eve relocked the door of the cottage, and stood in the darkness of the hall, trying to realise all that had happened.
it was like coming back out of a dream, save that the dream remained as a compelling and fateful reality, a power, a parting of the ways, a voice that cried “explicit!” her clarity of vision returned as she stood there in the darkness. there was only one thing to be done, whatever anguish the doing of it might cause her.
yet for the moment she shrank from this renunciation, this surrender of the things that made life desirable, this going forth into a world of little poverties, little struggles, little sordid anxieties. it was hard, very hard to leave this spacious existence, this corner of the earth where beauty counted, and where she had been so happy in her work. why had he made it so hard for her? and yet, though she was in pain, her heart could not utter any accusation against him. he had misunderstood her, and she had had to ruin everything by showing him the truth.
this part of her life was ended, done with; and eve repeated the words to herself as she felt her way up the stairs and into her room. she lit the candle and stood looking about her. how cold and small and matter-of-fact the place seemed. the whole atmosphere had changed, and the room no longer felt like hers. the bedclothes were neatly turned back, but she knew that she would never sleep in that bed again. it was absurd—the very idea of sleep, when to-morrow——
she sat on the bed awhile, thinking, forcing herself to make those plans that shape themselves like hot metal poured into a mould. a hunger for physical activity seized her. she might falter or break down if she did too much thinking. feeling under the bed, she dragged out a light leather valise, and opening it began to tumble out a collection of tissue paper, odd pieces of dress material, ribbons and scraps of lace. the very first thing she saw when she went to open the hanging cupboard was the big straw sun-hat she had worn at latimer and fernhill. that inanimate thing, hanging there, sent a shock of pain through her. she felt things as a sensitive child feels them, and sorrow was more than a mere vague regret.
presently the valise was packed, and her more personal trifles collected into a handbag. she began to open all the drawers and cupboards, to sort her clothes and lay them on the bed. once or twice she went downstairs to fetch books or something she specially needed, pausing outside the maid’s door to listen, but the girl was fast asleep. eve sorted out all her fernhill and latimer studies, tied them up in brown paper, and addressed them to canterton. her portfolios, paint boxes, and a few odd canvases she packed into a stout parcel, labelled them, and carried them up to her room.
then, as to money. eve kept it locked in a little drawer in a cabinet that stood in a corner of her bedroom, and though she went to count it, she knew what was there, almost to the last penny. seventeen pounds, thirteen shillings and ninepence. there were a pass and cheque-book also, for she had a hundred pounds in a bank at reading, canterton having paid her the first instalment of her salary. eve felt loath to consent to thinking of the money as her own. perhaps she would return it to him, or keep it untouched, a sentimental legacy left her by this memorable summer.
it was one in the morning when she lit a fresh candle and went down into the dining-room to write letters. the first was to a local house-agent and auctioneer, stating that she was leaving basingford unexpectedly, and that the maid would deposit the keys of orchards corner at his office, and desiring him to arrange for a sale of all her furniture. the next letter was to anne, the maid. eve enclosed a month’s wages and an odd sum for current expenses, and asked her to pack two trunks and have them taken to the station and sent to the luggage office at waterloo. eve drew out a list of the things that were to be packed. everything else was to be disposed of at the sale.
then came the letter to james canterton.
“i am taking the only course that seems open to me, and believe me when i say that it is best for us both.
“i am leaving you the latimer pictures, and all the studies i made at fernhill. you will find them here, on the table, wrapped up and addressed to you.
“i am giving mr. hanstead orders to sell all the furniture.
“it is probable that i shall try to make some sort of career for myself in london.
“perhaps i will write to you, when my new life is settled. don’t try to see me. i ask you, from my heart, not to do that.
“kiss lynette, and make her think the best you can.
“i am sealing this and leaving it here for you with the pictures.
