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diff --git a/42536.txt b/42536.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 603893a..0000000 --- a/42536.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12251 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Yonder, by Emily Hilda Young - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Yonder - -Author: Emily Hilda Young - -Release Date: April 14, 2013 [EBook #42536] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YONDER *** - - - - -Produced by Clare Graham & Laura McDonald at -http://www.girlebooks.com, Marc D'Hooghe at -http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made -available by the Hathi Trust) - - - - - -Yonder - -By - -E.H. Young - - - -New York - -George H. Doran Company - -1912 - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -A boy, slim and white as the silver birches round him, stood at the edge -of a pool, in act to dive. The flat stone was warm to his feet from -yesterday's sun, and through the mist of a September morning there was -promise of more heat, but now the grey curtain hung in a stillness that -was broken by his plunge. He came to the surface, shaking his black -head, and, when he had paddled round the pool, he landed, glistening -like the dewy fields beyond him. Slowly he drew on his clothes, leaving -the quiet of the wood unruffled, but his eyes were alert. If there were -any movement among the birches, with their air of trees seen mirrored in -a lake, he did not miss it. He, too, was of the woods and the water, -sharing their life and taking mood and colour from them. He sat very -still when he had dressed, with lean hands resting on his raised knees, -and eyes that marked how the water in the pool was sinking for lack of -rain and how the stream that fed it had become a trickle. In a wet -season his flat stone was three feet under water, and there was a -rushing river above and below his bathing-place, tearing headlong from -those hills which, last night, had been hidden in heavy cloud and might -be wrapped in it still for all the low mist would let him know. He saw -how the bracken was dried before its time, and the trees were ready to -let fall their leaves at the first autumn wind, and how some of them, -not to be baulked of their last grandeur, had tried to flame into gold -that their death might not be green. There were blackberries within a -yard of him but he did not move to get them for the mist was like a hand -laid on him; but when at length it stirred a little, thrust aside by a -ray of sun, he rose, whistling softly, to take the fruit, and then, -barefooted and bareheaded, he walked home across the fields. - -The sun came out more boldly and Alexander broke into louder, gayer -whistling, welcoming the sunshine and warning his mother that it was -breakfast-time. From the back of the low, white house he heard her -answering note, and thus assured that the bacon was in the pan, or near -it, he took a seat on the old horse-block and waited. - -Behind him was the house-front and the strip of low-walled garden, where -lad's love, and pinks, and tobacco-plant grew as they chose among the -straggling rose-bushes; before him were the fields he had crossed, the -trees bordering the stream, and, topping the mist, the broad breast of -the Blue Hill. On his left hand the rough road before the house dwindled -to a track that led upwards to the pass between the sloping shoulder of -the Blue Hill and the jagged, precipitous rocks of the Spiked Crags, and -between these and the hill behind the house a deeply cut watercourse was -grooved, hardly more than an empty trough at this moment, but in the -time of rain lashed by a flood of waters that looked from the house like -a white and solid streak. Alexander called this water the -mountain-witch's hair, for it streamed to his fancy like the locks of an -old hag, and when the sound of its roaring came to him through the -winter night he thought she was shrieking in anger, and he pulled the -bed-clothes about his ears. But he told no one of that secret name, and, -like other people, he spoke of it as the Steep Water, because of the -cascades in which it fell. Broad Beck was the name of the stream in -which he bathed, and, but for the one deep pool, it went over stony -shallows to the lake of which Alexander, sitting on the horse-block, -could see a glimmer at his right hand, like a grey pathway between the -inn roof and the trees in the little churchyard. It was a great sheet of -water edged on the hither shore by the high-road and the rough moorland -beyond, on the other by a black mountain-side. It sent its waters to the -sea, and in return the sea sent up the mists that curled, and rolled, -and broke away again among the hills, or sent down the fierce steel -fingers of the rain. - -Alexander's eyes were on the Blue Hill, but his thoughts were with his -breakfast, and through the stone passage leading from the kitchen to the -porch there came encouraging sounds and savours. - -"Oh, mother!" he cried hungrily; "will you never have it ready?" - -He did not heed her shouted answer, for he had heard steps on the stony -track, and seen the shambling figure of a man coming towards him. Drunk, -was he? Alexander knew the signs, but men seldom stagger at -breakfast-time, and the nearest house of call in the direction whence -the stranger came was six or seven long miles away across the hills. No; -on a nearer view he was certainly not drunk. But what, then, was the -matter with the man? - -"Boy"--he stood before the horse-block, and plucked at the tufts of moss -clinging to his clothes--"is this a farm?" - -"No," said Alexander, wondering at the little man with the sparse, -disordered hair. "There's moss on your head, too," he said. - -The stranger put up his hand an inch or two, and dropped it. -"Everywhere," he murmured. "Was it your dog I heard barking?" - -"May be. He's a loud barker." - -"Do you think I could have a cup of milk? I'm very cold. I lost my way -up there, among the hills." - -"Were you out all night?" asked Alexander, kindling. - -"All night--yes. Among the rocks. I thought I should fall off. I was -afraid." - -"Did you--see things?" - -"Mist. Figures in the mist. And a sheep cried, and stones fell -sometimes, and there was a noise of water. If I could get warm----" - -Alexander put out a steadying hand. "Will you come in?" he said. "My -mother'll see to you." - -The man suffered himself to be led out of the sunshine through a place -which seemed long and dark and cavernous, and so into a room where a -fire glowed and crackled, and an open door and window let in the light. - -"Mother!" said Alexander. - -A woman looked up swiftly from the frying-pan. "I didn't hear you for -the bacon frizzling," she said. "Oh! who is it, Alec? Here, put him into -the chair. Quick!" - -"He's been out all night," he says. - -"He looks like it." She touched his hands. "He's perished. Take off his -boots, and tell your father. I'll warm some milk. Poor soul!" - -The little man, with Alexander at his feet, had sunk back against the -red cushions of the chair. The strain of his expression had relaxed, and -now he smiled. - -"Bacon," he said on a note of satisfaction--"bacon." - -"No, no; you'd better have some milk. It will warm you. Milk first, -bacon afterwards, perhaps." - -She spoke soothingly, entirely at her ease, doing the work that came -most readily to her. He blinked and straightened himself before he took -the cup. The woman seemed tall, and splendid, and compelling. - -"I'm afraid--I'm afraid I had almost fallen asleep. The warmth----" - -"Drink this," she ordered. - -"Thank you." He shivered. "Forgive my troubling you. If I may rest for a -little while-----" - -She patted his shoulder. "Yes; you shall go to sleep. Push the chair -nearer to the fire, Alec. Jim"--she turned to her husband, who stood in -the doorway--"when I've warmed the bed we must get him there, or he'll -be ill." She looked down smilingly at the half-conscious occupant of the -chair. "He's just a bundle of cold and fright," she said. - -Bidden to hang up the damp coat of the visitor, who now lay snug in bed, -Alexander obeyed with so much vigour that two small books fell from the -pockets to the floor. - -"His name's Edward Webb," he announced. "And he reads poetry. Keats, -this one, and 'Paradise Lost.'" He turned the pages and stood reading. - -"Are those your books, Alexander?" said his father. The voice was -irritable, and the dark face moody. Expectant, almost hopeful of a -retort, he watched his son. - -"They're his." - -"Then put them down." - -"But I think he'd like me to dry them. Where was the man lying to get so -wet?" - -"Give them here. I'll see to them. What did you say his name was?" - -"Edward Webb. I think I'll just put them in the sun. They're good books, -and he's read a lot in them." - -"Does it say where he comes from?" - -"I wouldn't think of looking," said Alexander. "They're his property. -But I'll dry them." - -"Alexander----" began his father noisily, but the boy had stepped out of -doors with a face changed from natural gravity to impishness. - -Rutherford shouted at his wife. "Clara, I've had enough of it. He'd defy -me if I lay dying. As if I wasn't fit to touch the books! There's -something wrong with the lad." - -"Jim, don't wake that poor man with your shouting," she said briskly. -She looked serene and competent. "Eat your breakfast. And as for -Alexander, he didn't choose you for his father, and it's for you to make -him glad he's got you"--her tone changed--"as glad as I am that you're -my man." - -He flushed. "Clara, is it true that you're still glad?" - -She had time to drop a light kiss on his hand before Alexander darkened -the doorway. - -Edward Webb's first waking thought was that his nightshirt was a new -acquaintance. It was rougher than his own, and so long that he felt like -a babe in swaddling clothes--an apt simile, as he would have confessed -had he been able to see himself disinterestedly, for his face, worn as -it was with anxieties, had in it something of youth and indestructible -innocence. He had slept for hours without a movement, and only his head -was visible above the smoothly turned sheet, but he brought forth an arm -and examined his sleeve. It was drab-coloured, and striped with pink. It -was not his. He looked about him, and remembered. - -He was in the house of the Good Samaritans. There was a boy with dark -eyes, and a woman who had appeared to him as Warmth and Strength, and, -more dimly, a man who had helped him to bed--a tall, dark man. No doubt -this was his nightshirt--a durable garment, but irritating to the skin. -He wondered what time it was. He had no idea how long he had slept, nor -at what hour he had found the valley and the white house, with its -blessed signs of habitation; but it was at the first breath of dawn that -he had left his rocky perch, and, stumbling, falling, almost crying -aloud in misery, had made his way down the mountain. Memory took him -again through the night's adventure, and farther back--to last Monday -morning, when he had bidden Theresa good-bye. It was their habit, when -he started on his journeying, to play their game of Beauty and the -Beast. - -"What shall I bring back this time, Beauty?" he would ask, and she, -glowing at the name she wished were justly hers, would clasp her hands -ecstatically before she answered: "A white satin dress, please, dear -Papa, and shoes to match, with silver roses on them, and a silver rose -for my hair." Or it might be a string of diamonds, a great feathered -fan, a boar-hound to be her stately guardian. - -"The real Beauty," he reminded her one day, "was content with a single -rose from a garden." - -"I know," she said, and for a moment lost her brightness; but then, "I -think that's lovely in a story," she told him. "Yes." She acted it. -"'Bring me a white rose, Papa. I don't want anything else.' But she -would, you know, when it came all faded. But I'm glad the story lets her -say that." - -But he had slightly changed the form of his question on this latest -morning. - -"If you could have anything in the world, Theresa, what would it be?" - -"Oh!" she cried joyously, as though that thing were already hers, and -through her mind there paced a fair procession of the desired. But she -knew her decision long before it was spoken. "I should have an -adventure," she said. - -"I can't bring you that, I'm afraid." - -"No--oh no!" - -"But I might have one myself." He was pleased with the idea. - -"It wouldn't be the same." - -"I should tell you about it." - -She agreed that would be much better than nothing, and with his endless -wish to please her he determined that he would have something to tell. - -His days were passed in alternate fortnights of travelling about the -country with samples of ugly things incidental to the dressmaking art, -and of conveying the same packages from shop to shop of his native town. -He was to be seen, a small shrinking figure, sitting in a cab with a -pile of cardboard boxes opposite him, and his face turned to the -windows, looking through one and then the other for sights that accorded -better with his nature than these boxes, on which, when the cab jolted, -he laid a hand lest they should slip. The fortnights at home were more -endurable than the others, for he returned at evening to his family and -his books, and during the day he had many a fair thing to bring healing -to his pain, for always he worked with a queer gnawing at the breast. -This was not his rightful work, and he did it ill, and, because he had a -great love of beauty and fitness in all things, he suffered. But he was -driven on to his mighty, ineffectual efforts by the needs of his wife -and little daughters, and as he looked out of the musty cab he would see -comforting white clouds floating behind red roofs, the river that found -its way into the city's heart, and the tall masts of sailing-ships. But -the following fortnight was one of exile and of racket--strange towns -full of unfriendly faces, dull hotels with texts on the bedroom walls, -and the noise and dirt of trains. A book of verses in each pocket was -then his solace, and, two by two, the poets journeyed with him, gilding -the grime of cities. Sometimes, as the train carried him on, with, to -his imagination, something remorseless and inimical to him in its -energy, he would look up from his book and stare longingly at the -country which the fast wheels spurned; but on his lonely Saturday and -Sunday, when he was stranded in some town, he seldom had energy to obey -adventure's whisper, and explore farther than a quiet place where he -could read, and write his daily letter to his wife. But, Theresa having -a hunger for adventure, her father had decided that at least she should -be satisfied by proxy, and he had sought the mountains. - -He had seen them once, in boyhood, on a holiday, and their wonder had -remained with him like a treasure. Why should he not add another to his -little store, another gem to shine in the dark parts of his life, and -throw some of its colour and glory on Theresa? That should be his -adventure; he would find the mountains and roam about them, and look -fearfully down their rocky sides, and shudder at the thought of falling, -and stock his memory with things to tell Theresa. - -So on the afternoon of Friday he left the little station by the -seashore, and tramped inland, following the road for a while until, as -he turned a corner, he saw the blue shapes of hills, shadowy but strong, -mysterious, lifting themselves to heaven, yet compact of the solid earth -of man. He stood still, drinking in beauty like hill water, and -suffering a glorious new pain. It was more than beauty that he gazed on; -it was the most perfect expression of what man's hopes should be, and -the discovery shook him. He walked on. Above the hills the sky was -stretched in a faint blue shade that swooned into a white, and here, -within a stone's throw of him, the fingers of a chestnut-tree had dipped -themselves in dyes. - -He tasted joy as he went, first across fields and then slowly up the -long flank of a hill; it was all joy until, careless or ignorant of the -menace in the clouds that were beginning to circle about the summits, he -found himself shut in by a thick wall of mist. - -He stood on a level place strewn with stones, and their grey colour grew -into the grey of the mist that bound him. It was very quiet. Afar off -there was a faint sound of water, but the beating of his own heart was -louder. He held his breath, peering this way and that, but keeping his -feet steady lest the noise they made should break the stillness and -enrage that something which seemed to wait until he moved. He stood, -thinking quickly and anxiously. He must find some way out of this -danger, he must keep cool; but he almost screamed when he heard a light -scattering of stones, followed by a cry. It was only an old sheep that -went bleating away behind the veil, but he could not smile at his alarm. -He began to run to and fro, seeking some landmark, and when he found a -little trickling stream he thought it would be wise to follow it down -the mountain-side. Oncoming darkness was now added to his fears, but he -could still see the silver streak, and beside it, walking in steep, -oozing moss, he went carefully; nervous, but still hopeful, when he -found there were rocks to be descended. Using his shaking hands, he -clambered down, absorbed and unforeseeing, and it was almost dark when -he came to a ledge that ended with a shocking suddenness. He could not -go down. He looked up, and he was afraid. He could not turn his back to -that awful emptiness, and climb the steep rocks he could hardly see; his -own daring of descent amazed him. He was a little giddy; he blinked in -the darkness. He would have to stay there, shivering and afraid. He was -having his adventure and he did not like it, but across his troubled -thoughts words of Theresa came, bracing him to courage. - -"I hope I'm brave," she said to him one day, inflecting her voice -inquiringly. - -"I hope so, too," he answered, and felt a pang. - -"I like brave people," she said. "I like them to be brave and clever." - -"Not good?" he asked. - -"Oh--good----" That was a lesser virtue. - -He was not good, nor clever, nor brave, but he would endure, and all -night long he sat there, trying to control his dread of the mist and -what lay beyond it, stifling the screams that threatened when a stone -fell, crashing, dropping from rock to rock, and, hundreds of feet below, -breaking itself into ultimate fragments on the screes. "Not again," he -prayed. "Not again." So he might fall, but he must not, he would not, -and he sat farther back upon his ledge, gripping the wet heather. - -He thought of Nancy, of Grace and Theresa in their beds: Nancy, with her -hand under her cheek, and the humorous, half-mocking smile on her lips, -even in sleep; Grace, with her nose in the pillow, and Theresa -widespread, tossing her tawny head. Heaven keep them and him! If only -the darkness had not been so thick--thick, yet unsteady, promising -cracks of light which did not come, and, as he grew more dazed, taking -unwelcome shapes of small and evil things, of things nameless, gigantic, -formless, yet hideous in suggestion, that came slyly through the folds -of mist to push him from his place. Only with a wrenching effort of will -could he drive them back, and as they went he thought he heard them -chuckling. And again they came with their wavering, softly threatening -movements; he strained his eyes for them, there was a terrible expanded -feeling in his ears, and the mist and darkness were weighted with horror -which pressed about him. His tired eyelids drooped, and he may have -slept, but if he did he found no relief from fear; sleeping and waking -he was stalked by ugly visions, and he was cold. He thought of the -people he had seen shivering in winter streets; so this was how they -felt in their rags. Perhaps, too, they had this dreadful vacancy of -body, which was not hunger, but resulted from it so that now and then he -seemed to be floating in mid-air, a man without a frame, compelled to -drive his numbed fingers into the wet earth to bring himself back to a -sense of solidity and self. - -But somehow the night wore through, and with eyes that were wearied with -straining past the dark, that heavy curtain seemed at last to be growing -thin. It was still black, but the texture of it was changing. A little -breeze went by, like a herald bird promising the day. There came a fresh -smell of wind and earth. Slowly the night was mastered. - -There was no glowing pageantry of dawn; the light spread and grew -stronger in grey dignity, and soon he could see the glistening mosses -and tender ferns that grew in the crevices of the rocks, and, looking -from these things of vivid green, he could draw from the grey light -about him the forms of distant hills. - -Later, the valley seemed to lift itself towards him, showing the fallen -masses of the mountain and the white streaks that were streams. Then, -sharp in the clear air, he heard the barking of a dog. - -He rose, stretched his cramped limbs and faced the rocks. The unpassable -danger of last night was only difficulty in the morning, and shakily and -in fear he overcame it. - -So, stumbling over the riot of loose stones that strewed the top, -staggering down heather slopes imminent with pitfalls, he came at last -to the sight of Alexander on the horse-block. - -That was a good adventure for Theresa. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -Alexander quietly opened the bedroom door and tiptoed to the bedside. - -"I'm awake," said Edward Webb, blinking rapidly. - -"I thought you never would be. It's four o'clock." - -"Four o'clock!" - -"Ay. And I didn't want you to wake up yet a bit." He spoke quickly. "I -think I'd better tell you. I've been reading those books of yours. They -fell out of your pockets, and I simply couldn't help it, but I've had to -do it in the barn for fear my father should see. I'm taking care of -them. Will you let me keep them till I've read a bit more? Just an hour -or two? Well, I'll let you have the Milton back--I've had him at -school--if I can have the Keats. I'll have finished by the time you've -had your tea." - -Here was someone who knew what he wanted! "If you will give me my -clothes I will certainly lend you Keats." - -"I'm much obliged to you. And would you mind not mentioning it to my -father?" He went to the door. "I'll tell my mother you're awake, and I -should think she'll let you have your clothes. They've been dry this -long while. Did you lose your hat?" - -"Isn't it there?" - -"No, there's everything but that." - -"Dear me! Well, I'm fortunate to have lost nothing else." - -Alexander drew nearer. "You said you saw figures in the mist up yonder. -What like were they?" - -"Did I say that? I was very nervous, very much dazed; you mustn't -believe all I said. What else did I say?" - -"You wanted milk, that's all. Oh, and you seemed to like the smell of -bacon." - -"Ah, I remember--yes, it was a pleasant, homely smell. And I am very -grateful to you all. Will you kindly give my thanks to your parents, and -ask if I may be allowed to have my clothes, and thank them myself? I was -a stranger, and ye took me in." - -"Mother wouldn't turn away a dog," said Alexander simply. - -Clara Rutherford, entering the room with her swift, firm step, felt her -visitor's pulse, laid her hand on his forehead, looked searchingly into -his eyes, and said he might get up. - -"The stairs are just in front of you," she told him, "and the kitchen's -at their foot. You'll find us there when you're ready." - -When he went downstairs, he saw that rain was slanting across the open -doorway leading to the yard, where it fell with a splatter on the -paving-stones. He caught a glimpse of a copse of larch-trees on the -hillside and heard the crying of their blown branches. Against the -door-post, with a cold pipe in his mouth, Rutherford was lounging, and -his wife sat on the fender with the light of the fire brightening her -hair. Edward Webb stood for an instant before they saw him, and made him -welcome. - -"Why, the stairs didn't creak!" said Clara. "That was what I was -listening for. You can never miss that board when you want to. When I go -late to bed and creep upstairs I always tread on it, and then I hear -Alexander turning in his bed. He wakes if a mouse cheeps. Tea's ready." - -She went to the door and whistled, and presently Alexander came through -the rain. - -"Where've you been?" his father demanded. - -"In the barn." He looked at Edward Webb, who ate his bread-and-butter -without so much as an upward glance. - -"I can't think what you want to go there for, when we've chairs to sit -on." - -"Janet gave me a truss of hay, and it's softer than a bed." - -"Janet would do better to keep her hay. She'll be short of fodder before -the winter's out." - -"That's what I told her." - -"These eggs are excellent," said Edward Webb. - -"You shall have a duck's egg for breakfast. My ducks----" - -"But I must be getting back to-night." - -"Indeed you mustn't. It's ten miles to the station, and it's raining, -and you're not fit. We haven't a trap, either, but we could borrow a -cart for you to-morrow." - -"You're very kind, but--but I feel I ought to go. Imposing on you like -this!" - -"Not at all. We're glad to have you," said Rutherford. "And you can't -get away if my wife means you to stop." - -"I was beginning to suspect that," said Webb, with a half-rueful lift of -the brows. - -"And I do mean you to stop, so that's settled. Pass your father's cup, -Alexander." - -The rain came down faster and stronger, invading the kitchen, and the -mists, as they swept past the window, hid the larch-trees, but still -through the noise of the falling water their louder murmuring was heard. -The dog came in, shook himself and, whining, lay down near the door. The -room was darkened, but the fire glowed the more brightly, and Clara put -candles on the table. - -"Are you warm enough?" she asked of Edward. "Jim can't sit in a room -with the door shut, but we can close the window." - -"No, no, please don't. We mustn't shut out these sounds." - -Across the candlelight Alexander sharply eyed the man who uttered his -own thoughts. Books of poetry and a love of the wind--these were good -things to have, but love of the wind was best, and a greater bond than -a whole library. He liked this man, he decided, and he would be sorry -when he went away. - -When the meal was over, and Edward Webb was sitting again in the -red-cushioned chair, while Clara washed the tea-things and her husband -fetched more coal for the fire, Alexander approached, and gave him a -furtive touch on the shoulder. - -"Here's the book," he said, "and thank you." - -"You've read it all?" - -"Twice." - -"What's your other name?" - -"Rutherford, we're called." - -Edward Webb took a pen from his waistcoat pocket and opened the book. -"It is yours if you will have it," he said, and wrote the boy's name -above his own. "I should like you to have it." He was deprecatingly -courteous. "You have been very good to me, and I hope the book will be -as good a friend to you." - -"I cannot thank you," said Alexander hesitatingly, twisting the book. He -was blushing deeply and biting his lips, but the rush of his next words -would not be stayed. "But I'll never forget you," he cried. "A thing -like this hasn't happened to me before," and with that he sank to the -fender and sat there, keeping his watchful dark gaze on Edward Webb's -face. - -They fell into conversation after a time. - -"Do you go to school?" - -"Yes; over the hills to Browick. It's a good step. The Grammar School. -There's nothing here but the Church School. I went there till I could -walk to Browick, and glad I was