THE MAN WITH THE MOTOR
Eve woke with the scent of hay in her nostrils, and her hair was damp
with dew.
She sat up, and from that brown nook on the hill-side looked out upon a
world that was all white mist, with a great silver sun struggling out of
the east. Each blade of grass had its droplet of dew. The air was still
as deep water. From a wood in the valley came the sound of the singing
of birds.
Her two companions were still asleep, Joan Gaunt lying with her mouth
wide open, her face looking grey and old. Eve picked up an armful of
hay, went a few paces forward, and sat down so that she could see
everything without having to look over the bodies of the sleeping women.
It was like watching the birth of a world. The veil of white mist hid
miraculous happenings, and the singing of the birds down yonder was like
the exultation of souls that beheld and marvelled. Mystery! The
stillness seemed to wait. In a little while the white veil would be
withdrawn.
Then the vapour became full of sudden motion. It rolled in great drifts,
rose, broke into little wisps of smoke, and half lost itself in yellow
light. The interplay was wonderful to watch. Sometimes the mist closed
in again, hiding what it had half revealed, only to drift away once more
like torn masses of gossamer. A great yellow ray of sunlight struck
abruptly across the valley, fell upon the wood where the birds were
singing, and splashed it with gold. Then the mist seemed to be drawn up
like a curtain. Colour came into the landscape, the bronze and yellow of
the budding oaks, the delicate green of young beech leaves, the sables
of yews and firs, the blue of the sky, the green of the fields. It was
all wet, fragrant, glittering, like an elf world lifted suddenly out of
the waters of an enchanted sea.
Someone sneezed. Eve turned sharply, and found Joan Gaunt was awake, and
sitting up. Wisps of hay had got tangled in her hair, her blouse looked
like an impressionist sunset, and one side of her face was red and
mottled from lying on the canvas knapsack. She had been awake for ten
minutes, and had pulled out a notebook and was scribbling in it with a
pencil.
Eve thought that she was turning the May morning into a word picture,
but she soon noticed that Joan Gaunt’s eyes did not rise above the level
of her notebook.
“Busy already?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it wonderful?”
“What?”
“Why, all that.”
Eve swept a hand towards the valley where the smoking squadrons of the
mist were in full flight before the gold spears of the sun.
“It looks as though it has been abominably damp. I’m quite stiff and
I’ve caught cold.”
She blew her nose hard, and, like the impervious enthusiast that she
was, resumed her scribbling. Eve left her undisturbed, and returning to
her corner of the recess let her hair down, and spent ten minutes
brushing it. She had very fine hair, it reached well below her waist,
and Lizzie Straker, who had just woke up, found something to say on the
subject.
“It must be a nuisance, having a fleece like that.”
“Why?”
“So beastly hot. I should like to have mine cut quite short.”
The obvious answer, though Eve did not give it, was that some people’s
hair did not matter.
She went exploring in quest of somebody who would provide them with
towels and water, and also with breakfast. And when they did get
breakfast at a little farmhouse over the hill, her companions had to
thank Eve for it, for the farmer’s wife was not a persuadable person,
and would certainly have refused anything to Joan Gaunt or Lizzie
Straker. Their white blouses were splashed and streaked with yellow, but
luckily the sitting-room was rather dark, and the farmer’s wife was not
observant.
But Eve had seen these blouses in the full sunlight, and was candid in
her criticism.
“You must stop at the next village, and buy a couple of new blouses!”
“Why, what does it matter?”
Lizzie Straker was in a touchy and argumentative mood.
“They really look too terrible!”
“I don’t care. It is a reflection on those savages.”
“I suppose you don’t want to be too conspicuous when you are out to burn
houses!”
This was sound sense, and they halted that day within a mile or two of
Horsham and let Eve go on alone to buy two new blouses. The
transfiguration was contrived in the corner of a wood, and the
egg-stained relics were rolled up and stowed away in their knapsacks.
Apparently they were expected at Horsham, not by the public or the
police, but by the elderly gentlewoman at whose front door Joan Gaunt
knocked. They were received with enthusiasm by an excitable lady with a
high, narrow forehead and prominent teeth. She could talk nearly as fast
as Lizzie Straker, and she gave them a most excellent tea.
“I think it is splendid, perfectly splendid, this heroic uprising of the
women of England. The Government can’t stop us. How can they stop us? We
have got the men stalemated.”
Eve did not take to her hostess, and their hostess did not take to Eve.
She looked at her with the veiled prejudices of a very plain woman for a
girl who had more than good looks. Moreover, Eve had recovered her sense
of humour, and these enthusiasts were rendered suspicious and uneasy by
a glimmer of fun in the eyes. People who could laugh were not
vindictively and properly in earnest.
