as lavender had said, the carfaxes lived at orchards corner.

approaching the place you saw a line of scattered oaks and scots firs, with straggling thorns and hollies between them along the line of a chestnut fence that had turned green with mould. beyond the hollies and thorns rose the branches of an orchard, and beyond the orchard a plantation of yews, hollies, and black spruces. the house or cottage was hardly distinguishable till you turned down into the lane from the high road. it betrayed itself merely by the corner of a white window frame, the top of a red-brick chimney, and a patch of lichened tiling visible through the tangle of foliage.

the carfaxes had been here a year, the mother having been ordered country air and a dry soil. they had sublet the orchard to a farmer who grazed sheep there, but had kept the vegetable garden with its old black loam, and the plot in front with its two squares of grass, filling nearly all the space between the house and the white palings. the grass was rather coarse and long, the carfaxes paying a man to scythe it two or three times during the summer. there were flower-beds under the fence, and on every side of the two pieces of grass, and standard roses flanking the gravel path.

eve met the man with the scythe in the lane as she walked home after her second day at fernhill. she found her mother dozing in her basket-chair in the front garden where a holly tree threw a patch of shadow on the grass. mrs. carfax had her knitting-needles and a ball of white wool in her lap. she was wearing a lilac sun-bonnet, and a grey-coloured shawl.

the click of the gate-latch woke her.

“have you had tea, mother?”

“no, dear; i thought i would wait for you.”

mrs. carfax was a pretty old lady with blue eyes and a rather foolish face. she was remarkable for her sweetness, an obstinate sweetness that had the consistency of molasses, and refused to be troubled, let fate stir ever so viciously. her passivity could be utterly exasperating. she had accepted the whole order of the victorian age, as she had known it, declining to see any flaws in the structure, and ascribing any trifling vexations to the minute and multifarious fussiness of the deity.

“you ought to have had tea, mother.”

“my dear, i never mind waiting.”

“would you like it brought out here?”

“just as you please, dear.”

it was not daughterly, but eve sometimes wished that her mother had a temper, and could use words that elderly gentlewomen are not expected to be acquainted with. there was something so explosively refreshing about the male creature’s hearty “oh, damn!”

that cooing, placid voice never lost its sweetness. it was the same when it rained, when the wind howled for days, when the money was shorter than usual, when eve’s drawings were returned by unsympathetic magazines. mrs. carfax underlined the adjectives in her letters, and had a little proverbial platitude for every catastrophe, were it a broken soap dish or a railway smash. “patience is a virtue, my dear.” “rome was not built in a day.” “the world is not helped by worry.” mrs. carfax had an annuity of £100 a year, and eve made occasional small sums by her paintings. they were poor, poor with that respectable poverty that admits of no margins and no adventures.

mrs. carfax was supremely contented. she prayed nightly that she might be spared to keep a home for eve, never dreaming that the daughter suffered from fits of bitter restlessness when anything seemed better than this narrow and prospectless tranquillity. mrs. carfax had never been young. she had accepted everything, from her bottle onwards, with absolute passivity. she had been a passive child, a passive wife, a passive widow. life had had no gradients, no gulfs and pinnacles. there were no injustices and no sorrows, save, of course, those arranged by an all-wise providence. no ideals, save those in the book of common prayer; no passionate strivings; no divine discontents. she just cooed, brought out a soft platitude, and went on with her knitting.

eve entered the house to put her things away, and to tell nellie, the infant maid, to take tea out into the garden.

“take tea out, nellie.”

“yes, miss. there ain’t no cake.”

“i thought i told you to bake one.”

“yes, miss. there ain’t no baking powder.”

“oh, very well. i’ll order some. put a little jam out.”

“there only be gooseberry, miss.”