to go." - -"Oh? What was the matter?" - -"Why," he cried, "he roared at us! He was that kind of man. He's there -yet, but he's getting old." - -"Perhaps he doesn't roar so loudly now." - -"Oh yes, he does. I've heard him at it; but they tell me he's not quite -so handy with the stick. It wasn't the stick I minded, though he had a -strong arm. I'll tell you how it was. When he shouted at us, 'William -the Conqueror, 1066,' or 'An island is a piece of land'--you know, -anything--I felt it wasn't true, else why did he expect to be -contradicted? It was a long time before I would believe my dates, but -the island was simpler--I'd seen them." - -"You had no confidence in him, in fact." - -"That was it." - -"Things are different now, I suppose. But it's a rough walk in -winter-time, isn't it?" - -"Yes." - -He was not ready to tell anyone of his joy in that daily walk, in summer -and in winter, when hailstones pounded him in the face, when he was -drenched with rain or scorched with sun. Moreover, reserve was not his -only reason for silence. It seemed that always his father tried to -thwart him, and if he knew how much he loved the hills and the mists and -the sunshine, the rare birds and the smell of peat, the getting of -knowledge from men who were not afraid of questions and did not roar, -then, perhaps, with the perverseness that baffled and angered his son, -he would take him from the school. So never a word of pleasure had -Alexander let fall, for fear his happiness should be taken from him, and -never a word of discontent, because he did not care to lie; but his -passion for the hills grew stronger, and his analysis of his father's -character became acute. - -"He's like a cat with a pet bird," he thought once. "He's watching it -all the time, and hoping the cage-door will open. He knows he oughtn't -to kill it--he's been told he mustn't--but he can't stop himself wanting -to. That's him all through. He can't stop himself." - -That lack of self-control and its unpleasant results on himself inspired -the boy to practice the virtue with all his might. To exercise it, he -would go without food when he was hungry, deliberately sniffing at his -mother's hot pastry, and refusing to eat of it. - -"If you don't have that, you shall have nothing else. You're getting -fussy," his father had said once. His eyes were stormy under brooding -brows, but Alexander knew he had the advantage, and he wore his impish -look. - -"I'm not, then. I'm learning self-control," he said slowly, and saw his -father flinch. - -His appetite was left uncriticized after that, but the relations of cat -and bird continued and Alexander saw to it that the cage-door was not -opened, developing an annoying habit of always being in the right, or -managing to appear so. - -"Don't worry your father, Alec," his mother said. - -"Worry him!" The anger which he found harder to subdue than any hunger -showed in his face, and brought more resemblance to his father than -either would have cared to see. "How else am I going to live? I've seen -wild things in the woods, and they all have weapons, one way or the -other. The daft ones just die." - -For a moment her courage seemed to faint, but she straightened her back -and spoke with her infectious hopefulness, her determination that all -was, or should be, well. - -"He's impatient, I know, but you're a bit of a mule, Alexander. And -you're both mine, and I won't let my belongings disagree. You've just -got to put up with it." - -"And am I not putting up with it?" he flamed out. - -"Alec, I'll tell you something. Will you understand? It's this way with -some women, as perhaps you'll see for yourself some day, when you've a -woman of your own. I feel sometimes that you two are both my sons, and -I've got to deal fairly by you both, and see that you do fairly by each -other. Now you've a bigger will than he has--you've found that out -already, and there's no harm in saying it--and it's for you to help, not -hinder, him. But mind, he's a better man than you are--yet. It's just -that he's weak in some ways. There's no need for you to despise him on -that account. Wait till you are tempted or--or see trouble. You're just -a baby, you know nothing, and you see fit to judge, when your real -business is to be a good son to him, never you mind what he is to you. -Call him your brother, and you'll find it easier. Not that I want to -make your way easier." She paused. "But I'd strew roses for him. Have -you got the geese in?" she added sharply. - -Edward Webb's talk with Alexander was interrupted by Clara's command -that the lamp be lighted, and Rutherford's entrance with the coal. - -"We shall have a lot of rain yet," he said. - -"Steep Water's getting fuller every minute," said Alexander. "D'you hear -her? She runs underground just behind the house, and out again by the -inn. She's roaring." - -"We shall have a fine night of shaking windows, and howling wind, and -creaking trees," said Clara, coming from the scullery. "This old house -will blow down some day." - -"No, no; it's rooted well." - -Rutherford went to the doorway and stood there and Clara took her sewing -to the table, where Alexander already sat under the lamplight. - -"Have you done your lessons?" she asked him. - -"To-morrow'll do." - -"To-night, my son. There might be an earthquake to-morrow, and it would -be a pity to leave anything unfinished." - -Edward Webb gave a little chuckle. Great drops of rain hissed on the -fire, and Rutherford, beyond the circle of light, began to pace the -floor. - -"Jim, I'll play chess with you." - -"I think I'll have to get a breath of air." - -"Not to-night. I shouldn't go out to-night." - -He made no answer, but went to the door again and stood there. Edward -Webb could hear him shifting from one foot to another, and he felt in -the air a disturbance he could not name. Outside, the wind was -shrieking, dashing itself against trees, walls, and counter-winds. It -played with the rain, and tried to outcry the steady roaring of the -streams. Within there was firelight, Clara sewing, Alexander at his -books, and a man growing drowsy in the armchair; but peace was not -there, for desire was trying to break through its prison-house, and its -struggles could be felt. - -Rutherford cleared his throat and again marched to and fro in the gloom. -"Well, I think I'll get on my boots," he said, and gave out another -cough. - -Clara stitched on, Alexander did not look up, and Edward Webb became -aware of more than that striving, imprisoned thing. He felt the contest -of human wills. He was afraid to move, lest he should throw the balance -to one side or the other, but he could see Clara's face, and he watched -it. He thought he saw decision and indecision chasing each other there -before she laid her work in her lap and spoke to Rutherford. - -"I wish you'd go to Janet's for me, Jim." - -"Is it important? I wasn't thinking of going that way." - -She hesitated before she answered. "Yes; I'd like you to go." - -"All right, I will if I have time." - -Alexander looked up swiftly, but dropped his chin into his hands again -and his eyes to his book. - -"Let me have your pen, Alec." She wrote a note while Rutherford pulled -on his boots. "Here, keep it in your pocket." She held out his overcoat, -and when he had put it on she laid her hands on his shoulders for an -instant. "Come back soon," Edward Webb heard her say softly, and then -there was the sound of Rutherford's boots in the yard. - -"Did you see to the geese, Alec?" It was her nightly question. - -"No. I'll do it now." - -"Better take your coat." - -He paused in his passage to the door. "But--oh ay, very well," he said. - -To the pleasant accompaniment of Clara's needle going through the cloth, -the storm without, and the crackling of the fire, Edward Webb fell into -one of those dozes when the head, after a few warning shakes, falls like -lead to the breast, and the sleeper is helplessly conscious of his -plight. He could hear the noises still, but now they mingled with his -dreams. The small ones were like little voices speaking to him, and the -great ones were the very stuff of which adventures could be made. He was -chased by a bear with an open mouth and panting breath--but he knew the -wind was answerable for that, and he was not afraid--and then a horde of -animals was let loose on him--and that was only Alexander getting the -fowls in for the night. He could hear his diligent threats and -persuasions, and the clatter of his wooden clogs, sudden, alarmed -clackings, and the fluttering of wings. - -He sat up, blinked, and smiled at Clara in what he thought was a wakeful -manner, but before his lips had straightened themselves his head was -down again. Something blotted out the glow of the fire on his face, and -he knew it was Clara putting on the kettle. He heard the splutter of the -drops that clung to it as they touched the flames. There was a murmuring -of voices next, and the sound of it was very soothing now that the fire -shone on him again. He heard the words, "He didn't go to Janet's," and -Clara's quick answering "Hush!" - -"I'm not asleep," he said, and his voice seemed very small and far away. - -"But you've been asleep," said Clara. - -"Have I? I--I beg your pardon. It was rude of me, but the fire and the -comfort and--and last night----" - -"Sleep again if you want to," she said. Her voice had the note women use -to tired children, and he understood that he must seem as helpless to -her as he sat there, half asleep, in the chair that was so much bigger -than himself. - -"No, oh no; I would rather not. I--I have never thanked you properly, -nor have I explained anything about myself. You don't know who I am. I -have been taken on trust--entirely on trust. You must believe me -grateful. My name----" - -"Alexander saw that in your books, Mr. Webb. You haven't left them in -the wet, Alec?" - -"No; he returned them, thank you, quite dry again. I must own that I was -anxious about them in the night. It's strange how little things like -that can worry one. Not that I think it a small thing to care for books, -but in the face of--of danger it became trivial." - -"You were in danger?" - -"Less than I thought. I could see nothing. I had not been in such a -position before, and I am afraid I am a nervous man, more easily alarmed -than one should be. Perhaps, with a little more determination----" He -stopped and stared into the fire. The dancing flames of it reminded him -of Theresa's hair. He went on with difficulty. "I am a traveller. I -mean, a commercial traveller." He seemed to expect reproof. - -Clara encouraged him. "Yes?" - -"I thought I would spend my Saturday and Sunday among the hills, and -here I am, but at this time last night I thought I should never see home -again." - -"There are people who would miss you, I expect." - -"Yes; my wife, two little girls." His face brightened. "It was Theresa, -the younger, who really sent me on this expedition. She wanted an -adventure, she told me, and so I had to get it for her." - -"How old is she?" This was from Alexander. - -"Ten. Ten." - -"Oh!" That was a stupid age, he thought. - -"Grace is twelve. Dear me! I ought to send a letter. Is it too late for -the post?" - -"There's not another till Monday morning." - -"Ah, then it will be best to send one to-morrow from the station. Thank -you. We live at Radstowe--a long way, you see." - -"Radstowe? That's a port, isn't it?" Alexander asked. - -"Yes, rather an unsatisfactory port, but it makes a beautiful city. I -live there for two weeks in each month, and travel for the other two, -and every other month I come this way." - -"Then," said Alexander, "you can come and stay with us again." - -"Yes; we shall expect you." - -"You are very kind. You--you could not have treated me better if you had -known me all your lives. I find it--a little strange." - -He thought of Monday, and dreaded meeting cold faces and hard, staring -eyes. There was a certain shop he never entered without a tremor, -because there was a girl there whom he had once seen winking at another -as he passed between the counters. She was a tall girl, with a high -colour and a great deal of hair. She made a joke of him--they all did, -no doubt--and as he approached the portals of that shop he had to take a -deep, sustaining breath before he could brave the merciless glances and -tolerantly twisted lips of the young women there. He knew how he looked, -how nervousness showed up all his disadvantages, and added to them. He -had seen himself in the great mirrors of the place--a small man, bowed -before his time, with thin hair growing grey, and anxious eyebrows. They -would naturally think him a funny little man, yet Nancy, who had a sense -of humour, did not laugh at him. He felt a new richness of gratitude -towards her. Ah! she was loyal, and it was a wonderful thing to love, to -be loved. - -Clara was speaking. "We have to help each other, up here; there are so -few of us. There's no doctor to run to, no chemist, no nurse to be had, -not even a general shop--that's three miles off. We nurse each other, -use each other's medicines, send each other's children scurrying on -errands, and we go to each other's doors and say, 'Can I have two ounces -of tea, please? and mother will let you have it back when the cart comes -round.' They're shy folks, close-tongued, but they're willing. It's just -a habit." - -"I wish it were a common one. We are afraid to help; afraid of -intruding. There are barriers everywhere. It makes our friends more -precious to us, perhaps." - -"It's all for the best, anyway," said Clara. "Let's have supper." - -The wind had lessened; it came no longer with bursts of anger, but, as -though craving pardon for its fury, it wailed and moaned about the -house. For once Clara forgot her optimism. - -"I cannot bear the wind like this," she said, when the meal was done, -the dishes washed, and they sat by the fire again. She had laid aside -her work and sat