“They can’t stop us. They can’t crush women who are not afraid of dying!
Isn’t it glorious the way those noble girls have fought and refused to
eat in prison? I know one woman who kept four wardresses at bay for half
an hour. She kicked and struggled, and they had to give up trying to
feed her. What fools we are making the men look! I feel I want to laugh
in the faces of all the men I meet!”
Eve asked mildly: “And do you?”
“Do what?”
“Laugh when you meet them?”
“Well, no, not quite. It wouldn’t be dignified, would it? But I think
they see the triumph in my eyes.”
Their hostess had forgotten that a letter had come for Joan Gaunt, and
she only remembered it when Joan asked if it had arrived.
“Of course—how silly of me! I locked it up in my bureau. I was so
fascinated listening to all your adventures.”
She fetched the letter, and Joan Gaunt read it. She smiled her leathery
smile, and passed the letter over to Lizzie Straker.
“To-morrow night, where the road to Godalming branches off from the
Horsham-Guildford road.”
The hostess thrilled and upset her cup.
“How exciting—how splendid! I can guess, yes, what you are going to do.
And you will be able to stay the night here? How nice. The people here
are such barbarians; so narrow. I try to spread the great ideal, but
they don’t seem to care.”
At all events she treated them nobly, and Eve was able to enjoy the
sensuous delight of a good hot bath. She went to bed early, leaving her
hostess and the two pioneers of progress sitting well forward in their
chairs, and debating the conversion of those women who clung
sentimentally to the old traditions.
Their hostess was curious about Eve.
“A probationer, a novice, I suppose?”
“She is learning the discipline.”
“I have very quick instincts. I don’t think I quite trust that young
woman.”
Lizzie Straker, who was always ready to argue about anything, simply
because she had a temperament that disagreed, rushed to defend Eve.
“Why, what’s the matter with her? She came down to starving point,
anyhow, for a principle. If that isn’t being sincere, what is?”
Their hostess was not accustomed to being met and attacked with such
impetuosity.
“She doesn’t strike me as belonging to us.”
“Why not?”
“As I explained, it was my impression. She doesn’t strike me as being
serious minded.”
“Anyway, she didn’t sit in a chair and theorise. She’s been through the
real thing.”
Joan Gaunt had to interpose, for the gentlewoman of Horsham was showing
signs of huffiness.
“Mrs. Falconer sent her with us.”
“Mrs. Falconer? That noble woman. I am satisfied. She should know.”
They left Horsham about five o’clock the following evening, their
knapsacks well packed with food. The gentlewoman of Horsham dismissed
them with the fervour of an early Christian, and held Joan Gaunt’s hands
for fully half a minute.
“It has been such an experience for me. It has been like seeing one’s
dearest ideals in the flesh. God bless you!”
Joan Gaunt went striding along the Guildford road like a veteran
centurion, grim and purposeful. Lizzie Straker had a headache, and Eve
offered to carry her knapsack and coat, but Lizzie Straker had a kind of
soldier pride. She would carry her own kit till she dropped.
“Don’t fuss me, old girl. I’m all right.”
Eve enjoyed the long walk, perhaps because her companions were silent. A
soft spring dusk was melting over the country. Birds were singing. There
were yellow gates to the west. The hedgerows were clean and unsoiled by
dust, and a delightful freshness distilled out of the blue-green grass.
It was pitch dark long before they reached the point where the road
branched off to Godalming, though the sky was crowded with stars. Joan
Gaunt had bought a little electric hand-lamp in Horsham, and it served
to light up the sign-posts and the dial of her watch.
“Here we are.”
She had flashed the light on a sign-post arm and read “Godalming.”
“What’s the time?”
“About half-past ten.”
“Galahad won’t be here till midnight.”
“No. You have time for a rest.”
Lizzie Straker was fagged out. Eve could tell that by the flatness of
her voice. They went and sat in a dry ditch under the shadow of a hedge,
and put on their jackets, for the double purpose of keeping warm and
hiding their white blouses. Lizzie Straker lay down with her knapsack
under her head, and in ten minutes she was asleep.
“We won’t talk!”
“No. I’m quite ready for a rest.”
A couple of farm labourers passed, one of them airing a grievance, the
condemning of his pig by some sanitary official. “I be’unt a fool. A
touch of de joint evil, dat’s what it be. But he comes and he swears it
be tu-ber-coo-lousis, and says I be to slaughter d’beast.” The voice
died away, bemoaning the fate of the pig, and Eve felt a drowsiness
descending upon her eyelids. She remembered Joan Gaunt sitting erect and
watchful beside her, and then dreams came.
