. And again Emily screamed. It was all very unfortunate. For it may be that if he had been less precipitate he could have been equally amorous without encountering anything more than a purely formal opposition. Emily Gaunt was prepared to be kissed, but not suddenly, not violently. It should have been properly led up to—a little talk, a compliment or two, some blushes, and a delicate embrace. That was the proper routine in Emily’s set, or in anybody else’s set for that matter. But this sudden, desperate, hot-breathed entanglement was quite another thing. It was frightening. And who can blame Emily Gaunt for that high-pitched rasping cry?
Stephen blamed her. It startled him a little, that screaming—frightened him, too. It brought him back to reality. He thought suddenly of neighbours, of John Egerton, of old Mrs. Ambrose across the way. Suppose they heard. It became urgent to stop the screaming. Playfully, almost, he put his hands at Emily’s throat. And even the touch of her throat was somehow inflammatory. It made him want to kiss her again.
“Shut up, you little fool,” he said. “I shan’t hurt you.”
But Emily’s nerve had gone. She opened her mouth to scream again. Stephen’s hands tightened about the neck and the scream was never heard. “Now, will you be quiet?” he said. “You’re perfectly safe, Emily—I’m sorry. … I was a fool …” and he released his grip.
But Emily was thoroughly, hideously, frightened now. A kind of despairing wail, a thin and inarticulate “Help!” came from her. Stephen put his hand over her mouth, and Emily bit him.
And then Stephen saw red. The lurking animal which is in every man was already strong in him that evening, though Emily’s first scream had cowed it a little. Now it took complete charge. With a throaty growl of exasperation he put both hands at the soft throat of Emily and shook her, jerkily exhorting her as he did so, “Will—you—be quiet—you—silly—little fool—will you—be quiet—you—fool—you’ll—have—everybody—here—you …”
He only meant to shake her—he did not mean to squeeze with his hands—did not know that he was squeezing—mercilessly. He was between Emily and the dining-room, and in the dim light of the hall he could not see the starting, horrible eyes, the darkening flesh of poor Emily Gaunt. He only knew that this silly screaming was intolerable and must be stopped—stopped for certain, without further bother … before the whole street came round … before his wife came back … before … “Stop it, will you? … For God’s sake, stop it!” he cried, almost plaintively, as his grip loosened a moment, and a strangled gasp burst from Emily. He was too much possessed with his anxious rage to notice how strangled it was. What he wanted was silence … complete silence, that was it … screams and gasps, they were all dangerous. … “Oh … stop it … can’t you?”
The shaking process had taken them across the tiny hall. They were by the hatstand now. Emily’s oscillating head cannoned against a hat-peg. Her weight became suddenly noticeable. Emily’s hands stopped scrabbling at his wrists … her bare feet stopped kicking. Good, she was becoming sensible. Thank God! Cautiously, with a vast relief, Stephen took his hands away. “That’s better,” he said.
And then Emily Gaunt fell heavily against his shirtfront and slithered past him to the floor. Her forehead hit the bottom corner of the hatstand. Her body lay limp, face downwards, and perfectly still.
In the dark hall the sound of snoring was heard.
He knew then that Emily Gaunt was dead. But it was absurd. … He turned on the light, groping stupidly in the dark for the switch. His hands were shaking—that was from the gripping, of course. And they were sweating. So was his face.
Kneeling down, he pulled at Emily’s shoulders. He pulled her over on to her back.
“My God!” he whispered. “My God! … my