in a low chair, clasping and unclasping her hands. They -were large, firm hands, and Edward Webb guessed that when they were not -busy they were generally still. "It's like people who can't find their -way." - -"Janet says it's sins coming back on us." - -"Janet's full of tales." - -"She is that," said Alexander with satisfaction. - -"Alec, let's have the door shut. I feel as if something will get through -before we know it." - -"That's worse than Janet," he said, as he kicked away the large stone -which had held back the door. - -At ten o'clock he was bidden to bed. - -"I'll go if you do." - -"No, I shall stay up." - -"Then I will." - -"You mustn't, Alec." - -"But you're frightened of the wind. I'll not leave you." - -"No, no." She shook her head. "It doesn't do, Alec; you know that." - -"You'll let me stay with you, please," Edward Webb said timidly. - -"You cannot let him do it, mother!" There was almost anguish in -Alexander's voice. - -"He must go to bed, too. Why, I've sat here alone on many a winter -night." - -"But I am not sleepy," Edward protested solemnly. - -"Oh, very well, very well. You shall stay for a little while--only a -little while. You promise to go when I tell you? Good-night, Alec." - -"I shall read in bed," he said sullenly. - -"Don't set yourself alight, then." - -"Oh, mother----" She always said that to him. - -The kitchen was filled with a brooding silence when he had gone; it hung -heavily about the man and woman who tried to talk as though they had no -thought beyond the words which came so slowly until Edward Webb gave way -to his wish to talk about his children. Experience and Nancy's -promptings had taught him that no subject brought people to yawns more -quickly and, indeed, it was too sacred to be dragged before -indifference, but he felt hopeful of Clara for the warmth and breadth of -motherliness were plain in her. Moreover, it was necessary that -something should be said, and she was silent. He could hear the rubbing -of her hands against each other. - -"May I tell you about my little girls?" he said. - -"Will you?" Her smile was not the perfunctory one which had disheartened -him sometimes. "I should like to have had a daughter," she added. - -His shyness fell from him as he talked. He told her of Grace's beauty -and her skill in dancing, he told her of Theresa's cleverness. - -"Is she pretty, too?" - -"No. No, I suppose you wouldn't call her pretty, but it doesn't seem to -matter. Why, I hadn't even thought of it before. Theresa is not like -other children." - -This was what Clara had thought, but never said, of her own son. - -"I have great hopes of her, but she is very young. One cannot tell yet -how she will develop. But she shows signs of----" - -"Hush!" Clara interrupted him on the verge of his precious revelation. -They heard footsteps. Was it the dark night and the rough road that -caused their loud unevenness? - -"I think you'd better go to bed now," she said quietly. "Good-night." - -"Good-night," he said, and went up the unlighted stairs. As he reached -the landing a bedroom door was opened, and Alexander showed himself in -his nightshirt. - -"Is he back?" he asked. - -"He has just come. I think," he whispered--"I think your mother wished -us to be quiet." - -"Hush!" said Alexander, "he'll hear nothing," and he banged his door. - -Downstairs a key was turned in a lock, and the ashes were raked together -in the grate. A few indistinguishable words floated up, and after a long -pause there came the violent creaking of the stairs. It was a long time -before Edward Webb could sleep. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -Clara outwatched him. She lay in the extraordinary stillness to which -she had trained herself, with patiently closed eyes and an untroubled -brow, but there was the pain of controlled weeping in her throat. She -had taught herself to keep her mind clear of regrets, of anger and -scorn, that there might always be room for the flooding brightness of -her love, but she had not yet learnt to keep back that hard, -constricting hurt that stretched across her throat from ear to ear, and -made a raw place in her breast. - -At her side Rutherford turned, tossed, and ejaculated between his -snatches of sleep. - -"Oh, damn the drink! Clara." - -"Yes?" - -"Did I wake you?" - -"No." She smiled at the ceiling. - -"I can't sleep." - -"You've been to sleep, Jim." - -"I tell you I haven't. Clara, are you angry with me? Look here, I hadn't -been there for a month, you know I hadn't." - -"Yes, I know." - -"And I've told you how it comes on me." - -"Go to sleep, Jim." - -"I can't. Thoughts come crowding like black imps. If you'll forgive -me----" - -"Oh yes, I'll forgive; how many times does the Bible say? Let me put my -arm round you. There." In the dark room the pillars at the foot of the -uncurtained four-poster bed seemed to watch and listen. - -"Did that chap know where I'd gone?" - -"I didn't tell him, but he may have guessed. Very likely, I should -think." - -"Couldn't you have----" - -"No, I couldn't, Jim. If you're going to be proud you must have reason -for it. You can tell your own lies, or act a truth you're not ashamed -of." - -He flung himself out of reach of her arm. "Oh, why can I not have peace? -Preaching at me when my nerves are in this state!" - -"Did you go to Janet's?" - -"No, I didn't. Clara!" She made no answer. "Clara!" - -"Well?" - -"I'm wretched. I'm afraid of falling out of bed. Why should I feel like -this? It makes other people sleepy." - -She laughed aloud. "Oh, Jim, Jim, Jim!" - -"For God's sake, don't make that noise. It's not canny in the night. -What are you laughing at?" - -"At you, my dear. Oh me!" - -"Will you put your arm round me again? What a devil I've been to you. -Don't desert me. I'll start again if you'll help me." - -She drew him to her. "There, then. You're just a child, a little child." - -As she lay with her lips against his hair, steadying her breath that he -might not be disturbed, she felt that he was more her son than Alexander -was. Only for a few years had Alexander looked to her for all his needs; -he had soon grown strong and self-reliant, and changed from baby to -friend almost before she was aware, but this poor Jim, with his head on -her breast, might never have known another resting-place, and it was his -confidence in her, the demand for the comfort she could give, that -satisfied the mother in her, and discounted all his weaknesses. It was -perhaps as well that the daughter for whom she had wished had not been -given to her, for in that house there was not room for two women, let -alone two women of Clara's make, and there would have been contests -with no Solomon to give decision, while now, denied a daughter, Clara -was both rich and supreme. She had been born to cradle men and children, -to caress them and buffet them at her wise will, and with the instinct -which makes mothers care most for their feebler children, she loved -people in proportion to their need of her. There had never been any -danger that Alexander would outstrip his father in her affections, and -if Rutherford could have understood her quality, he would have realized -that he need not be jealous of his son. But it was more than jealousy -that influenced his dealings with Alexander, for the boy had been born -in a black hour, and to the father's eyes the shadow lay on him so -persistently that at last he seemed to have created it. Of the three, -only Clara truly understood its genesis, for the circumstances had -permanently affected Rutherford's vision, inclining it to obliqueness, -and Alexander could remember no life before this one in the old white -house. - -When Clara had met James Rutherford she was living as companion--that -refuge for the penniless woman of her generation--to three ladies who -were all at different stages of elderliness and all exacting, but she -had not been one of the typical companions of romance; she was not meek -and forbearing and tearful, nor of that defiant nature which, in -fiction, wins all hearts. She was her sensible and cheerful self; she -was sorry for the old ladies, and she enjoyed being kind to them, for -she had very strongly that quality of helpfulness which all women are -expected to have, and are blamed for not possessing. The old ladies in -all their experience had never before had for companion a nice-looking -young woman who considered herself their friend, chose their clothes -with as much attention as she gave to her own, and had a fund of -interesting things to tell them, including the progress of her love -affairs. - -"Has he made you an offer yet?" one of them said wistfully, with one eye -on Clara as a bride, and the other on a lost companion. - -"No," Clara answered demurely, hiding the fact that she had not so much -as spoken to the dark-faced young man whom she sometimes met in her -walks, and whom in a dull hour she had once described with such vivacity -and feeling that her hearers were sure she had lost her heart to him; -consequently, that the young man must at least have hinted at his -devotion, or she could hardly have condescended to love him. - -"You mustn't give up hope, my dear. There may be reasons." - -"There are," Clara said darkly, and left her old friend in a flutter. - -"There are reasons," she told her sisters. "It will all come right in -the end." - -Clara noticed, with some amusement, that her meetings with the tall -young man were growing more and more frequent. When she set out on her -morning errands he would often chance to pass the gate, and she came to -look for his long figure on her walks, even to think that day -unprofitable on which she did not see him. At length he sat opposite to -her at church, gazing at her with unhappy eyes throughout the service, -and after that she ceased to talk about him, and the old ladies, -thinking she suffered, gave her unexpected little presents of sweetmeats -or knitted cuffs. - -At last and, it may be supposed, out of her ready pity and desire to -help, she contrived as he went by to drop a little packet from her muff. -It was a very ancient trick to play, she knew, and merriment was -lighting her eyes and twitching the corners of her mouth as she stood -there in the snow and watched him pounce on the treasure with such an -eagerness of service. She was half-ashamed of herself, but wholly amused -until she saw his eyes as he returned the parcel. He looked hungry, and -the laughter ebbed from her face as, with a strange mixture of horror -and elation, she knew that if he really wanted her he could have her. - -His courtship was rapid and their engagement short, but its permanence -was threatened, for when she learnt that he was idly living on the small -income left him by a father who had refused to give him a trade or a -profession, she said she would not marry him until he found one. - -"But you can't pick one up by the roadside," he explained with justice. - -"But how, oh how, did you ever consent to such wickedness?" - -"Ah, you never saw my father," he said. - -"I'd like to see him now," she answered angrily, but she wasted no -energy on regrets. She realized that the acquiring of a profession would -entail a loss of time to which neither was willing to submit, and then -one night, as she sat over the fire after the old ladies had gone to -bed, she remembered an incident which had impressed her girlhood. -Driving through a little village once, she had seen, standing back from -the road and fronted by a cobbled courtyard, a white-washed inn. There -were bay-trees in tubs before the door, and at the side of the house a -garden with clipped yews, but, better than all, just beyond the doorway -there had stood a man and a woman with a child on her arm. Something in -their attitude, something simple and content and elemental, had made the -picture unforgettable. Why should not she and Jim have a little inn like -that? He had capital, and they both had strength, and theirs should be a -model public-house, with good entertainment for man and beast, and a -welcome for every traveller. Rutherford met the proposal doubtfully. -"Well, I don't know," he said. "I don't know that it's wise." But he -went no further, and indeed her enthusiasm must have silenced him. Their -inn was to be in some beautiful part of the country where people would -like to stay, and it was not to be primarily a place for the sale of -liquor, and people should not be encouraged to spend their evenings in -hanging over the bar. - -"It seems to me," he said drily, "that you'd better sell ginger beer." - -"We shall, of course. But it's the visitors I'm counting on, Jim. We'll -show that England can produce a good, cheap inn." - -They found the place they wanted among the hills and trout streams, and -they had not long been there when Clara learnt that her husband drank, -not violently, but with incipient ruin. - -"I shouldn't do it," he protested, "if I wasn't so near the stuff." - -"Why didn't you tell me?" she cried. - -"I tried, but I daren't. You wouldn't have married me." - -"Yes I should; but I'd never have bought the inn. It must be put up for -sale. Write to the agents to-night and swear, if you love me, you'll -never touch anything again. We'll get a man to attend to the bar and -you'd better see to the garden; it wants digging all over." - -This was how she had met her tragedy, but at that time she had good hope -of frustrating it. Her husband was rarely out of her sight, and she kept -him at hard manual labour without any attempt at concealing her design. -And they were both happy. He learnt to trust her, and when desire came -heavily upon him he went to her and asked, without shame, for help. That -was their safeguard; but it was removed on the night when Alexander was -born. In a pitiable state of anxiety Rutherford found his way into the -bar and began to drink. His fear fell from him after a glass or two, -and, to encourage its departure, he drank on. The barman, who had been -drawn to Clara's service from the plough, and was himself a father, -tried to persuade him to go away. - -"The mistress will be wanting you soon; you'd better be within call." - -"You mind your own business, Potts. Potts! Were you always called Potts -or did we change your name to match the bar? Potts! Good name that! I'll -have some whisky, Potts." - -"No, now, really I shouldn't." But for themselves, the place was empty -and the good man remonstrated. "Think of the mistress up there, now. You -know she wouldn't like it. 