She woke suddenly to find two huge glaring eyes lighting the road. They
were the headlights of a stationary motor, and she heard the purr of the
engine turning dead slow. Someone was speaking. A high pitched, jerky
and excitable voice was giving orders.
“Turn out the headlights, Jones, and light the oil lamps. You had better
shove in another can of petrol. Well, here we are; on the tick—what!”
Joan Gaunt’s voice answered him.
“Last time you were an hour late.”
“That’s good. We had two punctures, you know. Where are the others?”
“Asleep in the ditch.”
Eve woke Lizzie Straker. The headlights went out suddenly, and two
figures approached, one of them carrying the tail lamp of the car.
“Hallo, it’s Galahad!”
Lizzie Straker’s short sleep had restored her vitality. She spluttered
enthusiastically at the man.
“Hallo, old sport! here we are, ready for the limelight. Plenty of
paraffin and shavings?”
“Rather!”
He turned the lamp on Eve so that she could see nothing but a round
yellow eye.
“New comrade? Greetings!”
Joan Gaunt introduced them.
“Mr. Lawrence Kentucky—Miss Eve Carfax. We call him our Galahad.”
The man laughed, and his laughter was falsetto. She could not see him,
except when he swung the lamp away from her, and then but dimly, but she
received the impression of something tall, fidgety, and excitable.
“Delightful! One more fair lady to champion. Great adventures, great
adventures!”
Eve soon noticed that Lizzie Straker was particularly interested in Mr.
Lawrence Kentucky. She hung close, talking in slangy superlatives, and
trying to spread her personality all round him.
“How many miles an hour to-day?”
“Oh, we came easy! Respectable tourists, you know. All ready, Jones?”
“All ready, sir.”
“Supposing we heave up the anchor? There’s plenty of room for three at
the back.”
“But what about the house? Do you know it?”
“Rather! We’re thorough, you know. Jones and I went over all the ground
two days ago. We have it all mapped out to a T.”
“I’m going to set light to this one. Joan had the last.”
“All right, your honour, although Miss Gaunt’s one up.”
Joan Gaunt climbed in independently. Lizzie Straker waited to be helped.
Mr. Kentucky helped Eve, because he had discovered something of the
eternal feminine.
To Eve the adventure began by seeming utterly unreal. Even when the
motor drew up in a dark lane, and the lights were turned out after the
attacking party had loaded themselves with bags of shavings, tow, and a
can of petrol, she was hardly convinced that she was off to help in
burning down a house. She asked herself why she was doing it. The spirit
of revolt failed to answer in a voice that was passionate enough to be
convincing.
They went in single file, Lawrence Kentucky leading the way. He carried
an electric torch which he used from time to time like a boy out for
mischief. They climbed a gate, crossed a grass field, and came to a
fence backed by straggling laurels and hollies. There was a place where
two or three of the fence palings were rotten and had been kicked in by
Mr. Kentucky when he had come to spy out the land. They squeezed
through, one by one.
Someone whispered to Eve as she stooped to pass through.
“Mind the nails. I’ll show you a light.”
His torch glowed, and she had a momentary glimpse of his face, thin,
neurotic, with restless eyes, and a mouth that had the voracious look
that one sees in men who are always hungry for some new sensation. She
could have imagined him swearing volubly, laughing hysterically, biting
his pipe stems in two, a whimsical egoist who rushed hither and thither
to escape from being bored.
“All right? Rather like playing oranges and lemons.”
She knew at once that he wanted to flirt with her, but she had no desire
to cut out Lizzie Straker.
They threaded through a big shrubbery, and came out against a black mass
piled in the middle of a broad lawn. It was the house they had come to
burn.
“The kitchen window, Jones—at it with the glass-cutter! Who’ll stay
outside and keep cave?”
Eve offered herself.
“Why, you’ll miss half the fun.”
“I don’t mind.”
The grass on the lawn promised a good hay crop. There was a wooden seat
built round the trunk of an old lime, and Eve settled herself there
after the others had disappeared. The night was absolutely soundless,
stars scattered like dust above the solid parapet and low roof of the
red brick Georgian house. It stood there, mute, deserted, with sightless
eyes, and a sudden pity seized on Eve. It was as though the house were
alive, and she was helping to do it to death. Houses were part of life.
They held a spiritual and impalpable something that mattered. They had
souls. She began to watch, as though she was to be present at a tragedy,
with a feeling of tension at her heart.
