“Why, you’ll miss half the fun.”
“I don’t mind.”
The grass on the lawn promised a good hay crop. There was a wooden seat built round the trunk of an old lime, and Eve settled herself there after the others had disappeared. The night was absolutely soundless, stars scattered like dust above the solid parapet and low roof of the red brick Georgian house. It stood there, mute, deserted, with sightless eyes, and a sudden pity seized on Eve. It was as though the house were alive, and she was helping to do it to death. Houses were part of life. They held a spiritual and impalpable something that mattered. They had souls. She began to watch, as though she was to be present at a tragedy, with a feeling of tension at her heart.
Who had lived there? To whom did the house belong? Had children been born yonder, and had tired eyes closed in death? Had children played in the garden, and under this tree? It was illogical to pity bricks and mortar, and yet this sentimental mood of hers belonged to those more exquisite sensibilities that save life from being nothing better than a savage scramble.
A streak of light showed at one of the windows. Eve straightened herself, rested her head against the trunk of the tree, and held her breath. The streak of light spread into a wavering, fluctuating glow, just as if the heart of the old house were palpitating angrily. But Eve was allowed no leisure for the play of such phantasies. The incendiaries returned.
“Come along!”
Lizzie Straker was almost hysterical.
“It’s going splendidly—splendidly! We found a big cupboard full of rubbish under the stairs. I lit it. Yes, it’s my work!”
Eve became conscious of a growing indignation as they beat a retreat back through the shrubbery and across the field to the lane. They ran, and even the act of running seemed to her shameful. What a noble business was this sneaking about at one in the morning with petrol cans and bags of shavings!
She snubbed Lawrence Kentucky when he pointed back over the field gate and chuckled.