“then we’ll say gooseberry.”

eve returned to the garden in time to hear the purr of a motor-car in the main road. the car stopped at the end of the lane. a door banged, and a figure in black appeared beyond the gate.

it was the cantertons’ car that had stopped at the end of the lane, and it was mrs. canterton who opened the gate, smiling and nodding at mrs. carfax. gertrude canterton had paid a first formal call some months ago, leaving in eve’s mind the picture of a very expeditious woman who might whirl down on you in an aeroplane, make a few remarks on the weather, and then whirl off again.

“please don’t get up! please don’t get up! i mustn’t stay three minutes. isn’t the weather exquisite. ah, how do you do, miss carfax?”

she extended a hand with an affected flick of the wrist, smiling all the while, and wriggling her shoulders.

“eve, fetch another chair, dear.”

“oh, please don’t bother!”

“we are just going to have tea, mrs. canterton.”

eve gave her mother a warning look, but mrs. carfax never noticed other people’s faces.

“tell nellie, dear.”

eve walked off to the house, chiefly conscious of the fact that there was no cake for tea. how utterly absurd it was that one should chafe over such trifles. but then, with women like mrs. canterton, it was necessary to have one’s pride dressed to the very last button.

two extra chairs and tea arrived. the conversation was never in danger of death when gertrude canterton was responsible for keeping up a babble of sound. if the other people were mute and reticent, she talked about herself and her multifarious activities. these filled all gaps.

“i must say i like having tea in the garden. you are, really, most sheltered here. sugar? no, i don’t take sugar in tea—only in coffee, thank you.”

“it does rather spoil the flavour.”

“we have a very exquisite tea sent straight to us from a friend of my husband’s in ceylon. it rather spoils me, and i have got out of the way of taking sugar. how particular we become, don’t we? it is so easy to become selfish. that reminds me. i want to interest our neighbourhood in a society that has been started in london. what a problem london is.”

mrs. carfax cooed sympathetically.

“and the terrible lives the people lead. we are very interested in the poor shop girls, and we have started an organisation which we call ‘the shop girls’ rest society.’”

“eve, perhaps mrs. canterton will have some cake.”

eve was on edge, and full of vague feelings of defiance.

“i’m sorry, there isn’t any cake.”

“eve, dear!”

“oh, please, i so rarely take cake. bread and butter is so much more hygienic and natural. i was going to tell you that this society we have started is going to provide shop girls with country holidays.”

“how very nice!”

mrs. carfax felt that she had to coo more sweetly because of the absence of cake.

“i think it is quite an inspiration. we want to get people to take a girl for a week or a fortnight and give her good food, fresh air, and a sense of homeliness. how much the home means to women.”

“everything, mrs. canterton. woman’s place is the home.”

“exactly. and i was wondering, mrs. carfax, whether you would be prepared to help us. of course, we shall see to it that the girls are really nice and proper persons.”

the thought of the absence of cake still lingered, and mrs. carfax felt apologetic.

“i am sure, mrs. canterton, i shall be glad——”

eve had grown stiffer and stiffer, watching the inevitable approach of the inevitable beggar. gertrude canterton had a genius for wriggling her way everywhere, even into other people’s bedrooms, and would be putting them down for ten guineas before they were half awake.

“i am sorry, but i’m afraid it is out of the question.”

she spoke rather brusquely, and gertrude canterton turned with an insinuating scoop of the chin.

“miss carfax, do let me——”

“eve, dear, i’m sure——”

eve was stonily practical.

“it is quite impossible.”

“but, eve——”

“you know, mother, we haven’t a bed.”

“my dear!”

“and no spare bedclothes. mrs. canterton may as well be told the truth.”

there was a short silence. mrs. carfax looked as ruffled as it was possible for her to look, settled her shawl, and glanced inquiringly at mrs. canterton. but even to gertrude canterton the absence of bedclothes seemed final.

“i am sure, mrs. carfax, you would have helped us, if you had been able.”

eve persisted in being regarded as the responsible authority. she was quite shameless now that she had shown mrs. canterton the empty cupboard.

“you see, we have only one small maid, and everything is so adjusted, that we just manage to get along.”

