"My wind," he said, "not so good as yours."
"Let's sit down," said Alexander.
Fifty feet below them the torrent dashed itself into foam in its narrow trough, splashed the rowan trees that overhung it and threatened their brave roots with the reckless water which, white with froth, showed in its smoother places, a brilliance of blue that shamed the sky.
"To live here always!" Edward Webb exclaimed.
But Alexander said nothing more than, "We'll follow the stream when you're rested."
"I'm ready."
They went on, slowly mounting a steep and slippery tongue of land that lay between the white teeth of the torrent and a sister stream. The man's breath came sharply, but he plodded upward.
"The muscles of my legs are feeling it," he confessed. "Not that I want to stop. It does me good. It is more delightful than I can say. Ah!" He sank to a stone as he reached level ground again. "Ah!" He could find no more words, for across a wide stone-strewn space there rose a cliff of black and riven rock. In its grandeur and aloofness it looked immutable, yet the rents in its great sides, this rocky hollow which was the pit into which it flung the fragments time had stolen from it, were proof that even it must suffer change. But it suffered bravely, stoically, lifting a proud and peaceful face to the sky, and now, about its summit, a little filmy cloud had wreathed itself.
Looking at it, Alexander wore an expression between pride of possession and youthful reserve; he lay on his stomach, nibbling a heather stalk, and frowning that he might not smile. This was his mountain, all the mountains were his, and he would have led hither no one whom he could not trust; but Edward Webb's long-drawn sighs, the restless movements of a pleasure that looked and was not able to express itself, and then the settled quiet of his drinking gaze, assured him that he had made no mistake. This man understood that he was in the presence of the mighty. Alexander gave a small, satisfied nod of the head. It was almost a year since he had first seen Edward Webb, and it was Edward Webb who had given him Keats; yet for these ten months he had waited, watching, before he would bring his friend to the holy places. And now he was content: he had not offended his mountain, he had brought it another worshipper.
There was no sound heard in that solitary place but the brawling of the two waters, the occasional cry of a sheep, and the rattle of the stones it dislodged as it picked its way about the scree: than that and the rushing water there was no other movement, except when a rare bird, poised against the blue, flapped strongly, surely, with its powerful wings. With every minute the quiet that was a quality of the mountain gathered and increased. Quietness and courage and endurance—these were the messages heard by Edward Webb, sent to him by that gaunt and perfect example fronting him. These, and something more, for the majestic rock reared against the sky spoke of more than human attributes, craved and approached the Divine.
"It lifts me; I seem to be afloat," he said, careless of the boy, or confident in him. "I wish——"
"No, no!" Alexander looked up. "Don't say it! She wouldn't like it; I know she wouldn't. I won't have her like it."
On Edward Webb's face surprise was chased by pain. "How did you read my thoughts?" he said. "Have I been talking of her so much? Ah, I have bored you. I must learn to hold my peace, but it's seldom I speak freely—seldom."
"You haven't bored me," Alexander said gruffly.
"And you're wrong about Theresa."
"I may be, but I just know I don't want her to see this. I'd rather have her hating it than liking it. It's only for the few, this is."
"I had hoped to bring her here," the other said sadly.
"Oh, well, I needn't come with you," Alexander said.
It was growing dark when they returned, and on the doorstep they found Clara waiting for them.
"He's come back," she said. "He's gone to bed."
"Where has he been?"
"I haven't asked him. What does it matter? He's back again. Edward, I'm wondering if you'd go to Janet's for the night. I asked her if she'd have you. You wouldn't mind? You see, to-morrow—he mightn't like it. I told him you'd been here last night, and he took for granted you'd gone back to-day. And—he's not quite himself."
"Mother, you cannot——"
"Don't be silly, Alec. He understands."
"Of course, of course. I'll go. If there were a train——"
"There's not. Janet will be glad to have you—she said so—and she likes men about. I've put your things together." She thrust a parcel into his hands. "Alec will take you. Will you need a lantern? No? Good-night, then—good-night."
They passed behind the house and, taking a narrow pathway, skirted the hill. Their boots struck against loose stones and scattered them, and their going made a great noise in the gloom. All about were the dark forms of hills, and the lake lay like ink in the hollow of the land. The larches were sighing very gently—moved, it seemed, of their own will; for the wind did no more than breathe in sleep.
"She's daft," said Alexander suddenly; and when he had no answer, he went on: "Do you not think she's daft yourself?"
"I have never seen her."
"It's my mother, I mean. Janet's not daft; she's queer."
"Will you let me have your arm? It's getting dark, and my feet don't know the way like yours. I've not been round here before."
"Her house is at the hill's foot, among larches."
"More larches?"
"Ay. Shoving you out like this!"
Edward paused and, dropping his hand from the boy's arm, turned himself slowly round. "Beauty everywhere," he said. "Are there any wicked people in this place?" That was a false step.
"There's one."
"Don't"—he hesitated—"don't make two of it. Beauty and morality—are they separable? There's a question. I have theories——" His voice died away, and he felt that some vast hand had gathered up the sound and laid it by in the place where all men's thoughts and deeds are stored until the winds come and drop them, like seed, about the world. It died away, and they heard the mountain noises—sheep crying, water falling—rarified and faint. Alexander's voice, violent and shrill, shook the night's peace.
"There is no God!" he cried.
The man's lips twitched in a secret smile, but his heart had pity in it. "Yet you are always worshipping," he said.
They walked on again. "Tell me about this lady. Her name is Janet, but how must I address her?"
"Her name's Beaker—Janet Beaker. It's a good name for her. You'll see. She's something between that and a bird."
"Is she married?"
"Janet? I should think not. She's a farmer. She takes butter and eggs to the market every week. You can see her driving there, but you'd never think she saw you. She does, though, and there are men hereabouts that know it. Did my mother never tell you the tale about the drunken men? Oh no, she wouldn't. She pretends there are no such things. Well, she saw them in the town, and they'd had too much. They were from these parts, and she knew them, and she never said a word to them, so they say—but what can they have known about it?—nor so much as looked at them; but they came back at her cart-tail, all three of them, each blaming another, and not one of them can tell how it happened. And those three have been bad friends ever since. But they've never borne her any malice. If they did that it would be like giving her the credit."
"No, they couldn't do that. The women here seem to be in the ascendant."
"They are that. You wait till you see Janet."
"Miss Beaker. I must remember."
"She'll not expect to be called that. I don't believe she's been called that in her life. You can't say that. It's—all wrong."
"Really? Well, perhaps I can avoid saying anything. One often has to, and I admit formality seems out of place. Here things seem clear and simple."
"But they're not. Sometimes"—he took a deep breath—"I feel as if I'm in 'Macbeth.' It's a black feeling—ugly."
"But this morning——"
"Oh, well, I didn't say it was always."