“eve.”
a great restlessness came upon her when she had completed all these preparations, and she felt a desire to rush out and end the last decisive phase of her life at fernhill. she hunted up a local time-table, and found that the first train left basingford at half-past six in the morning. the earliness of the hour pleased her. the valise and bag were not very heavy, and she could walk the two miles to the station before the basingford people were stirring.
then a new fear came upon her, the fear that canterton might still be near, or that he would return. a book that she picked up could not hold her attention, and the old bent cane rocking-chair that she had used so often when she was feeling like a grown child, made her still more restless. she went over the house, reconsidering everything, the clothes laid out on the bed, the furniture she was to leave, and whether it would be worth her while to warehouse the rather ancient walnut-cased piano, with its fretwork and magenta-coloured satin front. she wrote labels, even started an inventory, but abandoned it as soon as she entered her mother’s room.
the watch on her dressing-table told her that it was five-and-twenty minutes to four. dawn would be with her before long, and the thought of the dawn made the little house seem dead and oppressive. she put on a pair of stout shoes, and, letting herself out into the garden, made her way to the orchard at the back of the house.
it had grown very dark before the dawn, and the crooked apple trees were black outlines against an obscure sky. they made her think of bent, decrepit, sad old men. the grass had been scythed a month ago, and the young growth was wet with dew. everything was deathly still. not a leaf moved on the trees. it was like a world of the dead.
she walked up and down for a long while before a vague greyness began to spread along the eastern horizon. a bird twittered. the foliage of the trees changed from black to an intense greyish blue. the fruit became visible—touches of gold, and maroon, and green. eve could see the dew on the grass, the rust colour of the tiles on the roof, the white frames of the windows. a rabbit bolted across the orchard, and disappeared through the farther hedge.
she stood watching, wondering, and her wonder went out to the man who had caused her to suffer this pain. how had the night gone with him? what was he doing? had he slept? was he suffering? and then the first flush of rose came into the pearl grey east. great rays of light followed, diverging, making the clouds a chaos of purple and white. presently eve saw the sun appear, a glare of gold above the fir woods.
she returned to the house, put on her hat and coat, made sure that she had her watch and purse, and carried her bag and her valise downstairs. she would leave orchards corner at half-past five, and there was time for a meal before she went. the girl had left dry wood ready on the kitchen stove. eve boiled the kettle, made tea, and ate her breakfast at the kitchen table, listening all the while for any sound of the girl moving overhead. but the silence of the night still held. no one was to see her leave orchards corner.
eve had wondered whether james canterton was suffering. it is not given to many of us to feel acutely, or to travel beyond the shallows of an emotional self-pity, but canterton had much of the spirit of the elizabethans—men built for a big, adventurous, passionate play. he had slept no more than eve had done, and had spent most of the night walking in the woods and lanes and over the wastes of heather and furze. he, too, was trying to realise that this experience was at an end, that a burning truth had been shown him—that they had flown too near the sun, and the heat had scorched their wings.
yet his mood was one of rebellion. he was asking why and wherefore, thrusting that masterful creativeness of his against the conventional barriers that the woman had refused to challenge. for the first time his vitality was running in complete and tumultuous opposition to the conventional currents that had hardly been noticed by him till his will was defied. the scorn of theory was upon him, and he felt the strong man’s desire to brush the seeming artificiality aside. had he not made self-restraint his own law, and was he to herd with men who put their signatures openly to the sexual compact, and broke their vows in secret?
eve was afraid, not only for herself, but for him and for lynette. but, good god! had he ever intended to force her to sacrifice herself, to defy society, or to enter into a conspiracy of passion? was it everything or nothing with such a woman? if so, she had shown a touching magnanimity and wisdom, and uttered a cry that was heroic. but he could not believe it; her pleading that this love of theirs was mad and impossible. it was too pathetic, her confessing that she could not trust herself. he was strong enough to be trusted for them both. the night had made everything more sacred. he would refuse to let her sacrifice their comradeship.
canterton, too, saw the dawn come up, and the sun appear as a great splash of gold. he was standing on the south-east edge of the wilderness, with the gloom of the larch wood behind him, and as the sun rose, its level rays struck on the stream in the valley, and the deep pool among the willows where the water lay as black and as still as glass.
a clear head and a clean body. the whim that seized him had logic and symbolism. he walked down over the wet grass to the pool among the willows, where a punt lay moored to a landing stage, and a diving board projected over the water. canterton stripped and plunged, and went lashing round and round the pool, feeling a clean vigour in his body, as his heart and blood answered the cold sting of the water.
it was half-past six when he made his way back up the hill to the gardens. a glorious day had come, and the dew still sparkled on the flowers. wandering across the lawns he saw an auburn head at an open window, and a small hand waving a towel.
“daddy, i’m coming—i’m coming!”
he looked up at her like a man who had been praying, and whose eyes saw a sign in the heavens.
“hallo! up with the lark!”
“let’s go down to the wilderness.”
“come along, queen mab.”
“i’ve only got to put my frock on.”
“you’re just the very thing i want.”