“exactly so, miss carfax. i quite understand. but there is a little thing you could do for us. i always think that living in a neighbourhood makes one responsible for one’s poorer neighbours. i am sure, mrs. carfax, that you will give a small subscription to the coal and clothing club.”

“with pleasure.”

“it doesn’t matter how small it is.”

“eve, dear, please go and fetch me some silver. i should like to subscribe five shillings. may i give it to you, mrs. canterton?”

“thank you so very much. i will send you a receipt.”

eve had risen and walked off resignedly towards the cottage. it was she who was responsible for all the petty finance of the household, and five shillings were five shillings when one’s income was one hundred pounds a year. it could not be spared from the housekeeping purse, for the money in it was partitioned out to the last penny. eve went to her own room, and took a green leather purse from the rosewood box on her dressing-table. this purse held such sums as she could save from the sale of occasional small pictures and fashion plates. it contained seventeen shillings at this particular moment. five shillings were to have gone on paints, ten on a new pair of shoes, and two on some cheap material for a blouse.

she was conscious of making instinctive calculations as she took out two half-crowns. what a number of necessities these two pieces of silver would buy, and the ironical part of it was that she could not paint without paints, or walk without shoes. it struck her as absurd that a fussy fool like this canterton woman should be able to cause so much charitable inconvenience. why had she not refused point blank, in spite of her mother’s pleading eyes?

eve returned to the garden and handed mrs. canterton the two half-crowns without a word. it was blackmail levied by a restless craze for incessant charitable activities. eve would not have grudged it had it gone straight to a fellow-worker in distress, but to give it to this rich woman who went round wringing shillings out of cottagers!

“thank you so much. money is always so badly needed.”

eve agreed with laconic irony.

“it is, isn’t it? especially when you have to earn it!”

gertrude canterton chatted for another five minutes and then rose to go. she shook hands cordially with mrs. carfax, and was almost as cordial with eve. and it was this blind, self-contentment of hers that made her so universally detested. she never knew when people’s bristles were up, and having a hide like leather, she wriggled up and rubbed close, never suspecting that most people were possessed by a savage desire to say some particularly stinging thing that should bite through all the thickness of her egotism.

“thank goodness!”

“eve, you were quite rude! and you need not have said, dear——”

“mother, i told the truth only in self-defence. i was expecting some other deserving charity to arrive at any moment.”

“it is better to give, dear, than to receive.”

“is it? of course, we needn’t pay the tradesmen, and we can send the money to some missionary agency.”

“eve, dear, please don’t be flippant. a word spoken in jest——”

“i’m not, mother. i’m most desperately serious.”

gertrude canterton had a very successful afternoon. she motored about forty miles, trifled with three successive teas, and bored some seven householders into promising to consider the claims of the shop girls’ rest society. she was very talkative at dinner, describing and criticising the various people from whom she had begged.

canterton showed sudden annoyance.

“you went to the carfaxes?”

“yes.”

“and got something from them?”

“of course, james.”

“you shouldn’t go to such people.”

her face was all sallow surprise.

“why, they are quite respectable, and——”

“respectable! do you think i meant that! you know, gertrude, you charitable people are desperately hard sometimes on the real poor.”

“what do you mean, james?”

“people like the carfaxes ought not to be worried. you are so infernally energetic!”

“james, i protest!”

“oh, well, let it pass.”

“if you mean——of course, i can send the money back.”

he looked at her with a curious and wondering severity.

“i shouldn’t do that, gertrude. some people are rather sensitive.”

canterton went into the library after dinner, before going up to say “good night” to lynette. within the last two days some knowledge of the carfaxes and their life had come to him, fortuitously, and yet with a vividness that had roused his sympathy. for though james canterton had never lacked for money, he had that intuitive vision that gives a man understanding and compassion.

his glance fell upon the manuscript of “the book of the english garden” lying open on his desk. an idea struck him. why should not eve carfax give the colour to this book? to judge by her portrait of guinevere, hers was the very art that he needed.