They had rounded the hill, and now a dog barked. Alexander called to it. "Come on, Jenny—come on."
"I must own I am always afraid of dogs."
"Jenny's all right, but Janet's got six of them altogether."
"Six!" He became uncomfortably aware of his legs.
"And she can break horses. She ought to have been a man."
A voice came from the trees ahead of them. "And do you think I ought to have been a hare because my ears are sharp? And a cat because I can see in the dark?"
"Oh, Janet, I might have known you'd hear. Here's Mr. Webb."
They trod softly on the fallen needles of the larches, and came to the door of the house where Janet stood, large and indistinct.
"Will you come in?" she said.
"No; let's stay in the wood, if you'll talk to us."
"I've no more tales."
"The old ones, then."
"I must thank you," Edward Webb began, peering upwards at the tall figure whose face was no more to him than a pale oval.
"I've wanted to see you, for I dreamt of you one night," she interrupted. "But I cannot see him in the wood, for all my cat's eyes, Alexander, so you'll have to come in."
She turned into the kitchen and, getting a light from the low fire, held a candle aloft. Edward Webb blinked nervously.
"Did you dream true, Janet?"
"When did I dream false?"
"Tell us the dream."
"Afterwards. You'll want to eat. Will you come to the table, Mr. Webb, and help yourself?"
He held a chair for her, but she refused it. "No, I've eaten. Sit down. Alexander, cut the pie."
She began to walk up and down the room between the fireplace and the table, and Edward Webb, hardly looking at her, was aware of her strength and height and the brooding keenness of her eyes. In a little while she seated herself on a stool near the fire and Alexander broke the silence there had been.
"Did you bring my father back?" he asked.
Swiftly she turned her face and then Edward Webb understood Alexander's description of her; for though her features had no hardness, her eyes had the look of a hawk's in act to pounce and her head was quick on the firm neck, but she had a wide mouth capable of softness and she sat widespread, as though she held in her lap the cup of wisdom whence all might drink. And for an instant his interest in Alexander's subtlety swamped the eagerness with which he listened for her answer.
"How do I know?"
"You tried? Then you did it. What for?"
"Ease a woman's heart, perhaps." Her voice had a deeper, longer note.
He looked vindictive. "If we were back a few hundred years, we'd get you burnt for a witch."
"Oh no, Alexander; the real witches were never burnt, or where was their witchcraft?"
"Well, if he goes off another time, you can magic him over a precipice."
"Hush!" Edward Webb hissed nervously. No one heeded him.
"If you want that done, you can use your own hands to it. Then you'll be hanged. But that'll not happen. I can't see that. Did they never tell you about the black dog?"
"Which one?"
"The one on your shoulder, my lad."
"Daft talk," he muttered.
"You get what you give, you see."
Edward Webb's face was illumined. "That's the world's rule," he said.
She eyed him sharply. "Not the world's."
He made his courteous inclination of acknowledgment. "Not the world's," he agreed.
"I'm lost," said Alexander, looking from one to the other.
"That's the dog's fault," she teased him.
He laughed through his annoyance. "Oh, be quiet! Janet, put some more wood on the fire ready for when we've done, and we'll have the candle out."
"It'll be time for you to go home."
"There's the dream to tell."
"I'll tell it now. I was walking on a green path and I met a man. The dream wouldn't let me see his face, but he was a big man, and in each hand he had a bird. 'Will you give them to me?' I said, for I didn't like to see them caught; but when he held them out to me, I couldn't take them. He said: 'They're larks, but I can't get them to fly.' 'They're sparrows,' I said, and so they were. 'No,' he said; 'for they've got wings.' We didn't seem to be getting much sense out of each other, so I went on; but in a minute I heard a beating sound, and I looked, and the birds had flown, and they'd grown as big as eagles, but the man had fallen down. It was as if their flight had overthrown him. And I ran to him, but he'd gone, and I kept calling, 'Edward Webb, Edward Webb'—for I knew it was him; but he'd gone, and I never saw his face; but, for all that, I knew what he was like. And now, go home, Alexander."
"Have you nothing more to tell?"
"Not a word?"
"All right, then. Good-night. That's a good dream."
The large, stone-floored kitchen, with its shadowy corners, was a lonely place to Edward Webb when he had gone. It had the feeling of a vault and this woman might have been a carved figure, keeping the door; for she sat quite still and looked on the ground; but, without warning, she began to speak in a rising murmur.
"There's trouble somewhere," she said. "I can feel it." She stood up, lifted her arms to their utmost stretch, and dropped her hands on the high mantelshelf. "But I can't find it. It can't be yet." Suddenly she seemed to remember him, and spoke with a friendly brusqueness. "Will you come to the fire? I'll fetch a log."
"Allow me."
"No, I'll do it. Sit down. You don't look like shifting lumps of wood. You're town-bred, aren't you?"
"Yes." He felt himself a sinner.
"And you've been all over the world, perhaps."
"No, no, indeed I haven't. I wish I had."
"What d'you wish that for? I've never been in a train in my life."
"You interest me. You have never wished to travel?"
"Never yet. The time may come, though I have not seen it coming. What would I want to travel for? There's men and women in these parts, and God's earth; there's nothing elsewhere that I know of. I wouldn't say they're wrong who run about looking for things they'll never find; it's the way they're made, and they've got to work that way, but I can find all I want, sitting at my kitchen door."
"You're fortunate."
"I like a wood, and I've got it. I feel safe when there are trees round me. Why's that, do you suppose?"
"I do not know. My little girl is afraid to sit in a wood alone. She says there are things watching her. She likes the open."
"That's so that she can run. I'd rather have trees for shelter. You can slip from one to the other, and what they fling doesn't hit you if you are quick. There's less chance for you running. You'll be struck or caught. It's silly, that. She should take shelter when she can, and keep quiet; then they'll pass by, perhaps, without seeing you."
"I'll be sure to tell her. But—but what are we talking about? Who would try to catch her? What need to—what were we talking about?"
"Eh? I was saying I've trees before and behind my house. My grandfather planted them. We've been here for a long while, but I'm the last of us."
Edward Webb brushed his forehead: he blinked. He had an impression that, made drowsy by the strong air of the mountains, he had been near falling asleep in the glow of the fire.
"It's sad for a family to die out," he said; and the remark sounded foolishly in his ears.
"Alexander's a good lad," she said, so that he understood the sequence of her thought.
"He is, he is. But one is afraid for him."
"Yes, there's trouble—a thick block of trouble on his way."
He fluttered. "You—you are a prophetess?"
