being an individualist, a man who had always depended upon himself, canterton had very little of the social sensitiveness that looks cautiously to the right and to the left before taking a certain path. all his grown life, from his university days onwards, he had been dealing with big problems, birth, growth, decay, the eternal sacrament of sex, the beauty of earth’s flowering. his vision went deep and far. his life had been so full of the fascination of his work that he had never been much of a social animal, as the social animal is understood in a country community. he observed trifles that were stupendously significant in the world of growth, but he had no mind for the social trifles round him. had he had less brawn, less virility, less humour, it is possible that he would have been nothing more than an erudite fool, one of those pathetic figures, respected for its knowledge and pitied for its sappiness.
canterton could convince men, and this was because he had long ago become a conviction to himself. it was not a self-conscious conviction, and that was why it had such mastery. it never occurred to him to think about the discretions and the formalities of life. if a thing seemed good to do, he did it; if it seemed bad, he never gave it a second thought. his men believed in him with an instinctive faith that would not suffer contradiction, and had canterton touched tar, they would have sworn that the tar was the better for it, and canterton’s hands clean. he was so big, so direct, so just, so ready to smile and see the humour of everything. and he was as clean-minded as his child lynette, and no more conscious than she was of the little meannesses and dishonourable curiosities that make most men and nearly all women hypocrites.
canterton’s eyes were open; but he saw only that which his long vision had taught him to see, and not the things that are focused by smaller people. that an idea seemed fine, and admirable, and good, was sufficient for him. he had not cultivated the habit of asking himself what other people might think. that was why such a man as canterton may be so dangerous to himself and to others when he starts to do some big and unusual thing.
he knew now that he loved eve carfax. it was like the sudden rising of some enchanted island out of the sea, magical yet real, nor was he a gross beast to break down the boughs for the fruit and to crush the flowers for their perfumes. he had the atmosphere of a fine mind, and his scheme of values was different from the scheme of values recognised by more ordinary men. perfumes, colours, beautiful outlines had spiritual and mystical meanings. he was not pagan and not christian, but a blend of all that was best in both.
to him this enchanted island had risen out of the sea, and floated, dew-drenched, in the pure light of the dawn. he saw no reason why he should bid so beautiful a thing sink back again and be lost under the waters. he had no desecrating impulses. why should not two people look together at life with eyes that smiled and understood? they were harming no one, and they were transfiguring each other.
canterton and his wife were dining alone, and for once he deliberately chose to talk to her of his work, and of his future plans. gertrude would listen perfunctorily, but he was determined that she should listen. the intimate part of his life did not concern her, simply because she was no longer either in his personality or in his work. so little sympathy was there between them that they had never succeeded in rising to a serious quarrel.
“i am taking miss carfax into the business. i thought you might like to know.”
so dead was her personal pride in all that was male in him, that she did not remember to be jealous.
“that ought to be a great opportunity for the girl.”
“i shall benefit as much as she will. she has a very remarkable gift, just something i felt the need of and could not find.”
“then she is quite a discovery?”
canterton watched his wife’s face and saw no clouding of its complacency.
“she will be a very great help in many ways.”
“i see. you will make her a kind of fashion-plate artist to produce new designs.”
“yes.”
“i had thought of doing something for the girl. i had suggested to her that she might paint miniatures.”
“i think i shall keep her pretty busy.”
“i have only spoken to her once or twice, and she struck me as rather reserved, and stiff. i suppose she and lynette——”
“she and lynette get on wonderfully.”
“so miss vance told me. and, of course, that black frock——i hope she doesn’t spoil the child.”
“not a bit. she does her good.”
“lynette wants someone with plenty of common sense to discipline her. i think miss vance is really excellent.”
“a very reliable young woman.”
“she’s not too sentimental and emotional.”
they had finished dessert, and gertrude canterton went straight to her desk to write some of those innumerable letters that took up such a large part of her life. letter-writing was one of her methods of self-expression, and her busy audacity was never to be repelled. she wrote to an infinite number of charitable institutions for their literature; to authors for autograph copies of their books to sell at bazaars; to actors for their signatures and photographs; to cartoonists for some sketch or other on which money might be raised for some charitable purpose; to tradesmen for free goods, offering them her patronage and a fine advertisement on some stall.
canterton did not wait for coffee, but lit a pipe and strolled out into the garden, and walking up and down in a state of wonder, tried to make himself realise that he and gertrude were man and wife.
had the conversation really taken place? had they exchanged those cold commonplaces, those absurd phrases that should have meant so much? had he known gertrude less well, he might have been touched by the appearance of the limitless faith she had in him, by her blind and serene confidence that was not capable of being disturbed. but he knew her better than that. he was hardly so much as a shadow in her life, and when a second shadow appeared beside hers she did not notice it. she seemed to have no sense of possession, no sexual pride. her mental poise was like some people’s idea of heaven, a place of beautiful and boundless indifference misnamed “sacred love,” a state that was guilty of no preferences, no passions, no anguish, no divine despair.
