In the evening Albert had his supper in the housekeeper's room. At the end of it, "Thank you, ma'am," said he, and, "Thank you, miss," to Mabel. He was very polite; to him they were lesser angels, instruments of the great power that kept the world at bay. Then he hurried away to his room, to tell Eva all about it.
"He came up to me today," he would say, "Oh he's so nice, Eva. I can't tell you how nice he is. Always speaks rough, only it's in a joking way. But when he mentions you it's most respectful. He knows what you are. I ought to have told you: it was his idea about bringing up the roses. Only I thought you'd like it to be me."
This was only the beginning of their evening, which stretched far into the light summer night, for Albert slept very little, and when he did Eva came to life in his dreams. "Are you miserable?" he asked her. "Are you still longing for the Riveera?"
"Not me," she replied softly.
"It's better than the shop, isn't it?" said he, anxiously.
"It's nice being with you," said Eva.
"Do you mean it ?" cried Albert eagerly. "With me?"
These tender passages passed between them in dreams so mingled with his summer wakefulness that he passed from one to another as easily and unnoticingly as he passed from one shade of beech to shade of lime on the lawn. Sometimes Albert and Eva never lay down at all, but passed the night at the window, watching the glow fade from the red roofs of the village at the foot of the slope, and not moving till the dawn brought them into sight again.
One evening, under one of these friendly red roofs, a meeting was in progress. The proceedings were concerned with the organization of the village flower-show and fte. Officials were appointed to the charge of the show-tent, the gate, the sideshows, and the collection of subscriptions. "I propose Mr. Ely be asked to go round for subscriptions," said the vicar's gardener. "I beg to second that," said the blacksmith. "If Mr. Ely will be so kind," said the secretary, cocking an inquiring eye at the village constable, whose official position marked him out for this responsible office. Mr. Ely nodded formidable assent, the proposal was unanimously accepted, entered in the minutes, and the meeting was adjourned.
Next morning Mr. Ely mounted his bicycle, and pedaled slowly in the direction of the Hall.
"Oh, God!" cried Albert, peering from behind a hedge. "They've tracked us down."
Bending double, he ran to his little stable-room. "Come on, Eva," he said. "It's no good. It couldn't last. He can't save us this time. It's the police."
He took Eva in his arms and ran down under the field hedges to a wood in the bottom, and there across country, along the edges of dusty summer fallows, crawling through standing corn, taking to the woods whenever possible, scuttling across the roads when he came to them, shouted at by one or two men in the fields, flown at by a dog when he blundered on a keeper's hut in a clearing, stared at by an awful eye from above. All around he could sense a network of cars and men, policemen, shopwalkers, the Secretary himself, searching for him and Eva.
Night came. He could now creep only a hundred yards at a time, and then must lie still a long time, feeling the earth turn over and over, and the network of pursuit close in. "Eva," said he, "we've got to go on all night. Can you stand it?"
Eva made no response. "You're weak," said he. "Your head's going round. You can feel your heart giving way. But we've got to go on. I've let you down again, Eva. We've got to go on."
The last part of that night journey was a blank to Albert. They must have come to a common. He found himself sprawled in a deep bay in a clump of furze. Eva lay tumbled beside him, in a horrible attitude, as she had lain that fatal morning in the shop. "Stretch yourself out," he said. "I'll come to in a minute. I'll look after you."
But the sun was already high when he sat up, and Eva was still sprawled as she had been before. A yellow fly crawled on her cheek: before he could move, it had crawled right over her unwinking blue eye. "Eva!" he cried. "What's up? Wake up. Has it been too much for you? Say something, do.
"She's dead!" he cried to the world at large. "Carrying her about like that I've killed her."
He flung himself upon the sprawling figure. He opened her dress, he listened for her heart. He lay like that for a long time. The sun poured down, glimmering on the worn blue suit, parching the flossy hair, devouring the waxen cheeks, fading the staring blue eyes.
Albert's face was as dead as Eva's, till suddenly it was galvanized by an expression too distracted and too fleeting to be called hope. Thump, thump, thump, he heard: he thought it was her heart beating again. Then he realized it was footsteps coming near.
He raised his head. Someone was on the other side of the bushes. "They shan't disturb you, my darling," he said to Eva, and got up and stumbled round to face the intruders.
It was not policemen: it was two ordinary men, filthy, unshaven, looking at Albert out of wicked eyes.
"Nice goings on," said one of them.
"We seen you," said the other.
"There's a law against that sort of thing," said the first. He gazed up at the sky. "Might be worth a couple of quid, not to be run in for that sort of thing."
"For a decent girl it would," said the other.
"Not to be dragged along to the copper-station with her thin-gummys hanging round her ankles," said the first.
"You keep off," said Albert. "I haven't got no money. Straight. You can search me if you like."
"Perhaps the young lady 'as," said the first man, having verified this point.
"If she is a young lady, she 'as," said the second.
"And if not," said the first. "If not, Alf What do you say? Looked O.K. to me. Nice bit of goods!"
"I'm game," said Alf, glancing round.
The men made a move. Albert got in front of them, his arms spread wide. "Keep back," he said again, feeling how light and flat and useless the words were.
"Sit on him, Alf," said the first man. "Then I will."
There was a scuffle. Albert, heaven knows how, tore himself away from Alf, and rushed after the first man, seizing him by the collar and raining blows on his hard head. "Strewth!" cried the man. "'Ere, take him off, Alf, 'e's stinging me."
Albert felt a hand seize him. He turned; there was Alf's grinning face. "Come on, dearie," said Alf. Albert, yielding for a moment, suddenly kicked as hard and viciously as he could. There was a terrifying howl. Alf was rolling on the ground.
"What'll they do to me?" thought Albert. "Eva! I did it for you."
"He's done it to me!" cried Alf. "He's done it to me. Kill the Kill 'im!"
Something hit Albert on the side of the jaw, and a bombshell burst in his brain. "The knock-out," said the first man, turning again to go round to where Eva lay.
"Let me get my boots on him," said Alf, scrambling to his feet.
"Gawd's trewth! Look here, Alf," cried the first man from the other side of the bushes. "It's a bloody dummy."
"You come back here," said Alf. "You 'it 'im. I didn't!"
"What's up?" cried the other, hurrying round.
"He's a goner," said Alf. "I'm off."
"Wait a minute, pal," cried the first man. "Have some sense. You're in it as much as me. Look here, you kicked him. Do you think I can't see? Never mind. Let's get him hid; that's the main thing."
"Chuck 'em down in the chalk pit, both of 'em," said the other. "Come on! It'll look as if he fell in of his own accord. We've never seen him, have we?"
A few minutes later the men were gone. The sun poured down on the glinting common, scorching everywhere except in the cool bottom of the chalk pit, where Eva and Albert lay unsought and undisturbed. His head lay limp on her neck; her stiff arm was arched over him. In the autumn, when the over-hang crumbled down on them, it pressed him close to her for ever.