EVE COMES TO HERSELF
Canterton went as far as the hedge, but did not follow the fugitives any
farther. He stood there for two or three minutes, understanding that a
sensitive woman who had been involved in a vulgar scrimmage would not be
sorry to be left alone for a moment while she recovered her poise.
Then he heard Eve calling.
“Where are you?”
He turned instantly, and walked back round the cottage to find her
standing close to the porch.
“Ah, I thought you might be following them. Let them go.”
“I wanted nothing better than to be rid of them. Are you hurt?”
“That dear comrade of mine tried to break my arm. The elbow hurts rather
badly.”
“Let me feel.”
He went close, and she stretched out her arm and let his big hands move
gently over it.
“The landmarks seem all right. Can you bend it?”
“Oh, yes! It is only a bit of a wrench.”
“Sit down. There is a seat here in the porch. I thought you would like
it. There is something pleasant in the idea of sitting at the doorway of
one’s home.”
“And growing old and watching the oak mellowing. They have left their
petrol and shavings here.”
“I’ll dispose of them presently.”
His hands touched hers by accident, but her fingers did not avoid his.
“I did not know that the cottage was to be the victim. I only found out
just at the last. How did you happen to be here?”
“Sit down, dear, and I will tell you.”
The quiet tenderness had come back into his voice. He was the comrade,
the lover, the father of Lynette, the self-master, the teller of fairy
stories, the maker of droll rhymes. Eve had no fear of him. His nearness
gave her a mysterious sense of peace.
“What a comfortable seat!”
“Just free of the south-west wind. You could read and work here.”
She sighed wistfully.
“Yes, I shall work here.”
Neither of them spoke of surrender, or hinted at the obvious
accomplishment of an ideal. Their subtle understanding of each other
seemed part of the darkness, something that enveloped them, and did not
need to be defined. Eve’s hand lay against Canterton’s on the oak seat.
The lightest of touches was sufficient. She was learning that the light,
delicate touches, the most sensitive vibrations, are the things that
count in life.
“How did you happen to be here?”
“You had given me a warning, and I came to guard the most precious part
of my property.”
“And you were listening? You heard?”
“Oh, everything, especially that wild cat’s tin-plate voice. What of the
great movement?”
She gave a subtle little laugh.
“I had just found out how impossible they are. I had been realising it
slowly. Directly I got back into the country my old self seemed to
return.”
“And you did not harmonise with the other—ladies?”
“No. They did not seem to have any senses, whereas I felt part of the
green stuff of the earth, and not a bit of grit under Nature’s big toe.”
“That’s good. You can laugh again.”
“Yes, and more kindly, even at those two enthusiasts, one of whom tried
to break my arm.”
“I’m afraid I handled her rather roughly; but people who appeal to
violence must be answered with violence.”
“Lizzie Straker always came in for the rough treatment. She couldn’t
talk to a crowd without using the poison that was under her tongue. She
always took to throwing vitriol.”
“Yes, the business has got into the hands of the wrong people.”
They sat in silence for a while, and it was the silence of two people
who lean over a gate, shoulder to shoulder, and look down upon some fine
stretch of country rolling to the horizon. It was the togetherness that
mattered. Each presence seemed to absorb the other, and to obtain from
it an exquisite tranquillity.
Eve withdrew her hand, and Canterton saw her touch her hair.
“Oh!”
“What is it? The arm?”
“No; but my hat and hair.”
He laughed.
“How much more serious. And what admirable distress. I think I can help.
Take this.”
He brought out a pocket electric lamp.
“I always carry this at night. It is most useful in a garden. There is
an old Venetian mirror hanging at the top of the stairs. While you are
at work I will clear away all this stuff.”
“What will you do with it?”
“Pitch the shavings into the coal cellar. The petrol we can use—quite
ironically—in an hour’s time.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have been thinking. Go in and look into that Venetian mirror!”
She touched his arm with the tips of her fingers.
“Dear, I trust you. I do, utterly. I couldn’t help it, even if you were
not to be trusted.”
“Is that Nature?”
“I think it must be!”
“Put all fear out of your heart.”
She rose and drew apart, yet with a suggestion of lingering and of the
gliding away of a dear presence that would quickly return. The light of
the pocket lamp flashed a yellow circle on the oak door. She pushed it
open and entered the cottage, and climbed the stairs with a new and
delightful sense of possession. She was conscious no longer of problems,
disharmonies, the suppression of all that was vital in her. A spacious
life had opened, and she entered it as one enters a June garden.
Canterton had cleared away Lawrence Kentucky’s war material, and Eve
found him sitting in the porch when she returned.
“Very tired?”
“No.”
“May I talk a little longer?”
“Why not!”
She sat down beside him.
“Our comradeship starts from now. May I assume that?”
“I dare to assume it, because one learns not to ask too much.”
“Ah, that’s it. Life, at its best, is a very delicate perfume. The gross
satisfactions don’t count in the long run. I want you to do big things.
I want us to do them together. And Lynette shall keep us two healthy
children.”
She thought a moment, staring into the night.
“And when Lynette grows up?”
“I think she will love you the better. And we shall never tarnish her
love. Are you content?”
He bent towards her, and took one of her hands.
“Dearest of women! think, consider, before you pledge yourself. Can you
bear to surrender so much for the working life I can give you?”
She answered him under her breath.
“Yes. I want a man for a comrade—a man who doesn’t want to be bribed.
Oh, my dear, let me speak out. Sex—sex disgusted me in that London
life. I revolted from it. It made me hate men. Yet it is not sex that is
wrong, only our use of it. I think it is the child that counts in those
matters with a woman.”
His hand held hers firmly.
“Eve, will you grow hungry—ever?”
“For what?”
“Children!”
She bent her head.
“I will tell you. No. I think I can spend that part of the woman in me
on Lynette and on you.”
“On me.”
“A woman’s love—I mean the real love—has some of the mother spirit in
it. Don’t you know that?”
He lifted her hand and kissed it.
“And may I grumble to you sometimes, little mother, and come to you to
be comforted when I am oppressed by fools? You can trust me. I shall
never make you ashamed. And now, for practical things. You must be in
London to-morrow morning. I have worked it all out.”
“Remember, I am a very independent young woman.”
“Oh, I know! Let me spend myself, sometimes. Have you any luggage at the
‘Black Boar’?”
“No, only my knapsack, which I left in the car.”
“Fancy a woman travelling with nothing more than a knapsack! Oh, Eve, my
child!”
“I didn’t like it. I’ll own up. All my luggage is stored with some
warehouse people in town. I have the receipts here in my purse.”
“That’s luck—that’s excellent! We must walk round to the Basingford
road to miss any of my scouts. You will wait there, say by the Camber
cross-roads, while I get my car out.”
He felt for his watch.
“Have you that lamp?”
“It is here on the seat.”
“Just two o’clock. I shall tell my man I’m off in chase of a party who
made off in a car. I shall bring you one of my greatcoats and pick you
up at the cross-roads. We shall be in London by five. We will get some
breakfast somehow, and then knock up the warehouse people and pile your
luggage into the back. I shall drive you to a quiet hotel I know, and I
shall leave you there. What could be simpler? An independent young woman
staying at a quiet hotel, rather bored with London and inclined to
resume a discarded career.”
She laughed softly—happily.
“It is simple! Then I shall have to write you a formal letter.”
“Just that.”
* * * * *