"I can see sometimes, but there are dark places. They are mostly dark, and you must wait till the darkness lifts. I'm no witch. It's not for us to come across people's paths. But I can't help seeing things when they're shown. And that poor Rutherford fool—I told the truth to Alexander. For his wife's sake, I wished him back, but I don't know that it was my thinking brought him, for I did not think strong. I would not. Who am I to say he must turn this way or that? I'm not a witch, but Alexander likes to call me one. He's done it since he was a little chap and I told him tales. But I've known a witch, and she was an unhappy woman. She had power, but there were powers over her, and she was never rid of them. She was more witched than witching, she'd say to me, and warn me not to meddle. I was a girl then. She said when she went to sleep her eyelids would feel clogged with sin. That had a bad sound, and it frightened me. She was itching to teach me, and I itched to learn, but I had guidance. You wouldn't have known her for a witch. She had a rosy face, but if you looked into her eyes, you knew she did not see clean. She died twenty years ago, one night, sitting by the fire in Clara's kitchen."
"Clara's!"
"Yes; she lived there, and no one's lived there since till Clara came. It was a bad thing for James to get there, I sometimes think. You never know what's left and he's a poor empty vessel."
"But the others?" Unwillingly, unreasonably, he thought, he was alarmed.
"Oh, Clara's full and sweet, and Alexander's one to fill himself. And, anyway, what do we know—what do we know? I sit here thinking, and I breed fancies." She turned her sharp look on him. "You won't like sleeping in my house to-night."
Fidgetting, he confessed: "I am a little nervous, and I think, if I may, I will go to bed."
She laughed frankly, but nodded, and he, with a shamed face, smiled; but at the door, when he had said his good-night, he stood for a minute, candle in hand.
"May I ask, is there an interpretation of your dream?"
"There must be, but I don't know it."
"It would be easy to make one."
"You mustn't, or it will lead you the wrong way."
"My imagination," he began, and added, as if to himself: "It is dangerous to be the servant of one's imagination."
Going up the dark and creaking stairs, he was afraid, but in the big chamber she had assigned to him he found quietness. Nothing evil or uneasy dwelt there and he slept peacefully till morning.
This experience, carefully edited, made a new tale for Theresa. The cavernous kitchen, the big woman sitting on the stool and telling dreams, the larches, like sentinels, about the house, and the sweet peace of the upper room, were new pictures to be added to her store, and they were favoured ones, mystery haunted.
"Do you like this new lady better than Mrs. Rutherford?" she asked. "I think I do."
"They are different, Theresa—quite different."
"I suppose Alexander likes his mother best?"
"I should certainly think so."
"I hope you'll go there again. I like you to. I've had such lovely times since you began to go to mountains."
Nancy's reception of his news was different. He felt it due to her to break the silence she had created. It was what he wished to do, and what he would have expected of her had she made and lodged with a new acquaintance; but it was hard to speak naturally through a barrier, and there was a hesitation in his voice which had no companion in his heart.
"Oh, Edward!" She broke into tears.
"My darling, what is it?"
"I don't know, but somehow they seem to be taking you from me."
"My dear, my dear," he said, distressed, "no one but yourself can do that."
"But these women—I'm not like them; I'm not strong or helpful."
"You are my wife!" he answered fiercely.
Her humour overcame her weeping. "Oh yes!" she said, laughing while her tears still trickled.
"Nancy, don't!"
"What, dear?"
"That tone! I will not have it. The name—the name I give you means what it did when we first loved. No, it means more—more. You shall not slight it."
She was weakened again by his tenderness. "No, dear, no; but I'm so lonely, and you go away to—to other women. I'm not really jealous—of course I'm not—and I know they are ordinary people enough, but you give them names that put them far above me. Ceres first, and now Cassandra. It sounds—oh, don't you understand? How would you like it if I went wandering about with—with mythological characters?" She laughed feebly, but he gave no answering smile.
"I will never go there again," he said, and on his face there was the blank surprise of one robbed by a friend. She saw it, and all day shame for herself and pity for him strove with her jealousy, until at night she went quiveringly to him where he sat in his little study upstairs, and begged him to take back his words.
"I do trust you," she said, "but I'm foolish and very much alone, and—and sometimes I don't feel well, and then, you know—Ned, promise you'll go there when you want to. Promise me."
"I have never wanted to do anything but make you happy."
"I know—I know. Ned, can you forgive me? I am ashamed. You have all the work and worry, and I have grudged you this. But it's because I love you. Promise me."
He kissed her solemnly. "I promise I will try to forget all but the real you, Nancy."
"That means you'll go?"
"I expect I shall. There, your face has changed already! Oh, Nancy, Nancy, even if there were no other reason, are you not Theresa's—the children's mother?"
Again she smiled, a little mockingly. "Yes, but don't think of me as Theresa's mother. Let me be a person too. Sometimes I feel as if I'm just part of the breakfast-room furniture. I spend my life there. No wonder you forget me."
"Why don't you go out more?" he said uneasily.
"I've no energy, no clothes, no money."
"I have brought you very little good."
"I don't mind about the clothes and the money, Edward."
"What is it, then? My dear, you can't hope to be well if you stay indoors all day. I don't suppose you ever eat anything but bread-and-butter and biscuits. It's not fair, Nancy."
"I do my best, dear." Trailing her long skirts, she went slowly down the stairs.
He looked round the room. Everywhere the dust lay thick, and in the hearth were the torn fragments of letters he had thrown there two weeks ago. He looked at his frayed cuffs, he was aware of his buttonless shirt, and he did not like to think of the children's underlinen. He had no doubt that it was clean, but he knew it would be unmended. Neglect working with poverty is ruthless in destruction, and he sat like a man helpless under a threatened violence of storm. So this room, and the one downstairs littered with newspapers, books, and odds and ends of sewing, with the knob of the sideboard still waiting for glue, were produced by Nancy's best efforts! He did not want that knob restored to a place where it was not necessary a knob should be, but the meaning of its absence was sinister. There was much sweetness in Nancy, but there was little help, and she looked ill. His cares dragged at him, and there was only himself to lift them until the day when Theresa's strong young hands would cast them off. But there was Grace. Vigorously, and with a quick memory of Alexander's wet head appearing above the water of the pool, he remembered her. He blamed himself for his ingratitude to the nimble toes which would earn a little salary for her next year. "I do not think of her enough," he murmured. "Wrong of me. Nancy sees it, Alexander sees it. Yet I love her." Her success, he considered, would mean much to Theresa; college, perhaps—hope gleamed a little—she ought to go to college, and it might be managed. He must have courage. For a moment he dreamed of commercial conquests, of new customers and large commissions, but he had dreamed before, and he had not Janet's gift for dreaming true. He roused himself to facts, and one of the hardest of them was his brother George. In the last resort, there was brother George, who lived in lodgings with a harmonium, and longed for a home. He was a man of some substance, a dealer in grains, willing to pay dearly for what he wanted, and shrinkingly Edward Webb foresaw the day when George would have that home offered to him, not out of pity for his loneliness or desire for his company, but for the money he could give—money which would help Theresa on the road to fame and allow Nancy to feel ill in comfort. She ought to see a doctor. There were hollows in the cheeks he had known so fresh and full, and her touch was nerveless. His heart shook with fear, for he loved her still with the strange disturbance of his youth. He clenched his fists and shook them. To be so powerless, so powerless, though he strove his mightiest! His soul was fretted; life was a jumble; he saw himself struggling along an endless, dusty road, white to the knees, eyes blinded and throat parched. There stretched before him years more of such travelling, yet—and his hands unclenched themselves—was he not greatly blessed? His eyes were sometimes cleansed by a sight of stars above the hills; he stooped now and then to a mountain stream, and of his weariness Theresa would reap the fruits. He took a deep breath, for he saw the steady hills which were his friends, and felt their wind on his cheeks. Life cleared itself again; somewhere, unexplained but sure, there was a law of order. He bowed his head and went on his humble way. Taught by the beauty of the world and his own need, he was submissive to the unknown and had faith in it. There was a meaning in life: he could not read the meaning, but the belief was a renewed inspiration, and he was content; for who was he to know God's purposes?