'Potts,' she said, 'look after the master for -me. Now I trust you,' she said." - -"Get out of my way, you fool! I'll help myself." - -"For God's sake, hush, man! She'll hear you. Just you go out quietly and -sit down in the parlour and cool yourself. Come along, now. We don't -want to have trouble to-night." - -"Who's having trouble? All quite happy an' lively. Never felt better; -and if you don't get out of my way and let me have that drink, -I'll--I'll fell you, Potts." - -Nothing of this he remembered afterwards, and it seemed to him that he -only began to live when he heard the thud of the man's body as it -dropped to the floor, the tinkle of a broken glass and the gentle -dripping of the liquor that had been in it. He thought it was the blood -of Potts that he had spilt, and then from upstairs he heard the voice of -Clara crying out from the midst of her pain, "Jim, Jim, what are you -doing? Come up here, I want you." - -And before he could remember anything but his own distress he had obeyed -her and fallen to his knees beside the bed, telling her that Potts was -lying on the floor, he believed he had killed Potts. - -The nurse, who was both blunt and burly, seized him by the shoulders. -"Get out of it this minute," she said, "or you'll be killing someone -else." - -"No, let him stay," said Clara faintly. "Go and see what's the matter. -He'll be quiet." - -Rutherford saw with amazement and then with the dreadful beginnings of -understanding and remembrance, that there was a new crease in her -forehead and her lips were white and thin. - -"Clara--Clara," he began. - -But she said: "Hush! Don't talk. Just let me hold your hand." - -It was strange and terribly revealing to hear her ask for help, and he -was more than sobered by the time the nurse returned from bawling over -the banisters, "Potts, are you all right?" and getting answer, "Ay, I'm -that," in a tone of menace. - -"Now, out you go!" she said, and locked the door upon him. - -He went, staggering, to the bar, and stared at Potts, who was wiping -down the counter. He put a hand to his forehead, for thought was growing -dim again. - -"I'm not sure," he said, "what happened. Did I--did I----" - -"Yes, you did," said Potts, "and if it wasn't for the mistress I'd give -you another. You're not fit to live." - -"That's true," said Rutherford; "that's perfectly true. I'll go out and -think about it." - -When he returned, after long wanderings in the dark, he was told he had -a son, but he would not look at what he considered the cause of that -night's work, and later, when reason had more force with him, he still -refused to concern himself with the child, for, at the sight of his -small, solemn face and thick, black hair there always arose a mist -through which there moved pictures of Potts lying on the floor amidst -the broken glass and Clara with that changed, white face. He suffered -from an unspeakable shame which was the greater that Clara never -reproached him; but, as time wore on, and, following her wishes as well -as his, they left the place for this little house among the lonelier -hills, his shame became absorbed into a sense of grievance against the -child. - -"You see," he would say to Clara, almost in triumph, when, in answer to -a scowl, Alexander set up a cry, "he hates me!" - -"He'd hate me if I looked like you," she replied, with rare sharpness. -"If you'd only learn to be honest with yourself, my man, things would be -better for us all." - -Instead of honesty, he developed a fractious gloom which seldom changed -to anything but despair, and if Clara did not lose her courage at this -time, it may be that her buoyancy drooped a little. Yet she made him -work. There was waste ground behind the house, and, after constant -urging and encouragement from Clara, who also found time to ask Heaven -to mete adequate punishment on his father, he made it into a garden of -which he was proud, and when she saw him working there, with a cleared -brow, she felt that, after all, they had not made such a bad thing of -their lives. - -There remained the problem of Alexander, for the attitude of the menfolk -towards each other grew bitterer with the years, and she passed her days -in dread of ultimate violence; but it did not do, she found, to live too -much in the future, experiencing troubles which a wise optimism might -frustrate, and so, following the creatures of the wilds, she had -developed those characteristics which were most likely to preserve -herself and hers, until, like the willingness of her neighbours, her -heroic effort had become a habit. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -Early on the Saturday morning when her father was expected to return, -Theresa awoke and, quickly flinging off the bedclothes, sat up with a -jerk. The busy fingers of the wind were tapping at the pane, calling her -to come out and play, and from the bottom of the hill there rose a more -imperative summons, the hooting of a steamer making her way out of the -docks. It was high tide, and she smiled her pleasure, hugging her knees. -Every day that sound was borne up to her on the hill, like a trumpet -call to life. From the window of the bedroom which she shared with Grace -she could see the ships, and she believed that cry of theirs was to give -her greeting or farewell. The steamers spoke for themselves, but the -sailing ships borrowed the voices of the tugs that took them down the -river and even in the quiet and mystery of night they did not forget -her. Lying awake, she would wave her hand to them, and as she stared at -the square of dark sky framed in the window, she would fancy she looked -upward from the deck of some sea-going ship, saw the sky streaked and -crossed by the masts and yards above, or mistily, behind a waving flag -of smoke. But that voice of the ships was more than the salute of -friends; there were times when she heard it as a call, a command, or a -sweet persuasion. It called her into the darkness of the night and the -crash of storm, and then, for all she lay snug and safe in bed, she felt -the wind buffeting her, tasted the salt on her lips; or, if the night -were very still and warm, she thought she sailed under a sky of -immeasurable blackness, pricked with stars. She heard the ship swishing -through the water, black, too, as though mirroring the sky, heard the -creaking sounds among the cordage and the spars, and the orders coming -clear and loud into the darkness. - -What a morning for going out to sea, with the wind fresh, the air -smelling of all clean things, the sunlight gilding the world! Her eyes -danced as she watched the clouds sailing past her window, driven by the -lusty breeze; these were the boats of the sky--great galleons, little -yachts, riding majestically or bobbing gaily across the blue. - -She turned her head sharply to look at the sleeper by her side. "Grace!" -she said, and shook her. "Grace! Wake up, you lazy thing! It's a fine -day." - -For answer, Grace's head was rolled from side to side, and her nose -buried more deeply in the pillow. - -"You're fat!" said Theresa, pricking a soft cheek with her forefinger; -"fat, fat, fat!" - -She flung herself on her back and looked at the ceiling. Across its -rather dirty surface many cracks had spread themselves, and these -furnished Theresa with the scene for an epic in which the adventures of -a courageous family were described. The cracks represented roads, -rushing rivers, and precipitous mountains, according to their shape and -size, and all the weary way from the crack that began near the window to -the safety of the damp stain by the door, that family had to travel. -Each morning she led them a few miles across the waste and there was -never a mile without excitement. There were storms at night when tents -were blown down on their unhappy heads, and must be put up again with no -light for guidance but the reason of a child of ten who alone remained -unafraid; there were combined attacks on their camp by wolves and -tigers, who seemed quite impervious to climate, when fires were lighted -and each member of the party sat with a rifle across her knees; there -were dust storms in the desert, and, not less swift and overwhelming, -onslaughts by brigands clothed as Arabs and riding horses winged like -Pegasus. Precipices must be scaled and swollen rivers crossed, but no -life or battle was ever lost by this gallant company. They would reach -their destination with little scathe, but so great was Theresa's -interest that she could always preserve the necessary illusion and grow -hot and cold with fear for them. - -This morning she found she could not lose herself in these perils, for -the boats were calling her too persistently; moreover, she must husband -these adventures if they were to last until the dark mornings came, when -the cracks would be invisible and she must rise by candlelight, so she -gave Grace a parting thump and sprang out of bed. - -As she stood at the window, she felt the delicious cold of the bare -boards to her feet and the wind fluttering the frills of her nightgown. -Holding her hands to her throat, she looked out on the untidy sloping -garden with the old apple-tree at its foot. So close to the garden that, -in the autumn, apples were found in its grass, the disused cemetery -continued the descent, studded with grey, mossy stones and spreading -willows--a place of ghosts--and, as if drawn thither by its eerie -neighbourhood, a monumental stone-mason had his yard on the other side -of the road at Theresa's right hand, a road running steeply to the busy -street that edged the river and the docks. But if Theresa looked from -her window, letting her eyes take flight over the river and the shipping -and the level fields that lay on the further side, she saw a great -stretch of meadow land which sought the clouds. It spread from left to -right, for the whole width of her vision, and at night it seemed to -stand up like a wall. The land behind that rampart seemed very far away, -but not beyond her reach, and she meant to get there--not this morning, -for the boats were calling to her, but on some day when spring flowers -were appearing in the hedges. - -She lowered her eyes to the shining intricacies of the waterways, the -wide dock basins, the locks, the river and its arms, all spanned by -bridges. She saw the masts of sailing ships rising from the midst of -houses, like slender chimneys for these roofs of many colours and -varying heights. There was dirty smoke issuing from tugs to throw a -mourning veil over the water, there were shouts and whistlings and -hootings, low-voiced warnings from the steamers, shrill shrieks of joy. -"We're going! Look out!" they grunted, and then, on a cry, "We're free! -We're free!" She could stay indoors no longer, and she pulled on her -clothes. - -When she reached the docks a sailing ship was in the river, following a -little tug with a reproving grace, under which she hid her limitations -from herself. There were men looking over her side and waving farewell -with such attractive foreign gestures that Theresa stood close to the -water's edge and gazed, with her hands tightly clasped behind her. The -wind acted like a great fan on her hair, stirring it at its roots and -flinging its long red fingers all about her head, thrumming, too, on her -short skirts, lifting them with a twist, and whipping her -tight-stockinged legs. She blinked the hair from her eyes or tossed it -back with a movement of the head, and sometimes she held down her dress -with strangely modest little hands, but she did all impatiently, worried -by the necessity of remembering such things among the sights of these -ocean-going ships, foreigners, and authoritative dockmen issuing orders. - -The swing-bridge had swung back to allow some workmen to cross the -water, and another yoked pair waited until it should open again to let -them out. At a whistled signal the way was cleared, the tug snorted -forward and passed close under Theresa's eyes. In one deep draught of -sight she saw it all--the flat broad deck, the dirty men who had so -little likeness to her idea of sailors, the friendly grin one man sent -up to her, the marvellous rope of steel binding the little steamer to -the towering ship which was too wonderful and bewildering in form to be -remembered rightly after her quick passage. But Theresa looked -greedily, and for days there stayed in her memory the vision of the long -grey ship, her great masts growing upwards, swaying a little, too, the -multitude of ropes and other things of which she did not know the names, -of which it was astonishing that anyone could remember the names, and -the whole thing following so meekly, with such submission, in the wake -of the grimy tug. It went to Theresa's heart that anything so lovely -should be dependent, and with sad eyes she watched the passage of that -procession. She peered up at the ship as it passed; the last detaining -rope was flung from it and fell heavily into the water, to be drawn up, -dripping, by a jerseyed dockman, who looked at Theresa quizzically. - -"Like to go to sea?" he asked genially. "'Ave to be a little boy 'fore -you can do that," he added cheerfully, pulling at the rope and walking -away as the wet end of it came over the side. "Don't 'ee slip into the -water, little miss." - -She tightened her mouth when he had gone, for she was shy of strangers, -and this one had hurt her with the truth. She