The House by the River

er's Square brightened suddenly at her and saluted with the imperishable manner of past military service. The world was very kind and friendly, she felt. But that was the usual manner

ppointed or abashed. There was an aspect of fragility and virtue about her which stirred in the bold and shameless male the almost atrophied instincts of chivalry and protection. Af

re little and slightly an?mic, but firm. There was an evident will in the determined and perfectly proportioned chin. The nose was small but admirably straight and set very close above the mouth. Only her large blue eyes seemed a little out of proportion, but these suggested a warm sympathy which the smallness of her features might otherwise have concealed. Her head, balanced attractively on straight white shoulders, was covered gloriously

hurch and lit up the ridiculous stone eagles on the decayed and pompous hous

ondered, and why? So far from town and no view of the river, no special attraction. The people of The Chase always wondered in this way as they walked through St. Peter's Square. The problems of who lived in it and why were permanently insoluble since nobody who lived in The Chase knew anybody who lived i

ng; they must be got ready. And there was a mountain of needlework to be done. And she must run through Stephen's clothes again-before she was too ill for it. Only a month more now, perhaps less. That was a blessing. She was not frightened this time-not like the first time, with little Joan-that had been rather terrifying-not knowing quite what i

was worth it. A

zingly perfect husband. Becoming, yes-for just at first he had been difficult. But that was during the war; they had seen so little of each other-and he was always worried, overworked. But now they had really "settled down," the horrid war was done with, and he had been too wonderfully delightful and nice to her. Lately especially. Much more considerate an

ld go on being happy and proud, watching eagerly the maturement of her ambitions for him. Even

ertainly she had not married him as "a poet" or even "a writer." But that only made his meteoric success more dazzling and delightful. Sometimes it was almost impossible to realize, she found, that this young man she had married was the same Stephen Byrne whose name was everywhere-on the bookstalls, in the publishers' advertisements, in literary articles in any paper you picked up; that all over the country men and women were buying and reading and re-reading

and jolliness and funny little ways. And his character. That, of course, was the foundation of it all. A dear and excellent character. Other men, even the best of them, did horrid things sometimes. Stephen, she knew, with all his faults-a little selfish, perhaps-conceited? no, but self-centred, rather-would never do anything mean or degrading or treacherous. She could trust him absolutely. He would certainly never disgrace her as some men

tly and turned her l

e, and she was faintly disappointed. Far down the river she fancied she saw it, a dirty whiteness, and resisted an impulse to call to Stephen. It must be nice on the river tonight. The rabbi

ndon. You could imagine yourself easily in some Oriental city. Hammersmith and Chiswick and Barnes wore a romantic coat of shadow and silver. The carved reflections of the small trees on the other bank were so nearly like reflected rows of palms. The far-off outline of factories against the sky had the awe and mystery of mosques. In the remote murmur of London traffic there was the note, at once lazy and si

ible things were still done secretly beside her beloved river, hidden and condoned by t

and down for Stephen's boat, a faint crossness in her mind because of his lateness.

tering in a boat, a murmur of low voices and subdued spl

ut the tide ... caught by the tide ... engine went wrong ... of course ... always did ... raised her head with a vast effort to be kissed ... a very delicate and reverent kiss ... remembered to ask if Cook was back ... mustn't lock the front d

bout Emily. Emily Gaunt ... not come home ... must speak seriously to Emily tomorrow ... can't be bothered now. Stephen see to it ... Ste

ittle room behind, thanking God for the fortunate sl

de, though John had done most of that, good old John.... (There was something disturbing he had said to John, when they parted at last-what the devil was it?... Something had slipped out.... An intangible, uneasy memory prodded him somewhere ... no matter.) And then when he did get back, what a time he had had in the scullery, tidying

hough nobody knows it." What lie was it he had invented about the sack, tired as he was? Oh yes, that John had borrowed it, and that John had first emptied the rubbish into the river.... Yes, he h

aluable. But God knew what he felt about it all.... Shocked, of course.... Flabbergasted (whatever that meant). The question was, how would he get over the shock? How would he feel when he woke up? Would he be permanently shocked, stop being friends

the landing. She knocked delicately on Mrs. Byrne's door and threw out a

Beach-speak low-Mr

like for a bit of a turn and met a friend like. She weren't in the kitchen, sir, when I come in, nor in the bedroom neither. I thought perhaps as how you'd seen h

ted peroration as if fearful that her scanty wind shoul

sent Emily out on a "herrand,"

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

she puffed; "she always was a one for the young men, though I says it myself, but there youth will 'ave its

, Mrs. Beach

night,

at 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 ha

ng 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 stret

ffect 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 no

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

oral 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

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

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

mfortable sense of bargaining. It was difficult to pray without

I see Thee

se Thee a

sang in his head. But if one prayed properly, no doubt one

through it, dragging with the tide. Probably.... Hideous possibilities crowded back and gloom returned to him. And what was it he had said to John? He had forgotten about that. Something silly had slipped out, when John had looked so shocked, something i

the blanket; he

lay still maddeningly awake in a feverish muddle

her oozy bed, tugging at her a