Blown by each wind and rejoicing in the merry whirl, Theresa passed her days; they were all adventurous, of mind if not of body, and her nights were wonders. There was no one in the world whom she could envy; she felt sorry for every girl who was not Theresa Webb. Who else could be so certain of a glorious future? Who else turned the corner of every street with a just expectation of joy? There was no one else, and, since she could find her thrilled happiness within herself, she seldom missed it. Sometimes she played at being a princess, with evidence of blood in the lift of her head; sometimes she was a little genius, early bowed; and now and then she was just a schoolgirl, but so beautiful and compelling that people turned to look at her, and were dazzled by her radiant hair. While she lived she must find enjoyment, if it were but in being miserable; for while she lived, so must Theresa, that paragon, that puzzle of which she never tired. But this adoration was a secret, guessed at home, perhaps, but unimagined at school. She was very quiet, very good, and so observant that her work suffered. She seemed attentive, but under the eager solemnity of her face there was a dancing spirit that betrayed itself, to the quick, in the restless movements of her hands. How could she care about arithmetical problems when the woman who proposed them looked as though she had not slept? The reason for that wakefulness must be discovered—a more attractive hunting than seeking for the answer, which might be anything, to a question about apples and potatoes at fluctuating prices. Her reports both delighted and alarmed her father.
"Theresa," he said seriously, "I see some of your subjects are very unsatisfactory."
"Yes, they are, aren't they?" She was interested, and looked with him at the paper he held.
"You are only top in English, Theresa, and you are bottom in a great many things. Scripture, I see among them, and arithmetic."
"Yes, but they don't matter much, do you think?"
"It all matters, my child."
"Does it? You know"—she moved to the window and came back to his knee—"I can't understand why those girls get more marks than I do. They're really very stupid when you talk to them."
"Perhaps they work."
"Oh yes, I think they do. But I'd rather be clever. They just learn things. I can't learn things for seeing them."
"You are eleven years old, Theresa. I don't want you to be an ignorant woman. Imagining things is not knowing them, but when you know them you can embroider them without much harm."
She liked the expression, and nodded.
"At present," he went on, "you are like a woman who has a needle and thread and no cloth to work on. She is making patterns in the air, and they vanish."
"No," she said; "they are inside."
"But she can show them to no one else. And—and when you write your books, Theresa, is no one but you to see them?"
Oh no, she would not like that. "But writing books is different. It's like poets."
"What do you mean, my dear?"
"Born, not made, you know."
"I don't think you will find it so simple when you try, and birth is not always easy."
"No, it isn't. I know that. Bessie's sister-in-law——"
He flushed and interrupted with nervous speech. "So you will try to work hard, Theresa."
"Yes, I suppose I'd better, but I hope I won't get like the girls who do." To add new qualities to herself or to change old characteristics was, she dimly felt even at this age, to tamper with the sacredness of an original. Technically, it might be improved on, but the individuality, the oneness, would be lost. She would admit the folly of flaming into tempers, but she did not like to think of herself without them: in themselves, tempers were evil, but when they were hers they became good. She did not want to be industrious; the virtue was not picturesque, and it was not hers; but if it was an instrument necessary to fashion herself into the shape she had designed for the future which was so conveniently far off, then she must learn to use it. Mentally, she picked it up and put it in her pocket, and considered herself complete.
On this subject, too, she made her usual half-reluctant reference. "Is Alexander a worker?" She knew the answer before it came, and was ready with her grimace. "He's perfect, isn't he? I don't like that boy."
"You would like him if you knew him."
She stamped her foot. "I wouldn't! Oh, why do you say that? How do you know? I hate people to be so sure about me. Rub it out, quick!"
"Very well; it's rubbed out."
"No, it isn't. You still believe it! It's what Grace says about girls—'You'd like her, Terry'—and it makes me hate them. Anyhow, they're rather silly girls, her friends. They giggle and they smile at boys."
"There's no harm in smiling at boys, Theresa. I wish you had some brothers."
"So do I. I'd love it, but I don't believe Grace wants them. She has heaps of sweethearts—heaps. There's one who gives her a buttonhole every Saturday. Haven't you noticed it? She wears it on Sunday, and keeps it in water all the week. It's horrid by the end, but she won't throw it away till she gets another. He's quite big—seventeen, I think."
Here was yet another anxiety for Edward Webb! His brow was furrowed, and he looked down at his fingers as they twisted his watchchain. "Don't tell me anything she wouldn't like me to know, Theresa."
"Oh!" She blushed burningly. "Oh, I haven't been telling tales, have I? I didn't mean to—I didn't! Oh, what shall I do? I'll have to tell her I told you."
"Yes, I think you'd better."
"She never told me not to. You know I wouldn't be a sneak. I hate them. And she won't be home for hours. What shall I do till she comes? Could you read to me?"
"I should like to."
"I don't think I'll let you, thank you. If I went and met Grace from dancing, I'd get it over sooner, wouldn't I?"
"It's too soon yet."
"I'd rather start."
She left him with his fears—a small, grey, tortured man. His own boyhood and youth had been ascetic, with no companions except books. No pretty face but Nancy's had allured him, and to think of Grace courted by hobbledehoydom was, to his fastidious eyes, to see her tarnished. He hurried down the stairs to Nancy.
She laughed at him. "My dear, it's natural. And she's beautiful."
"Very beautiful. There—there are dangers, Nancy."
"Don't, Ned. That's horrid. She's a child."
"She must be warned. Yes, it is natural, but what is so dangerous as nature? She must be warned. Flowers—and perhaps kisses! I can't endure it, Nancy."