felt that the man had read -her thoughts, her brave desires to sail the sea, and she could have wept -that he should know her secrets. She had been so happy looking at the -boats, picturing them cargoed with cutlasses, monkeys, tarry ropes, and -strange stuffs of foreign make and brilliance, all the garner of her -reading and her quick eyes, fancying herself free to sail away if she -would, and forgetting she was a girl. She so easily forgot her -disabilities. Never mind! She made queer little gestures with her hands, -and steadied her lips. She had not really wanted to be a sailor; she -was, indeed, in some confusion as to a profession. At one time the -career of a circus lady laid siege to her mind, and assaulted it with -such fierceness and effect that only the thought of her parents' sorrow -held her back from imploring them to let her go and learn to jump -through hoops from the back of a cream-coloured steed, to stand on -tiptoe on its moving haunches, and kiss pretty fingers to a cheering -crowd. There was a life! How the ring-master cracked his whip, and the -horse sprang forward, and the lady stood on those little feet and never -slipped! Theresa liked the clothes that lady wore: sometimes a costume -of scanty pink, neck and arms bare and beautiful, and little flat shoes -secured with cross-gartering to the slim legs, or, in the more stately -parts of the performance, a rich riding-habit of green velvet and a hat -with a sweeping plume; gauntlets, too, and shining boots with yellow -tops. There was something very dashing about that profession, but what -of nursing? How would it feel to be a Florence Nightingale, with a grave -sweet face, and men turning in their cots to bless one's shadow? But no, -she could not fit herself into the part. - -But while she turned continually from one tempting vision to another, -her father had already found a future for her, and one which would fill -up the gaps in his own existence, and atone for his own failures. - -"I would rather be Keats," he had told her one day as they walked -together in the country, "than all the conquerors in the world." - -"Would you?" she said, and held his hand fast. She liked conquerors. -"What's Keats?" - -He had told her the poet's tale, and that evening he had found her with -the book open on her knee. - -"I like it," she said, and sat silent, moving her lips. She had no wish -to understand it; the sound and the mystery were enough for her, and -that discovery set him dreaming. Cunningly, he dropped little fragments -of knowledge that tempted her to stoop and pick them up, fit them -together like a puzzle, and search for more. As if by accident the names -of women of the craft slipped from his lips and, when she would know -more about them, he showed her where their books stood on his shelves. -She was born to a natural love of books--the feel and smell and sight of -them--and the thought that men and women made them so that for centuries -they should outlive their own poor human bodies was full of poetry for -her. It came to her this morning like a balm, healing the wound made by -that genial sailor. He did not know what she was going to be some day, -in a future so remote, though shining, that effort to reach it was at -present gloriously needless. She would get there; she was already -soaring to the heights. She lifted her head, her hair flew free, her -hands fluttered like fallen leaves before a wind, and as they are -driven, so, elfishly and gaily, she danced along, restored to her belief -in herself; so skilfully could Theresa in these days fit herself into -the pictures she loved best. Now she was hardly concerned with the -details of the life she had chosen; she knew she was to be a person; the -rest was no more than the garments which were to clothe her, and fill -the sailor and his kind with awe. - -Wind-blown, happy, hungry, she mounted homewards, climbed the garden -wall, and entered the house, as she had left it, by the garden door. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -From the end of the dark basement passage she heard the sound of someone -shovelling coal. - -"Is that you, Bessie?" she called with a tremor in her voice, for even -in the daytime the gloom had perils for her. "Bessie, is it you?" - -Round the cellar door a capped head appeared and vanished. - -"Of course it's me. Who else gets the coals--or does anything else in -this 'ouse?" - -Theresa ignored the implication, but she felt it sorely, and at the same -time she pitied Bessie. Justice forced her to the admission that she had -scanty help, and the sight of her now holding a dripping candle in one -hand, and in the other a shovel into which she heaped the coal with a -felt-shod foot, gave her a blurred impression to which thus early she -could put no name, of physical energy ill-controlled. Bessie, in the -bowels of the earth, struggling ineffectually, wasting time because with -one hand she must hold that tallow candle which gave off such an -offensive smell; grumbling, but toiling doggedly, with all the labour of -the day looming up before her like a great ash-heap which she must -remove unaided--there was little here of the dignity of labour; it was -chaotic, dark, grimy. Theresa felt herself bewildered by the endlessness -and the dirt of it. There was no danger to enliven it, no beauty to make -it noble; the house did not catch fire, though chimneys smoked and food -was burnt. No, there was nothing glorious in Bessie's life. And -Theresa's own was to be so brilliant! Poor Bessie, it was not all her -fault. - -Theresa moved from one foot to the other, and said: "Is mother awake?" - -"Yes, but she's breakfasting in bed. 'Asn't slept, so she says. 'Eart -bad." - -"I wish she didn't have such a bad heart," said Theresa, looking Bessie -fairly in the eyes. The reality of her mother's complaint was not very -present with her, and Bessie had not tried to hide a like incredulity -which may have had its influence with the child, but Theresa was loyal -to her mother. If she wanted to have a weak heart she must be supported -in her desire, against all the sneers of the kitchen, though Bessie was -Theresa's friend. - -"So can I, I can tell you. Out of the way, Miss Terry dear." She carried -a large scuttle to the kitchen. Theresa followed. - -"I think I'd better go and wake Grace, don't you?" - -"She won't get up unless. Such laziness! And you'll have to have your -breakfasts in the kitchen; I can't be carrying them all up and down the -house." - -"Oh no! And we like it here. Bessie, is everybody's kitchen as dark as -ours?" - -"I should think not. You should see Alice's at Mrs. Bendall's. It's on -the ground floor and as light! But these old-fashioned 'ouses 'ave no -'earts. Pit ponies, that's what they make me think of." - -"I suppose you could get a better place if you wanted to, couldn't you?" - -"Now you mind your own business, Miss Theresa, and wake Miss Grace. I'll -have your breakfasts ready in five minutes. And don't wake your mother. -P'raps she's gone off again." - -Theresa dragged the bedclothes from a plump and smiling Grace, and put -them beyond her reach. "Get up," she said. "This is a nice day. Father's -coming home. If he travelled in the night he'll be here at ten, and if -he didn't he won't be here till tea. I hope he'll come at ten. I think -he will. Oh, do get up. If I were a fairy I'd turn you into that girl -with the fat legs." - -"You silly!" - -"I saw her yesterday, and she'd got a longer skirt on, but it didn't -hide them. I can't bear to see her; I think she must be so unhappy. What -would you do if you had legs like that?" - -"Dance and dance and dance," said Grace, jumping up in the bed and -making the springs creak. - -"But you couldn't." - -"Yes I could. I could dance if I hadn't any legs at all." - -"That's stupid. And don't make such a noise. Mother's in bed." - -"Then why did you leave the door open and talk so loud?" - -"I didn't talk loud. I've got a little voice. I can never hear myself -singing at prayers in school, though I try till I get that horrid aching -in my ears. So I don't bother very much now, and I just move my mouth. I -tried in the glass, and it looks the same. Oh, I wish we'd had -breakfast, and it was ten o'clock. I think I'll go and have it." - -In the kitchen Bessie was moving from table to cupboard in that dark -groping way of hers. - -"I've been more than five minutes," said Theresa. - -"Well, I couldn't get the fire to burn. What a grate! Here, Miss Terry, -finish laying for me while I stir the porridge. And your father will be -back hungry, I daresay, and your mother wanting her tray! That's her -bell. Just run up and see what she wants." - -Theresa met her mother on the landing going to the bath. Her fair waving -hair was piled confusedly on the top of her head; she wore a long blue -dressing-gown, which was the colour of her eyes, and over her shoulder -she had flung a towel. Theresa thought she looked very lovely, and she -clasped her hands in her quick movement of joy. - -"Oh," she said, "are you better?" and tiptoed to be kissed. - -"So this is a kissing morning, is it?" said Nancy, with her little -tilting smile. - -Theresa nodded. "When you look like that! Did you want anything?" - -"Only to tell Bessie I'll have breakfast with Father when he comes. It -wouldn't do to be in bed when he arrived. We won't tell him I wasn't -well, Terry, or he'll never want to go away again." - -"He doesn't anyhow," she said. "But I won't tell." - -"Mother's up," she shouted to Bessie as she went jumping down the -stairs. "Let's have breakfast. Oh, Grace, you have been quick. You can't -have done your hair properly." - -"I did, then." - -"Brushed your teeth?" - -"Miss Terry, you're very uppish this morning. Just mind your own -business, and eat what's put before you. If you were as perticler as -Miss Grace----" - -"Oh, Bessie, the porridge is burnt! Oh, how hateful!" - -"It's not very bad," said Grace soothingly. "If you think of something -nice you'll hardly taste it." - -"D'you think I'm going to eat it? I hate the stuff anyway; nasty, -drab-coloured mess! It makes me think of what pigs have to eat." - -"Miss Theresa, for shame! If your mother would get me a new saucepan, a -double one--but I think you're likely to have burnt porridge every -morning. _I_ haven't time to stand over the pot stirring." - -"And it smells! Take it away--take it away! And I'm hungry. And the -tablecloth's so dirty." - -"It's Saturday." - -"And why don't we have flowers always, and pretty silvery things like -Mrs. Emery has?" - -"Oh, be quiet, you little grumbler." - -"Here's a crust for you, Terry, a nice burnt one, the kind you like." - -"You're spoiling her, Miss Grace. I'd let her starve. Which side did you -get out of your bed this morning?" - -"Oh, Bessie, don't. I hate that saying. And I got out on the right side, -too. I went to the docks. I like them. I saw a boat go through--a -beauty." - -"You'll fall into the water one of these days." - -Theresa leaned her elbows on the table and nursed her chin. - -"What do you think," she asked, "would happen if I did? It's dirty -water. I should go splash and get a mouthful. It might make me sick. And -then?" - -Gently waving her teacup, Bessie elaborated. "They'd fish you out--with -a 'ook." - -"Dead?" - -"I should think so. Or p'raps garsping. Your hair'd be black and -plastered, and there'd be little bits of things clinging to you." - -Theresa clapped her hands. "Oh, you are good at it!" - -But Grace cried: "No, no. It's horrid. Be quiet. It's much worse than -the porridge. You're spoiling the bread and butter now!" - -"We'll wait till we're alone, Bessie," Theresa said with a confidential -nod. - -When she had helped Grace to make the beds--the one piece of discipline -on which their mother insisted--Theresa went into the little-used -drawing-room to watch for her father. It was a dreary room in which a -fire was seldom lighted except on Christmas Day, and even in summer-time -it smelt of cold. The chairs were what Theresa called "rheumatic" on -account of the twisted nature of their legs, and the clock, which stood -on the mantelpiece and was never wound, presented a supercilious face to -anyone who entered. On the walls there were a few faded watercolour -sketches which might have been of anywhere, and a chiffonier, filled -with odds and ends, stood opposite the fireplace. An empty -photograph-frame on a wicker table was emblematic of the place. When -Theresa went there she always propped open the door, because she said -the room made her feel so lonely, and this though, as Bessie pointed -out, there was a portrait of a maternal grandparent on either side of -the hearth. - -She opened the window wide and leaned out until she was in danger of -falling into the area, but finding she could not see far enough down the -street, she ran out at the front door and on to the mossy old pavement. -It seemed a long time before she saw her father turn the corner of -Chesterfield Row, and wave his hand to her. - -She ran to meet him. "Hullo, hullo!" - -"Well, autumn leaf?" He bent to kiss her, and with a hand on his -shoulder she whispered: "Did you get it? You know what!" - -"Yes," he said, "I did. A very good one." - -"Tell me!" - -"Oh, not yet. We must keep it till after tea." - -"I don't think I can wait." - -"We'll have the fire lighted, but not the gas." - -"Oh, is it that kind?" - -"It is indeed." - -"How lovely. But I'm glad I sleep with Grace." - -"But I shan't tell it at all if I hear you've been bad-tempered." - -"I think that's rather mean," she said. "We didn't make that -arrangement. Don't you think it's rather mean yourself?" - -"Well," he said thoughtfully, "perhaps it is. It ought to have been in -the bargain." - -"I haven't been very bad, anyway. It's been such nice weather for one -thing." - -"You find that makes a difference?" he asked gravely. - -"Oh yes. Don't you? Come on. You're rather slow. Mother's going to have -breakfast with you. Shall I carry your bag? I can, really. Well, let me -help. I'm strong, you know." - -On the doorstep Nancy met him, and turned her soft cheek to his mouth. -"Tired, dear?" she asked in her sweet, high voice. - -"Very tired." - -"Get Father's slippers, Terry." - -"I've lost another customer, and if this goes on--thank you, Theresa." -He sat on the stairs, and unlaced his boots. - -"Go and tell Bessie, dear. She heard you, Ned." - -His anxious face took on a greyer shade. "Did she? How careless of me! -Perhaps she did not understand. But indeed, Nancy, I am worried, and I -cannot blame myself for this. A pure misfortune which might have -happened to anyone." - -"You shall tell me when you have had breakfast, dear. You must not get -disheartened. If only you were a little more conceited, Ned!" - -The breakfast-room in the basement was the most cheerful in the house. -The kitchen was frankly underground, but the breakfast-room benefited -from the sloping ground at the back, and its French windows opened on -the garden. Here were the piano, Nancy's work-basket and novels, and the -dolls which Grace had not yet discarded. The room had a pleasant air of -use, and this morning a clean cloth was spread in honour of the master's -breakfast, and Grace, inspired by Theresa's complaint, had arranged a -spray of autumn-hued creeper on the table. - -Theresa was drumming her fingers on the window. She could see smoke -rising from the docks, but at this lower level she could not see the -ships. She turned as her father entered. - -"Was that the adventure," she asked him quietly, "losing that man?" - -"No--oh no, my dear." - -"Did you find him again?" - -"I didn't really lose him, Theresa. It's just a business expression." - -"Oh!" She sighed. "I wish it was tea-time." - -"What's going to happen then?" asked Nancy, lifting the tea-cosy. - -"Ah," said Theresa. - -"I know," said Grace. "Father's going to tell you what happened to him -on the mountain." - -"Oh yes, Terry, of course--the great adventure!" - -Theresa's face had grown very red. Her lips trembled a little. "You -didn't tell them, did you?" she asked. - -"Yes, Theresa, I told Mother about it in a letter." - -"And Mother told me--for a secret." - -She tried to steady her lips. "But it was _our_ secret. Oh, why did you -tell them? Oh, you've spoilt it all!" The corners of her mouth had -dropped to their utmost limits, tears were flowing and sobs coming fast, -and, angered by her own weakness, she stamped her foot, shaking her -little body violently. "Oh, how horrid of you! W-why did you tell them? -I don't want to hear about it now. I hate it, I hate it; I hate you all! -Treating me like a baby!" She turned to Grace. "You nasty thing!" she -cried, and smacked her face. - -"Theresa!" - -"I don't care--I don't care!" Clenching her hands and setting her teeth, -her face as flaming as her hair, she lifted a foot and made a vicious -thrust at her sister, but Grace, giggling through her alarm, managed to -dodge the blow. Both her own failure and Grace's good-nature increased -Theresa's passion. - -"You pig!" she cried. "You coward! I wish I had a knife! When we go to -bed I'll kill you! O-oh!" With a long wail, she opened a window and -rushed down the garden slope. - -Grace took a seat on a low stool, and waited for the interesting -conversation which must follow, but Nancy was leaning back in her chair. - -"What is it, Nancy?" Edward Webb, clasping his table napkin with both -hands, had run round the table. - -"Nothing much. I'm not very well. And Theresa's temper----" - -"You are not going to faint, are you, dear?" - -"I'll give you warning," Nancy said, twinkling up at him. "No, I'm -better. Grace, go and see what Theresa's doing." - -"She's crying," said Grace. "She always does. And then she makes up -stories about herself, she told me she did, and after that she comes and -does something nice to you. If she's got any money I expect she'll buy -me some sweets." - -"I think we had better leave her alone. I blame myself, Nancy. I ought -to have warned you, but I had not realized what store she was setting on -keeping the secret to ourselves. I did not even know it was to be a -secret, but I am afraid I've hurt her feelings." - -"Evidently," said Nancy dryly. - -"Terry," said Grace in her low, husky voice, "always wants things to -herself. She won't share anything of mine, and when I have girls to tea -she just sits and stares at them. She says she wants a friend of her -very own." - -"Poor little girl," said Nancy softly. - -"I think she likes it," said Grace serenely. "She's funny. Shall I tell -you what she told me a little while ago? It isn't a secret." - -"Not even one of Theresa's secrets?" - -"Well, if it is," said Grace acutely, "it's the kind she'd like you to -know. I heard her crying in bed, and I asked her what was the matter. -She wouldn't tell me for a long time, and then she said she wished she -knew about her real father and mother. She says she knows you found her -on a doorstep or something like that. She kept saying, 'I'm a little -waif! Oh, Daddy! oh, Mummy!'" - -"You ought to have told us before," said her father seriously. "She may -have suffered more than we shall ever know." - -"Oh, I don't think she minded really, because when she stopped crying -she told me the whole story. It was all a make up, and she forgot she -was pretending it was real because she went on to when she was eighteen, -and--oh, I forget what she did then, but I know she rode to hounds and -had a silvery laugh." - -Across Edward Webb's worried face a complaisant look was stealing; his -eyes had brightened. He met Nancy's laughing glance and answered it, but -there was more than amusement in his: there was pride. - -"You see," he said to her when Grace had left the room, "she's not an -ordinary child." - -"I wish her temper were ordinary. It's dreadful, Edward. She threw a -plate at Bessie yesterday; I don't know why." - -"Surely you ought to have found out, dear, and done something to correct -her." - -"I went to bed," said Nancy simply. - -"You'll have to see a doctor." - -"My dear, we simply can't afford it. Besides, I know what to do." - -"I don't really need that new suit, Nancy." - -"My dear shabby little old man, don't be absurd. I saw Mrs. Emery about -Grace. She is willing to apprentice her at once." - -"It's too soon. The child is only twelve." - -"Nearly thirteen. Of course, it's too soon, but what are we to do?" - -"I don't know--I don't know. I do not like to give my daughter so poor -an education." - -"She's a dunce, anyhow. We must think about it. Mrs. Emery says she will -only charge a nominal fee, as she has such a high opinion of her -dancing, and finds her such a help already." - -"That's a relief. I thought--I was afraid I might have to apply to -George for a loan. I should not like to do that." - -"He came here yesterday," Nancy said reluctantly, "and hinted again. I -wish he'd marry someone." - -"My dear, it may come to asking him to live here. It would be a great -help, and--I hope I am not pessimistic, but I foresee misfortune. It -must be faced--I am a failure, Nancy. My commissions are getting smaller -every year. They are bound to remove me soon. I could not blame them. -They may give me a clerkship at a paltry income. And there is Theresa's -education." - -"And Grace's stockings!" said Nancy. "But oh, Edward, George is -dreadful! I might do without a servant." - -"That's impossible." He spoke with a rare decision. "We must do our -best, Nancy." - -"I know I'm a bad manager. I'm not economical, but I do try. I suppose I -ought to be thankful that the children's appetites are enormous, and -that Theresa's energy wears her clothes into rags. And the poor child -loathes wearing Grace's outgrown frocks. I dye them and disguise them -when I can, but she thinks everybody knows. She doesn't even have -clothes of her own!" - -"If we can only hold out until she is grown up. She is not an ordinary -child." - -"Of course she isn't! You knew she wasn't ordinary when she was an hour -old. What was it you said--the moulding of her forehead? You made up -your mind to it before she was born! And I love you for it--at present." - -"What do you mean?" - -"Only that some day I may want to hear you sing my praises instead of -hers. I suppose"--she gave her twisted smile--"one could become jealous -of a daughter." - -"You jealous!" - -She looked at him with humorous discernment. "Why not?" And without -waiting for an answer she went on: "Do you know what I wish for both the -children? You'll think it's treachery." - -"Tell me." - -"Marriage." - -He made her a little bow. "May I take that as a compliment. It's perhaps -the happiest wish for them, the happiest work, but I can't have Theresa -wasted. She must have her chance." - -"Don't you think she'll make it if she deserves it?" - -"Ah, my dear, that's not quite fair. We must do all we can." - -"Then I think we'd better try to cure her temper." - -"I'm afraid," he confessed--"I'm afraid I like it in her. It's abnormal, -you see." - -"Oh, Edward, Edward, isn't that rather like catching at straws?" - -"Certainly not," he said, with a little indignation. And then, somewhat -shamefacedly, he added: "The fact is, I can't dislike anything in her." -He looked through the window, and his brow was wrinkled. "Do you think," -he asked half timidly, "that she is suffering?" - -"I hope so," Nancy said. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -Sunday morning was the time for putting on clean clothes. - -"I wish I was a beggar child," Theresa said in Grace's sleepy ear, when -the bells were ringing for early service. - -"Why?" Much of the vividness of Grace's life came from her sister's -attitude towards existence. - -"I shouldn't have to put on scratchy things each Sunday." - -"If you'd only keep quiet they wouldn't be so bad, and you're such a -good pretender, Terry, that you could easily believe they were made of -silk." - -"I suppose princesses have silken things, don't they? I think I could -pretend that." She was glad to have an easy way of keeping her temper, -for, after a scene of great gravity on her parents' part and more or -less contrition on her own, it had been decided that the adventure was -only to be related to her that night if her day had been passed in -amiability; and though her resentment would be long in dying, curiosity -lived more strongly. - -"Let's go to sleep again," said Grace. - -Theresa nestled into the curve of the other's body. "Did I hurt you -yesterday?" she whispered. - -"Not a bit," Grace answered, with disappointing cheerfulness. - -Theresa was determined to be sensational. "I really did want to kill -you!" - -"Oh, I know," said Grace obligingly. - -"Wouldn't it have been awful if I had? Would I have been hung? Perhaps -not, as I'm a little girl." - -"Don't talk about it." - -"I like to. They would have taken me up and tried me, wouldn't they? And -I should have been dressed in black, and I should have had a -tear-stained face." - -"Terry, I wish you wouldn't; I hate things like deaths." - -"I love them," said Theresa with relish. "Have you ever seen Bessie's -brother? He's a policeman. He can tell you lots of things." - -"I'm sick of Bessie's brother. Yes, I've seen him. I don't believe he -could catch anyone." - -"Well, he has--so there." - -"Who?" - -"It was a man who stole a ham from the shop at their home. He's been -promoted since then, so he must be good. He buys a paper all about -murders and things and gives it to Bessie; they're better than the -tracts she used to get for me from that chapelly aunt of hers. Those -were good stories, but not so good as Bill's, and his haven't that funny -writing that the Bible parts are put in; but that's useful, because you -know you needn't read it." - -"It's called italics." - -"Oh! Why?" - -"_I_ don't know. I wish you'd go to sleep. It's ages till breakfast." - -That meal was supposed to be at nine o'clock on Sunday mornings; but -Bessie had learnt the folly of preparing it at that hour for the master -and mistress of the house, so she lay long in bed, knowing that if the -children grew impatient they would raid the larder, and just before the -clock struck nine she would hurry down the stairs in her loose felt -slippers. At half-past nine Edward Webb would appear, and read -yesterday's newspaper until Nancy, lazy and smiling, in her trailing -dressing-gown, entered the breakfast-room. - -"Oh, did you wait for me?" she would say, and drop into her place behind -the teacups. - -No one went to church, but for an hour before dinner Edward Webb would -take his little daughters for a walk, while Nancy, seated in her -rocking-chair, would read her endless novels. Following the indolence of -her body, which was the result of more ill-health than anyone but -herself suspected, her mind had gradually refused to exercise its -natural, homely criticism in literature, and she read greedily, almost -mechanically, any novel, not too serious, she could procure. Her method -at the circulating library was to work methodically along the shelves, -and the attendant, without question, would put the next book into her -hands. Often she did not know its name, sometimes she could not have -retold the tale. Reading and rocking had become twin habits which were -alike soothing and effortless. Meanwhile the mending-basket would be -filled to overflowing, and her husband would complain that he could not -find a mended pair of socks. Then she would flush all over her rueful -face, and, still rocking, she would darn rhythmically until there was no -more daylight, when, murmuring something about trying her eyes with dark -work, she would pick up her book. But once Theresa, with her sharp nose -in the basket and a keen eye for other people's faults, drew forth in -triumph a light-coloured garment. "But here's a woolly vest of -father's!" she cried. "You can darn that!" - -"Oh, can I, Miss Interference? Perhaps