CHAPTER XX NIGHT AND A CHILD 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.