By the time we are now speaking of they had gathered again in a strong force. Evangeline’s gaiety and confidence and innocence with which she had routed them were now weakened by constant unexpected attacks. The anxiety of never knowing from what quarter disapproval would burst out and turn pleasure into pain made her nervous and depressed. As Ivor grew older the strain was more than doubled, for in every attack of Evan’s that she could have dodged or parried for herself she was hampered by Ivor’s little body, that would suffer equally from her blows at her husband and her husband’s at her. She dared not hide away with him, because that would at once bring about the crisis she dreaded, and Evan would claim his right to take the boy away. There was nowhere she could hide him where he would not be found by the police and given back to his father. She sat sometimes on a gate among fields that overlooked the railway line, and watched with frightened eyes the trains rush by and wondered whether any of them went far enough without a stop to take her and the child out of Evan’s reach. She thought longingly of other countries, stretches of hill and forest, new faces, new people; English-speaking they must be for Evangeline, but there are plenty of these everywhere, on the other side of the globe. She thought once what fun it would be to walk about in bright sunshine, knowing that Evan was asleep in darkness and fog just below the curve of the round world. Only there, on the other side, would she feel safe; he would never come slowly up like a fly over an orange (as she was taught at school when the hemispheres were explained) and look for her. No, she knew he would not. He would search over England, and possibly Europe, but if the police still failed in their clues he would go home at last and explain to Cyril, and retire into a blacker severity than ever with his giggly little sisters. Then she used to shake herself free from these dreams and return home tired and sad. She had looked forward eagerly to being by the sea with Teresa and Ivor, and when they were all there at last, some of her old confidence came back.
She said nothing to Teresa about the trouble in her mind, because it had increased beyond the stage of being an interesting puzzle and become grief that lies quieter untouched, except by the one who brought it and only could remove it. One great difference between Evangeline and her mother was that Susie counted differences of opinion with herself as a compliment to her higher understanding; they were treasures to be turned over and enjoyed in secret. To her daughter they were so many obstructions to love, and must be destroyed if possible; if persistently obstructive, she climbed over and fled from them.
Ivor had certainly managed to collect in himself all the elements of discord in his father’s and mother’s families. If he had inherited his mother’s joyousness and been content with that, the two of them together might have weakened Evan’s fears through lack of exercise, for his disapproval was not the natural bitterness that uses a creed as the organ of its appetite; it was his means of following the same desire as Evangeline followed, the desire to know how God works the universe. She felt that she knew how it was done and he thought he knew. But feeling is generally stronger than thought in personal affairs, so if the wretched young Ivor had left well alone and not excited his father’s reasoning powers, they might have grown soft like the Roman Legions. But unfortunately he had inherited a great deal of Susie’s mischievous tendency to stir up strife without taking part in it. He had her elusive charm and was, like her, uncommunicative; he loved natural pleasure and was indifferent to public opinion, like his mother, and was as unswerving along his own chosen path as his father. This combination of qualities made him perfectly adapted as a bone of contention, a desirable young person, belonging to both, and yet to neither of the contending parties. There, down by the sea with his devoted mother and aunt and nurse, he played and bathed and went his own way in peace, asking nothing that was unreasonable, kind-hearted, courageous and merry; the kind of child that terrifies its weaker relatives by the thought of what it has to meet in the future; of candid eyes coming upon hatred for the first time, small hands roughened by work and stained with blood from the noses of hostile neighbours with predatory instincts and a perverted sense of humour; visions perhaps, of little trousers that were designed for warmth and comfort removed with trembling fingers at the command of an ogre with a cane in a place far from home—a callous creature with lips dripping the literature of a civilisation that worshipped suffering. There is a radical difference between mothers who revere the name of Cæsar and mothers who don’t. It is not all children who work upon maternal terrors in this way, but Ivor had the gift to perfection and his unconsciousness of his own power made it the stronger.
The little party were playing on the sands one day, when two figures, one in a linen dress with a red parasol, the other in baggy tweeds, came to the edge of the cliff above them and sat down. Evangeline heard a small laugh with a familiar tone in it, and looked up. “Hullo, Dicky,” she said, “there are the Vachells; look!” Mrs. Vachell waved her hand and then said something, and presently both figures rose and came slowly down the sandhills, Mrs. Vachell with leisurely ease, her husband with the reluctance of a shy man obeying the stronger will of a wife used to society.
“I had no idea you were here,” she said. “Did I tell you of the place by any chance? There are so few people here generally. You know my husband, don’t you?” Mr. Vachell bowed. “But you two don’t count as people,” she added. “I don’t grudge you your simple pleasures. If you spend your days like this making sand pies you must have very peaceful minds. What I hate are people who put up tents and are always making tea and screaming in two inches of water.”
“Your boy seems to be having a good time,” said Mr. Vachell. Ivor was busy with a net among the small rocks that appeared at low tide.
“Yes, he loves it,” Evangeline replied. “We are so happy here.” She spread her rug hospitably, and they all sat down. Mr. Vachell and Teresa were side by side in a silence that each felt the other ought to break first, but neither was equal to the attempt.
“Is Captain Hatton with you?” asked Mrs. Vachell.
“No, not often,” Evangeline replied. “He comes for week ends sometimes.
“Your boy looks very well,” Mr. Vachell remarked.