"My dear, you can't change humanity even in your daughters. I can't bear to hear you talk like that. It worries me."
"Street-corner meetings—secrecy—foolishness—it must be stopped."
"You'll make her think it's serious. She'll fancy she's in love! You must laugh at her. She is not fifteen."
"I think it's you who ought to speak to her."
"I can't, dear. My heart——"
"Oh, Nancy! Very well. I'll do this, too." He marched upstairs again, and she lay back in her chair, trying to still a thumping heart. He knew he had undertaken one of the hardest tasks in the world.
Nancy, complaining of fatigue and proudly reticent about her pain, retired to bed, and an uncomfortable trio sat round the supper-table. Edward Webb was jerkily conversational, Grace was sullen and aggrieved, Theresa had red eyes. She and Grace had quarrelled. She had been called "sneak," as might have been foreseen, and she had answered, in the street, with furious little hands and feet, until, despairing of finding satisfaction in these assaults, she had sunk to the kerbstone, uttering passionate, half-articulate sobs of rage. Grace had walked on loftily, not even interested in her tears. With no one but a stolid policeman—would that it had been Bill!—to look at her, it seemed a waste of time to sit there longer, so she, too, walked home, pitying herself and hating Grace; but it was her father on whom she turned her hatred when she met Grace crying on the stairs, contorting her still lovely face. It was terrible to see her in distress, and Theresa asked forgiveness with fleeting touches of her hands. "Tell me—oh, do tell me!" she whispered. "I'm sorry, Grace."
"He is trying to part us, but he cannot do it," she said, and leaned her head against the pillar of the banisters.
Theresa was impressed. "Do you really love him?" she asked.
"Love him! Oh, what's the good of talking to a child like you?"
Curiosity overcame Theresa's pride. "I'm nearly twelve, and I've read a lot of books, you know."
"I'll tell you. I must tell someone. He says we may be friends; but there must be no foolishness."
"That's flowers," Theresa said.
"And I can have him to tea if I like. Wouldn't it be stupid?"
Theresa failed her here. "Why?" she said.
"Oh, if you can't see that——" Grace went into the bedroom and locked the door.
Theresa sat on the stairs till supper-time and divided her sympathies fairly, but Edward Webb was conscious of the first serious revolt.
"I believe I did more harm than good," he moaned as he lay in bed.
"I knew you would," Nancy answered, and tears of utter weakness rolled down her cheeks.
There came an early April day when Alexander walked from school and felt that, though he was alone, a stranger went with him. Thus companioned, he passed through the streets of the little town, out on to the wild moorland country, and so to a pass between the hills and a pathway worn by his own feet. The sun was very bright and warm, and he sat down by a tarn where the wind blew the rushes. Pleasant shivers of cold mingled with the warmth on his back, and in his throat there was an exultant aching. He did not know himself; he was a new person, for he was drinking deep of a heady cup. He was to go to Oxford in the autumn.
He lay on his back and watched the clouds, but he did not see their procession; he saw his own. Success following success kept time with the filmy white across the blue, and then a future as wide as the expanse of sky was opened to him. In his dreams he filled and overflowed the place offered to him by a welcoming world, but, finding himself unduly swelling, he sat up with a start, warning himself not to be a fool. He had a hard head, and, long ago, he had learnt many kinds of self-control, and he did not mean to indulge his imagination more than his appetites.
"It's nothing, anyway," he muttered. He looked at the ruffled water and shivered with it; he looked at the new green of the hillsides, where defiantly black rocks, starting out of it, proclaimed their perpetuity, and his heart turned sick with dread of going away. He could not do it, he told himself; he could not live outside his own place, yet, while he swore, he knew that he would do it, and he ceased protesting, for he had a horror of pretence. He would go, but would he be doing right? He thought of his mother on winter nights, sitting in the kitchen alone, listening for a step; he heard the wind crying round the house, and for once allowing himself to feel with her, he knew the trouble of her heart as she waited with none but the dog for company, and perhaps the spirit of the dead woman who had been a witch. Ought he to go? he asked again. "But I will go," he said aloud.
He walked homewards, and he went lingeringly, more eager to feel the young heather under his feet than to tell his news. A few months, and he would walk on pavements; he would not breathe this wonderful, uplifting air. The sound of mountain water would only come to him in thoughts, and when he woke at night he would think the Blue Hill looked down on him until, leaping out of bed, as was his way, he would find nothing but grey walls and grass. He would hear the chiming of many clocks and, looking from his window, he would find the world empty for lack of the mountains and the babbling water and the smell of the uninhabited night.
He sat down again. A turn of the path had brought him to a wider view. The hills here stretched their arms to hold the valley, and he saw the white walls of his home, the silver snake of water winding to the lake, the fringing trees, birches and mountain ash, and the dark cluster of the yews with the church roof shining in the midst of them, under the sun. The smell of peat rose warmly from the earth and the bleating of lambs was sweet in his accustomed ears. One had to pay dearly for conquests and satisfied desires, he found, and he was willing to pay the price demanded—the price of exile. "But it'll not be for all the year," he consoled himself; and then he wondered that he had not rejoiced at the promised separation from his father. What had once seemed a necessity for decent life had now fallen back among the unimportant things. He was learning much.
"I'd live with ten like him, and hate them all, if I could live here," he said, and went on slowly, all his senses alert and greedy to gather stores against the future famine.
His mother glanced up, smiled and nodded as he appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Tea's ready," she said. It was her daily greeting.
He nodded in his turn and stood on the threshold with his hands in his pockets, watching the waving larches. They spoke to him in a language he could not interpret, but understood. He felt an unyouthful and transitory desire to remain rooted as they were, a desire for peace and life without a struggle. If he stayed here, Janet would give him work; he would like it well enough, and things would be simpler so. He considered the proposal with the calm interest of one who has no doubts. He was going to Oxford almost as surely as he was going to die. He was ambitious: he wanted what the place could give him; he wanted and dreaded the companionship of other men, the combat of minds opposed, the communion of kindred ones, learning, knowledge of humanity. He would get these and the hills would remain; wherever life might lead him, he would come back to them and they would still be here.
"There's a letter for you," said Clara.
He took it from the table. "It's from Edward Webb."
"Yes. I've had one, too."
Alexander opened his. A short note, tremulous as the man, asked leniency for an enclosure which Alexander pocketed. "He's not been here for months."
"No, but he says he'll be coming soon. He's been going home when he could. His wife isn't well, and I think he's worried, poor little bit of a man!"
"He's a big man," he said, and thought of Janet's dream.
"Well, you know," she said good-humouredly, "I think of all of you as children. Look what he has sent."
"This will never be Theresa," said Alexander. Dark eyes looked merrily at him from the picture, a soft mouth smiled, a nose, very slightly tilted, provoked to pleasure.