Who had lived there? To whom did the house belong? Had children been
born yonder, and had tired eyes closed in death? Had children played in
the garden, and under this tree? It was illogical to pity bricks and
mortar, and yet this sentimental mood of hers belonged to those more
exquisite sensibilities that save life from being nothing better than a
savage scramble.
A streak of light showed at one of the windows. Eve straightened
herself, rested her head against the trunk of the tree, and held her
breath. The streak of light spread into a wavering, fluctuating glow,
just as if the heart of the old house were palpitating angrily. But Eve
was allowed no leisure for the play of such phantasies. The incendiaries
returned.
“Come along!”
Lizzie Straker was almost hysterical.
“It’s going splendidly—splendidly! We found a big cupboard full of
rubbish under the stairs. I lit it. Yes, it’s my work!”
Eve became conscious of a growing indignation as they beat a retreat
back through the shrubbery and across the field to the lane. They ran,
and even the act of running seemed to her shameful. What a noble
business was this sneaking about at one in the morning with petrol cans
and bags of shavings!
She snubbed Lawrence Kentucky when he pointed back over the field gate
and chuckled.
“She’s going up in smoke all right. We did that pretty smartly!”
“It has been heroic, hasn’t it?”
To her he was no better than a mean little boy.
They crowded into the car. The lamps were lit, and the engine started.
The chauffeur drove dead slow along the lane.
“That’s it, Jones; crawl for half a mile, and keep her as quiet as you
can.”
In another five minutes they were purring away into the darkness. Eve,
when she glanced back, could see a faint glow above the tree tops.
Lizzie Straker exulted.
“There is something for them to talk about! That will be in the papers
to-morrow.”
Eve did not know how far they drove. The car kept running for the best
part of two hours. Mr. Lawrence Kentucky was finessing, covering up
their tracks, so to speak. He turned in his seat once or twice and spoke
to Joan Gaunt. Day was just dawning when the car pulled up.
“This ought to do for you. You are three or four miles from Farnham, and
this is Crooksbury Hill.”
Eve threw aside her rug and climbed out. They had stopped on a flinty
road among the towering trunks of a wood of Scots firs. The branches
high overhead seemed a black tangle hanging in the vague grey light of
the dawn. Not a bough moved. The great trees were asleep.
“I’ll be getting on. Running to Oxford. Put ’em off the scent. Write and
fix up the next. London address, you know.”
He was saying good-bye, and receiving Lizzie Straker’s more than
friendly splutterings. The chauffeur, a swarthy young blackguard, was
grinning behind his master’s back. Mr. Lawrence Kentucky stared hard at
Eve, for she was good to look at in the dawn light, with the smell of
the dew everywhere, and the great trees dreaming overhead.
“Au revoir, Miss Carfax! Hope you’ve enjoyed it.”
She gave him a casual nod, and went and sat down on the bank at the side
of the road.
Joan Gaunt and Lizzie Straker, like the hardy veterans that they were,
lay down under the trees to snatch an hour or two’s sleep, but Eve felt
wakeful and in a mood for thought. The night’s adventure had left her
with an impression of paltriness, and she kept picturing the black shell
of the burnt house standing pathetically in the midst of its neglected
garden. She remembered Lawrence Kentucky’s chuckle, a peculiarly
offensive and sneering chuckle. Was that the sort of man who could be
called a pioneer of progress, or a knight of Arthur’s Court? It struck
her as pathetic that these women should have christened him Galahad. It
just betrayed how little they knew about men.
She looked up at the tall trees and was instantly reminded of the fir
woods at Fernhill. A quiver of emotion swept through her. It had been
just such a dawn as this when she had fled from Orchards Corner. She
realised that she was wiser, broader, less sentimental now, and that
Canterton had not been the passionate visionary that she had thought
him.
Lizzie Straker woke up and shouted “Breakfast!”
The gentlewoman of Horsham had fitted them out royally. They had a tea
kettle to boil over a fire of dead wood, a big bottle of water, ham
sandwiches, buttered scones, and a tin of Swiss milk. Even a tin opener
had been included. That breakfast under Crooksbury Hill reminded Eve of
Lynette’s fairy picnics in the Wilderness. The larches would be all
covered with green tassels. She wished she was with Lynette in the
Wilderness.
Breakfast over, Joan Gaunt brought out her itinerary.
“Where do we go next? I’ve forgotten.”
Lizzie Straker licked a finger that had managed to get itself smeared
with Swiss milk.
“Let’s see. Something beginning with B, wasn’t it?”
“Yes—Basingford.”
The pupils of Eve’s eyes dilated. They were going to Basingford!
* * * * *