and then there leapt in him a sudden and subtle exultation. this splendid comradeship that life was offering to him, what could be cried against it, what was there that could be condemned? it touched no one but their two selves, could hurt no one. the one woman who might have complained was being robbed of nothing that she desired. as for marriage, he had tried it, and saw that it served a certain need. for five years he had lived the life of a celibate, and the god in him was master of the beast. he thought no such thoughts of eve. she was sunlight, perfumes, the green gloom of the woods, water shining in the moonlight, all the music that was and would be, all the fairy tales that had been told, all the ardour of words spoken in faith. she was one whose eyes could quench all the thirsts of his manhood. to be with her, to be hers, was sufficient.
canterton was hardly conscious of the physical part of himself, as he took a path along one of the cypress walks, passed out by a wicket gate, and crossed the road into the fir woods. dusk had fallen, but there was still a faint grey light under the trees, and there was no undergrowth, so that one would walk along the woodland aisles as along the aisles of a church. a feeling of exultation possessed him. the very stillness of the woods, the darkness that began to drown all distances, were personal and all-enveloping.
a light was shining in one of the lower windows of the little house at orchards corner when canterton came to the gate at the end of the lane. he paused there, leaning his arms on the gate. the blind was up and the curtain undrawn, and he could see eve sitting at a table, and bending over a book or writing a letter.
canterton crossed the lawn and stood looking in at the lighted window. eve was sitting at the table with her back towards him, and he saw the outline of her head, and the glow of the light upon her hair. she was wearing a blouse cut low at the throat, and he could see the white curve of her neck as she bent over the table. there were books and papers before her. she appeared to be reading and making notes.
he spoke her name.
“eve!”
her profile came sharply against the lamplight. then she pushed the chair back, rose, and walked to the window. the lower sash was up. she rested her hands on the sill.
“is it you?”
the light was behind her, and her face vague and shadowy, but he had a feeling that she was afraid. her bare white forearms, with the hands resting on the window-sill, looked hard and rigid.
“have i frightened you?”
“perhaps—a little.”
“i wanted to talk to you.”
she did not answer him for the moment.
“i am all alone to-night.”
“i thought you had the girl with you.”
“i let her go down to the village.”
he had come to her in a fog of mystical love, and through the haze of his vision her set and human face became the one real thing in the world. her voice had a wounded sound, and she spoke as from a little distance. there was resistance here, a bleak dread of something, and yet a desire that what was inevitable should be understood.
“you’ll forgive me?”
“perhaps.”
“i felt i must talk to you.”
“as you talked yesterday morning?”
“why not?”
“i—i thought perhaps that you had understood.”
his full consciousness of all that was in his heart would not suffer him to feel such a thing as shame. but a great tenderness reached out to her, because he had heard her utter a cry of pain.
“have i hurt you by coming here?”
she stared beyond him, trying to think.
“we were to live like good comrades, like fellow artists, were we not?”
“i told you how the future offers us beautiful friendship.”
she made a little impatient movement.
“i knew it would be difficult while you were talking. and now you are making it impossible.”
“i cannot see it.”
“you are blind—with a man’s blindness.”
she leant her weight on her arms, and bending slightly towards him, spoke with peculiar gentleness.
“you look at the horizon, you miss the little things. perhaps i am more selfish and near-sighted, for your sake, if not for my own. jim, don’t make me say what is hateful even to be thought.”
it was the first time that she had called him by the familiar name, the name sacred to his lad’s days, and to the lips of his men friends. he stood looking up at her, for she was a little above him.
“i like that word—jim. but am i blind?”
“hopelessly.”
“can it hurt either of us, this comradeship? why, eve, child, how can i talk all the boyish stuff to you? it’s bigger, finer, less selfish than all that. i believe i could think of you as i think of lynette—married some day to a good fellow——”
she broke in with sudden passion.
“no, you are wrong there—utterly wrong.”
“am i wrong—everywhere?”
“can’t you guess that it hurts terribly, all this? it’s so impossible, and you won’t see it. let’s get back—back to yesterday.”
“eve, is there ever a yesterday?”
she shivered and drew back a little.
“jim, don’t try to come too near me. you make me say it. you make me say the mean things.”
“it’s not physical nearness.”
“ah, you may think that! but you are forgetting all the little people.”
“the little people! are we to be little because they are shorter than we are? the neighbourhood knows me well enough.”
she came forward again to the window with a kind of tender and stooping pity.
“jim, how very innocent you are. yes, i know—i know it is precious, and perilous. listen! supposing you were to lose lynette—oh, why will you make me say the mean, hideous things?”
“lose lynette! do you mean——”
“jim, i am going to shut the window.”
he raised an arm.
“wait! good god!”
“no, no! good night!”
she closed the window, and dragged the curtains across it.
canterton stood at gaze a moment, before walking away across the grass.
eve was listening, stricken, yet trying not to feel afraid.