"No, that's Grace. Here's Theresa. I can't think how he came to have a girl like Grace: he's plain enough in the other one."
He looked long at Grace, for she had a delicate warmth of beauty hitherto unknown to him. It made him think of southern sun, ripe fruits, round, bare limbs, and brilliant wines.
"She's a dancer, isn't she?" He had a vague and ashamed wish to see her feet and petticoats, and he thrust the photograph aside. Frowning, he walked to the door. He felt himself unclean, and he bathed his eyes in the coolness of mountain stream and wood. Then he looked at Theresa. She came like another breath of wind. Grace was a girl to him, but Theresa was a child, and her eager look would never have a sensuous appeal: it was of the open air, of water and of wind. Her lips were closed as on a sudden determination, her eyes were light and shining, she seemed to speak the tongue of all creatures in love with the war of life; but he thought of her at once as of a little leaf blown from a birch-tree, but a leaf that leapt in the wind because it chose to do so, and with a firm intention of being blown only where it wished to go.
"I like her," he said aloud.
"She isn't pretty."
"No." He felt there was something indecent in prettiness. "Let's put Theresa on the mantelpiece."
"Grace shall go in the parlour. She is an ornament."
"I've got that scholarship," he said abruptly. "I heard at school. There'll be a letter here to-morrow." She stood silent for an instant, and he saw a deeper colour creep over her cheeks.
"I knew you'd get it." She kissed him. "Bless you, my son! I knew you'd get it."
"Oh, Mother!"
"I did, or why did I buy all that flannel for your shirts? I've made three of them already. Your father's in the garden. Go and tell him."
"You can."
"No, you do it. Alexander, it'll mean a lot to him."
"I don't believe it, unless getting rid of me's a lot."
"You're hard, Alec. In all his life he's had no success but this of yours, and he'll be pleased. You don't know how much—how much he cares for you."
"Oh, that——" he said, and paused in his walk to the door. "How will you do without me? Winter coming on, and—he gets worse."
"He takes less," she said sharply.
"He'll take longer dying," was his thought, but he said, "Sometimes. But he's more restless. He's not responsible. I believe he's possessed." Again he thought of Janet and of the dead witch.
"Don't say such things! Possessed, indeed! He's not responsible; but why, poor soul? Because his father was a bad old man. He can't help himself. It's wicked the way a man's vice can come crawling after his son. Wicked! It turns me from my prayers sometimes."
"There's a bad chance for me. You'll never have thought of that, perhaps."
"I'm your mother as well as his wife, my lad; but you're strong, Alec. I've given you my strength. And he's weak. But for all that he's the one man in the world for me, so mind what you say of him! He's the one man. You'll know some day. Why, if I saw him doing murder, I'd just wipe the blood off his poor hands." She ended, and then, hearing the echo of her own words, she looked at him with an approach to shyness. "You think I'm mad."
"No, I think you're wonderful. You're—you're grand," he stammered.
She laughed, and waved him towards the door. "Tell him," she said.
Alexander crossed the yard and leaned his arms on the garden wall. His father was on his knees before a box of seedlings. His face with the heavy moustache drooping over the weakness of his bearded chin was alight with eagerness, his fingers were delicate amid the tender green, the sun struck on the thinness of his hair. Alexander felt a new pity for him.
"I've got some news for you," he said, with timid geniality.
"Eh?" A frown appeared. "Don't worry me. I'm transplanting."
"I know. They look healthy. Tea's ready, and I've got yon scholarship."
James Rutherford stood up to his full length. He rubbed his soiled hands together, put them in his pockets, and drew near to the wall, until his face was close to Alexander's. "So you've got the scholarship," he said slowly. "Well, I'll not be sorry to be rid of you, my lad, but I'm damned proud of you." He stared at him as though he saw a stranger. "Damned proud," he repeated.
It was as he went to bed that Alexander remembered the supposed genius of Theresa. He had seen no signs of it. Only the ardour of her personality was clear to him in the picture. Could that be a kind of genius? He hoped not. He did not want to admit her to the clan of which he hoped he was a member. He could not imagine himself mediocre, he must be something in excess, and like claims from this little girl who had charmed him all the evening, would inexplicably annoy him. He admired women; but he liked them to be great in character rather than in intellect, and something in him refused to believe in the rareness of Theresa's mental qualities. But he liked her and, a few weeks later, he pleased Edward Webb by saying so.
"Ah, I thought you would. She's vivid, isn't she? One misses her colouring in the photograph, but she speaks, I think."
Alexander turned aside the threatened monologue. "I'm much obliged to you for letting me see the verses."
"You had them? You did not mention them. I thought perhaps—foolish of me, no doubt, but all one makes is dear to one—I had hoped for criticism: you want to spare me, but I am not afraid."
Alexander was embarrassed. "I can't criticize you. What do I know about it?"
"You could help me. I have no one else. And I trust your judgment. As a favour——"
"Well, then, I'll ask one of you. Will you come often while I'm away, and let me know how things are going? And just tell me how the hills are looking, will you?"
Autumn found him in Oxford, miserable but acutely alive. At first his country speech and his country clothes made him painfully conspicuous to himself. He seemed to be moving in a strong light which drew unfriendly eyes, but gradually his sober, native confidence returned. There were times when he suffered; but he thought no less of himself because he wore garments which seemed designed to conceal the lithe strength of his frame, and could not speak the jargon of the men about him, for the calibre of his mind was as good as that of other folks, and he knew it. Once sure of that, he settled down to drink steadily of all life could give him of knowledge and experience: he did it with the stubborn persistence natural to him, and though he became absorbed he was never happy. Here there was too much talk, and he never ceased to be heartsick for the hills.
Three years later, as Theresa was coming down the stairs one Friday evening, her father opened the front door, and at the sight of his pallid face she stood still on the bottom step.
"Have you just come home?" she asked, for he had not seen her.
"It's you, Theresa? I went to the office first."
She put her arms round his neck and kissed him. "Are you very tired?"
"No, dear, no. I must find Nancy. Where is she? Where is Mother?"
"In the breakfast-room." She followed him. If there was excitement anywhere she was not going to miss it; but she was anxious, and a sharp pain was driven into her heart when she heard his first words to her mother.
"It has come at last."
Pictures flashed: murder, forgery, bigamy, theft, in which of these had her father been discovered? Her mother had his hand. "What did they say?" she asked, and stroked it. It could not be the police: if they had once caught him, they would never have let him go again.
"Young men. Competition. They tried to be kind. Of course, I cannot blame them. And, it's terrible to confess it, Nancy, but in that first moment I was thankful. People's eyes, haunting me for all these years, seemed suddenly to have closed, and—and I could lift my head. Cowardly! I deserve dismissal. They have offered me a clerkship, as I said they would. How to live on it! Theresa! I did not know you were there."
"Yes, I followed you." Her voice shook with pity for him. "Mother saw me." People's eyes! She saw them socketless, like those she had once detached from the head of Grace's favourite doll. "Is it only money? Then we'll manage. I'm not going to eat meat any more. I loathe the stuff, and lentils are cheap. I'll tell Bessie to order them." They both smiled wanly, strangely alike in that moment. "You needn't laugh. We must be practical. Grace is nearly keeping herself, and I shall be soon. I wish you wouldn't look so miserable." Mere poverty seemed nothing after her fears of crime.
"We must all do what we can. I know you'll help us. Tell Bessie Father wants his supper, dear."
He spoke in a still lower voice. "This means George, Nancy."
"Must it?"
"How else?"
She shuddered. "Will he bring the harmonium? What will the children say?"
"They will suffer more without him."
"But will they?" She had flown past him, beyond their bodily needs, and she saw their eager spirits starving. "He will spoil things. There will be no freedom. Grace will be sensible and she tolerates her uncle, but Theresa hates him. She is so violent, Ned."
"And so good."
"Yes, somewhere she is good. I dare not tell her."
"I trust her. Treat her as a woman, and she behaves as one."
Nancy smiled. "Try it, my dear."
The flinging open of the door prefaced Theresa's return. Her face looked very thin in its whiteness. "I've just remembered," she said, squeezing her hands together—"I've just remembered you won't go to the mountains any more. It doesn't matter about being poor, but I don't know how we're to do without the mountains. What shall we do? And there's Alexander, and Mrs. Rutherford, and Janet—they feel gone. I don't know what to do. Mother, what are we to do?"
In a soft and distinct voice Nancy answered: "I don't know what Father will do without them, dear!"
He looked up quickly, and again Theresa was conscious of the old shadow. "I shall miss my friends," he said firmly.
"Of course, dear."
"But there's me!" cried Theresa. "How can I dream——" She broke off, for the shadow hid her from her parent's sight. Edward Webb was speaking more loudly than his wont.
"I shall go and see them when I can."
"Take me." Theresa's voice was distant and ignored. She lost her sense of solidity. Could she really be here, since they neither saw nor heard her? She touched the sideboard: it was hard and cold.
"Expensive," Nancy said.
"I hope I shall not be self-indulgent."
"There would be excuse."
"Nancy, Nancy, at a time like this!" He dropped his appeal. "If I cannot go to them, perhaps they would be willing to come to me."
"Not Alexander," Theresa protested.
"How would they enjoy the company of George?"
Theresa took a step forward. "Uncle George? Why?"
A new danger bridged their difference. "Tell her," said Nancy's eyes. His mood was defiant, for he had been goaded, and he did not hesitate.
"We are thinking of asking your Uncle George to live with us," he said smoothly.
She sat down, opening and shutting her mouth. "You're not," she said, very low. "Nobody could live with him. He's a beast."
"Terry!"
"You know he is. What's the good of pretending? You hate him yourself. When he comes you get all screwed up to nothing. We all hate him. If he comes here I'll run away. If I were a boy—oh, if I were a boy!" Her face was like a shell with a light inside it. "I'd go down to the docks, I wouldn't stay here; I'd go to sea. And, anyway, I—I'll earn my own living." She sank more deeply into her seat, and her hands shook in her lap. She looked up. "You're not really going to ask him? It'll make Mother ill for one thing."
"Not if you keep your temper, Terry."
Her voice broke out on a sob. "Iamkeeping it! Oh, oh, oh! He'll preach and he'll pray, and he'll whine on that old harmonium—and try to convert us, and he'll spy on Grace, and we'll never have any fun any more. And where's he going to sleep? Fusty old thing—he'll snore. Are you going to turn us out of our room for him? Are you? I won't go—I won't go!"
"Theresa, we are in difficulties. We want your help."
"I won't do anything if you let that George come. What's the good of having money if you're miserable? Religious old pig! I'll tell him I hate the Bible; I'll fetch it and jump on it before him, and—and throw it at him. I will not have my life spoilt—it's wicked! I hate him! I hate you! I loathe his snarly old hymns and his religion. It's all lies. 'Gentle Jesus,' that's the way he says it, watching to see if your eyes are shut. Old beast! If he comes I'll never speak to him. Never, never! You're selfish, you're only thinking of yourselves. Oh——" She stood up, shaking, crying, mad with impotence. She seemed to seek a last explosive word. It came with a wrench from her throat. "It'll be hell, hell, hell!" She made a desperate lunge at her chair, overturned it, kicked it viciously, and rushed from the room. They heard her stumbling up the stairs, noisily, blindly, and at last, the banging of her bedroom door.
"She'll kill me," Nancy moaned.
Theresa lay on her bed in a blackness of misery that absorbed the night's darkness entering the room. She seemed to be lying in a pit out of which she could never be raised. She was not ashamed of her sentiments, but of having uttered them: she regretted not so much her cruelty to her parents as the pitiful display of her own weakness. How could she brave the light and face her father? The questions of her childhood reappeared. Had Bessie heard the clamour? Would she tell Bill? Worst of all, how could she live without thinking happily of herself?
She lay there, turning and twisting, gazing through a tunnel-like future, pitch dark without the light of her self-respect. How long before she neared the end and saw a glimmer? Already life had taught her the kindliness of time, but she had not yet learnt patience. How could she wait until custom and forgetfulness had done their work?
The minutes went slowly by; the two darknesses covered her. She was a prisoner in the dungeon of her own despair, and, like all prisoners, she began to plan escape. Dare she creep out and pretend nothing had happened? Should she crave a forgiveness hardly desired, or should she offer submission on honourable terms—no mention of her offences, and, beyond all, no Uncle George? She found it impossible to move. How many hours had passed? She was cold. She wondered if Alexander, that recurrent image, were as violent in anger as she; not now, of course, for he was a man, but when he was a boy.
She heard steps on the stairs, voices, the opening of her mother's door. Someone was mounting heavily. She held her breath. Was her mother coming to speak to her? No, she had passed, very slowly, into the opposite room. Her father was speaking; there was a strange, flapping sound—that was Bessie's felt slippers wearing her stockings into holes. She seemed to be in a hurry. Were they all going to bed? Was it so late? And, if so, why had not Grace returned?
In a little while there was a swift, light step, and Grace entered.
"Terry, where are you? On the bed? Get up quickly. Where are the matches? Mother's ill, and you must go for the doctor."
"Ill?" Theresa blinked in the gaslight.
"It's her heart."
"Her heart," Theresa repeated dully.
"Yes, be quick! I must go and see to her."
"Is it late?"
"Only nine o'clock."
"Nine!" Theresa slipped from the bed, felt for her slippers, and ran out, hatless, into the quiet streets. She was accompanied by the fear of death. She was a fast runner, and she made little noise in her thin shoes, but more silently ran that fear. She saw it with a mocking face and claw-like hands.
Peremptorily she summoned the doctor, appearing like a dishevelled sprite to the startled maid, and sped again down the garden path. The shrubs were dark and thick and they rustled as she passed.
She found the front-door open when she reached home, and her father hovering in the hall.
"My child! No hat!" He took her hands and she yielded them gladly, dropping her head to his shoulder.
"I did it," she whispered. "She isn't going to die, is she?"
"We do not know. We do not know."
"I did it," she repeated.
He patted her shoulder. "Hush. Don't think about yourself. See if Grace wants you."
Slowly she went upstairs. She could not have analyzed her pain, it had too many parts, but perhaps the sharpest of them was her sense of slight. She confessed, tacitly asked forgiveness, and he bade her not think about herself! Her next thought was not formed, but it lived in her, telling her that he should have shown gratitude for the killing of her pride. She drove the nails into her palms. He had thought nothing of the confession which, to her, had pulsed with more than repentance, which had been quick with drama. He was blind or callous, and the hot colour of shame ran up her face, but faded as she reached her mother's door.
She turned the handle softly, and stepped over the threshold into a dim, hushed room, full of the mystery of sickness. Grace was at the washstand, moving crockery and bottles without noise, a conscious control of the situation plain in her bearing and in the air of the room which had been miraculously converted into tidiness.
With her back to the door and close to the head of the bed, Theresa peeped at her mother, who lay with closed eyes, then glanced admiringly at Grace, who was not afraid of acting nurse, who could lower her voice naturally and divine needs before they were felt. Theresa envied her: she was so quiet, so sure and kind—so lovely! She watched her as she bent over her mother, and the easy curve of her body was so fresh and perfect that the clothes seemed to fall away, leaving her pristine and unencumbered. Theresa's soul ached at such beauty and with desire for it. She felt awkward, useless, in the way. She could not help her mother, for all her cleverness; indeed, she had driven her to this bed over which Grace, whom she sometimes despised for her flirtations and frivolity, could lean with such tenderness and skill. There was something fine in Grace, and she felt herself shrivelling. Doubts swept her. Where were the capacities in which she had believed? Oh, but she would be great! She must begin at once. She could not be wasted. She felt the strength of her energy leaping in her, and her feet scraped the shabbily stained boards on which she stood.
Grace raised a hand that commanded silence, and tiptoed to the door.
"She's asleep, I think. Is he coming? Soon?"
Theresa nodded. They whispered on the landing. "Is she going to die?"
"Don't!"
"But I must know. It was me that did it. I was angry. I didn't know her heart was really bad. I'd like to tell her that, if she's going to die."
"You mustn't speak to her."
"But if she dies without knowing——"
Grace's soft eyes were scornful. "She knows all you could tell her, child! You'd kill her with your fussings, and I'm not going to let her die. She shall not. I want her."
"You're not the only one!"
"I must go back." Grace slipped into the room and Theresa sat down on the stairs, while tears of angry pain rolled into her neck. She disdained to dry them: their wetness and the after-stiffening of their channels were balm to soreness, and she could forget her fault in pity for herself, because no one understood her, because her feelings were such a torturing, yet somehow delightful medley, past the power of her own mind to unravel.
The doctor's report was immediately comforting, but not very hopeful for the future. Edward Webb learnt that his wife's heart was very weak, that all excitement and worry must be spared her, that a shock would probably kill her.
"She shall not have a shock," he said, lifting his grey face.
"She must be saved anxiety."
"She shall be."
"She had better do nothing energetic."
"Certainly not." He frowned heavily, as though he saw difficulties here.
"Women," said the doctor genially, "are difficult to manage. They think they're indispensable, and they're right—but Mrs. Webb must be persuaded that she's not. You're fortunate in having daughters. Miss Grace is very capable. She has a head. I think you can rely on her."
"Yes," he said—"yes." He was forlorn and afraid as he closed the door on the doctor, and he saw Nancy afloat on an ebbing tide. She was leaving him, very slowly; she was dwindling in his sight, and soon there would be no more than a memory of her fragrance. He could not stay the mighty sea which bore her from him, but he strained his eyes for another glimpse of her grace, and a sob jerked itself from his throat. "Nancy," he said, "not yet, not yet!" He made indefinite movements with his hands. He had not known how ill she was. She had hidden her suffering from him, she was brave and good, and he must keep her. Again he called on her name, curving his fingers as though they held her hand. There was a creaking of the stairs. He felt his arm clasped.
"What did he say?" Theresa whispered. "Tell me—tell me, oh, what did he say?"
They went together to the dark dining-room, and sat close to the table on the hard, leather-covered chairs.
"She will recover," he said, stretching his limp arms on the tablecloth; "but she will need care, constant care, Theresa. She must have no excitement, no shock, no worry."
"I'll help you." The words were hard to say, but her reward came.
"I have great faith in you, Theresa."
"I'll truly try to help." The quivering of her voice was involuntary, but the sound pleased her.
"I know." There was a silence in which Theresa began an immortal poem. Very quickly it must be written to bring fame and money to this stricken house.
"We can't afford another servant, and your mother will need much care."
Theresa's hands worked together under the table.
"Grace is earning money, she must not be taken from her work."
"But there's Uncle George coming," she said in quiet desperation.
"But my salary is halved. We are very poor!"
She sat in a blackness which had become peopled by selfish desires that warred with unselfish ones. She saw them as opposing hosts, she heard the clash of armour and weapons, steel against steel, and she bowed her head in fear of blows, felt herself running from the horrid dangers of the fray. What a coward, to escape when the issue of battle lay in her own strength! More than sinners she hated cowards, and suddenly the tumult ended.
"I'm sixteen—more," she said aloud. "I'll leave school. I'll work at home. Anyhow, I'm not the kind that gets much good from lessons."
A faint murmur from Edward Webb resolved itself into the words: "There's your future, your career. It ought not to be sacrificed, my child."
"It doesn't matter," she mumbled.
"I can't allow it, yet," his voice rose wailingly, "what am I to do? What am I to do?"
She rubbed her untidy head against his shoulder. "I'll work at home," she whispered. "There'll be lots of time. I won't—I won't be beaten, I promise you." She felt again the smouldering force within, and triumphantly she cried: "If there's any power, it can't be crushed, it can't! You'll see. And oh!" she added more softly, "let me make up if I can. I was wicked. I'll even be an angel to Uncle George!"
She could almost hear the slipping of his burden. "Thank you, Theresa. Thank you, my child. You never fail me."
His faith thrilled her, gave her wings, yet it was now that she had the first doubt of her ability to fly.