you would like to do it yourself. -Yes, you shall. It's time you learnt. Get the stool and sit beside me." - -Theresa remained there until long past bedtime, and when she had -finished the darn there was a deep hole in her middle finger, for she -had refused to wear a thimble. She avoided the work-basket in future, -and Nancy had not the energy to turn this lesson to further account by -making her mend her own stockings, so as often as not there were holes -in Theresa's heels; but the inkpot was handy, and she used it freely, -foreseeing to what martyrdom more complaints might lead. Grace, who -seemed to have gathered into her beautiful body all the commonsense the -family could muster, had years ago accepted responsibility for her -personal neatness, and her stockings were faultless; it was not lack of -mending that wore them out, but the constancy with which she practised -her dancing. - -On this Sunday there was boiled mutton for dinner. "I won't have any," -said Theresa; "I can't bear the colour of the fat. It looks like wool." - -"Don't you like it, dearie? I'm so sorry." - -"We all hate it." - -"Oh dear, how stupid of me! Would you like to have eggs?" - -"Seven a shilling," said Grace promptly. - -"Are they? Well, it would be rather extravagant, and I'm not sure that -we have any." - -"Of course we must eat the meat," said Edward manfully. "Don't make -faces, Theresa. I'll excuse you from eating the fat." - -She peered at him sideways. - -"In fact," he was thus forced to admit, "I don't like it myself." - -"There's a lovely pudding to make up," said Nancy. "Blackberry and apple -pie--and cream; so we'll be good children and eat the meat. Sarah is -coming to-morrow, and we'll give the rest of it to her." She smiled -serenely, but when the meal was done her husband drew her aside. - -"Is that how you practise economy?" he asked. - -"What, the cream? It's only once a week, dear." - -"No, no--giving away the joint." - -"Oh, I suppose it was rather thoughtless of me. No, it wouldn't be -right. We'll curry it." - -She went upstairs for her afternoon sleep, and left him with less -confidence for the future. - -A drowsy peace settled on the house. Edward Webb, too, had a nap. Grace -read demurely in the breakfast-room, and Theresa sat on the kitchen -fender when Bessie, having washed up the dinner things by a miracle of -speed, had emerged to the light of day. Theresa always tried to catch a -glimpse of her on these occasions, for she could never feel that this -was the same person who, moving amid dimness, clad in drab colours, -besmirched with black, had cooked the breakfast; for on Sunday and the -weekly night out she seemed to leave herself in her bedroom and bring -forth a cruder creature, gowned in bright blue, and shadowless. Theresa -felt that she did not know this person, that the real Bessie was -upstairs in her room, and she pictured a being without body, but with -the form of it, as much like a skeleton leaf as a human being could be, -sitting on the edge of the bed until the blue girl should return. And -when dusk fell she avoided the topmost landing of the tall house, for -she was afraid of what Bessie had left up there. - -This afternoon Theresa escorted her to the door. "Are you going to have -tea with Bill?" she asked. - -"Yes; but I'm going to Sunday-school first." - -"Is it nice there?" - -"Most times." - -"Could I come with you some day?" - -"You'll 'ave to ask your mother." - -"I wish I could go to Sunday-school. Why don't we?" - -"_I_ don't know. I'll be late. Good-bye, Miss Terry!" - -"Don't forget the things Bill tells you," she shouted after her. - -As she returned to the kitchen she was aware of a grievance which had -not troubled her before, and when her father, waking, wandered about the -house until he found her, she looked at him with a reproachful face. - -"Well, Cinderella?" - -"I've been thinking," she said. - -"Yes?" - -"Why don't we go to church? And why don't we sing hymns on Sunday -evening? And why don't we have a family Bible? They do in books, with -all the birthdays in. We haven't got one. Other fathers and mothers read -out of a big Bible to their children." - -He sat down and drew her to his knee. - -"I'll tell you why, Theresa. I think you are old enough now to -understand. If you want to read the Bible, you shall do so, just as I -have given you other books to read when you have asked for them. If I -had made you read the Bible, you wouldn't have loved it--it would have -been like medicine to you--and I want you to love it, as I do. When I -was a little boy, your grandmother made me read a chapter every night. I -didn't understand it, and I was generally too tired to try." - -"Was she very strict--grandmother?" - -"She was a good woman." - -"Did you like her?" - -"Yes, Theresa, I did, but for many years I hated that book, and I made -up my mind that my little girls should only read it when they wanted -to." - -Blown by winds of imagination, Theresa veered from the subject. - -"What was grandfather like? Was he nice?" - -"He was the most delightful man I ever knew." There was a noticeable -change in Edward Webb's enthusiasm for this parent. "I wish you had -known him, Theresa. You would have been such friends." - -"Tell me." And "Tell me," she urged again, when her father had smiled -too long at his memories. - -"He was a musician and a poet, my dear. He played the organ at the -cathedral, and he wrote songs, music, and words. I can see him now as he -sat at the piano, playing and singing, trying to make your grandmother -laugh." - -"Why wouldn't she?" - -"Because she didn't always approve, I'm afraid. They were very often -about her, too." He chuckled at another recollection. - - "'Your pretty ankle's slender grace, - Your skirts when they are thrumming.' - -"It was on a Sunday night he began that, drawing it out of the last -chords of a hymn. I forget the rest. He reeled it off without a thought. -A strip of a man with a solemn face--until you saw his eyes; then you -had to laugh, you didn't know why." - -"Except grandmother." - -"Yes-es. Your grandmother hadn't the comic spirit, Theresa." - -She nodded. She was on Olympus when her father talked with her thus, a -little above her comprehension, so that she must strain for meanings, -while her faith in herself grew great with her stretch. - -"I wish grandfather hadn't died," she said. "I don't mind about -grandmother. I think she must have been flannelly." - -"Flannelly?" - -"You know the kind--not pretty underclothes like mother's, but grey -things with long sleeves and no trimming." - -"Well--yes, yes; I don't know about that. She was very handsome, my -dear." - -"But not so pretty as Mother or Grace?" - -"Certainly not as pretty as they are." - -"Tell me some more about grandfather, and I'll make toast for tea." - -"Isn't that rather wasteful of the butter?" he asked anxiously, -conscious that his domestic cares were being doubled by Nancy's -inefficiency. - -"There's dripping, Bessie told me, from Thursday's beef. That's cheap, -isn't it?" - -"Yes; I think we can still afford that." - -"We're poor, aren't we?" - -"Yes, Theresa." - -"Well, never mind. I think it's rather nice to be poor, and Grace says -she's going to make her fortune. She wants to be a lady in a pantomime. -I think she would look lovely. I should like to be one, too, but then I -shouldn't look right. I shall have to be something where I don't show. -I've decided to write books." - -His eyelids flickered. "You will have to work hard at school, then." - -"Yes. Would you mind cutting me another piece of bread?" she asked -quickly. - -When dusk had fallen, the family seated itself round the fire and Edward -Webb told of his night among the mountains. It was only pride which -permitted Theresa to share the hearing with the two who had been more -favoured than herself, but, realizing the dignity of silence, she -tightened her lips and the clasp of her small hands and prepared to -listen without enthusiasm; but slowly her lips relaxed, and leaving her -little stool at the side of the hearth, she pushed past Grace, treading -on her toes in the dimness, and stood before her father, with her hands -on his knees. "Go on," she kept saying between his halting sentences. - -"So I had to stay there all night, you see." - -She frowned. "If you'd been a man in a book, you would have got down -somehow." - -"But I'm not a man in a book, Theresa." - -"People tear up their clothes sometimes and make ropes of them, you -know. In burning houses they use sheets; or you might have leapt from -rock to rock." - -Grace giggled. "You baby! How could father do that in the dark?" - -"I think it was much braver to sit still all night," said Nancy. - -Theresa brightened. "Yes, that was brave. Did things come at you?" - -"How could they, dear?" - -"But they do. They come at me in the night, through the dark. They are -thick and smooth, and come and come, and you can't stop them. They must -have been there. Are you sure they weren't?" - -"Perhaps they were," he admitted. - -"Oo! nasty things! Tell me some more." - -"At last the dawn began to come, and I was very cold and stiff and wet. -I heard a dog bark, and I thought, 'There must be people somewhere; I'll -try to follow the sound.' So, somehow, I found my way to the mountain's -foot, and I came to a stony track between the hills, and when I had -walked a little way I saw a house--a low white house--and there, sitting -beside the garden wall, was a boy." - -"How old?" Theresa whispered. - -"He is fifteen." - -"Almost a grown-up person," Theresa thought, and aloud she said again, -"Go on." - -He obeyed, looking into the eager eyes which stared into his own. Her -fingers twitched on his knee, and she was still gazing when his tale was -ended. - -"Tell me about that boy again," she said. "I don't suppose I should be -afraid of geese either when I got used to them, should I?" - -He was quite ready to agree that she could do anything. - -She sat on his knee. "Is he clever?" - -"I don't know." - -"I shouldn't think he is," she said comfortably. - -"He may be. He had a fine head, I remember." - -"Oh! What do you call a fine head?" - -"A good shape, good size. It's difficult to explain." - -"Oh!" she said again, and after a moment's consideration she added: "But -he ought to be cleverer than me, because he's so much older. What -coloured hair had he?" - -"I don't know. It was dark, I think--yes, like his father's." - -"And what colour was his mother's? You didn't tell me anything about -her, Ned." - -"I told you everything I could remember, dear." - -"I meant about her looks." - -"She was tall and strong and supple. Ceres, she might be called. I think -her hair was chestnut, and there were freckles on her face." - -"But was she pretty?" - -"Really I don't know. I don't remember; but she seemed brave and -helpful. She took possession of me, and I felt safe. I'll try to -remember more next time." - -"Are you going again?" asked Theresa. "Oh, take me!" - -"I did not know you were going again," said Nancy. - -"They asked me." - -"Yes; but was it the kind of invitation----" - -"I think so. Indeed, they made me promise----" - -"Do you think it wise?" - -"Why not?" - -"You don't know them." - -"But I want to, Nancy." - -"But if the man is what you said----" - -"He's not an outcast, my dear, and if he were----" - -She was silent, but the air was filled with her voiceless and somewhat -sullen objections. Theresa fidgeted. - -"You must do as you please, of course," Nancy said at last. - -"Not if it displeases you." - -"Why should it?" - -He gestured dumbly, and something fell between them like a filmy veil. -It spoilt Theresa's evening, and when she went to bed she wondered what -was happening downstairs in the breakfast-room, where the quiet was -broken now and then by the hooting of tugs in the docks and the voices -of those people who had not gone to church, and walked instead in New -Dock Road. Did her father and mother talk? Were they quarrelling, or, -now the children had gone to bed, was she sitting on his knee? There was -a lump of anxiety in her throat: the world had so many places of -darkness and uncertainty; she felt herself groping among dangers, and -she hoped her mother was not crying. She undressed slowly, thoughtfully, -but as she brushed her hair before the looking-glass she became -interested in the vision of her own pale face, and for a moment she -forgot her trouble. - -"Grace," she said, "what do you think of my head?" - -The answer came from the midst of bedclothes. "It's red, you silly!" -There could be no two opinions about that, but, as Theresa protested, it -was not just an ordinary red, not like that of the girl who brought home -the washing. - -"It's not that awful orange kind, now, is it?" - -"No; but I don't like it very much. It's neither one thing nor the -other. It's rather what I call streaky, you know." - -"Yes, I'm afraid it is. Well, it doesn't matter. I may grow out of it." - -"I wish you would be quick." - -"I think," said Theresa, as she buttoned her nightgown over that place -where the anxious pain was felt again--"I think I've got to go -downstairs." - -Barefooted, she pattered across the landing and down two flights of -stairs. No light was burning, for gas must be saved, and Theresa was -afraid; but she went on, past the front-door, down the basement steps, -past the dark kitchen which looked vast and cavernous, and so into the -brilliance of the breakfast-room. - -"Theresa! Bare feet!" - -"I want my book for the morning," she said. "In case I wake, you know." - -Her mother was in the rocking-chair, and her father, shading his eyes -under his hand, was sitting at the table, writing. The shadow was still -in the room. - -"You should have put on your slippers, dear, and your dressing-gown. Sit -on my lap and warm your feet." - -Theresa ran her finger down her mother's pretty nose. - -"Aren't you coming to bed soon?" - -"Not for a long time. It isn't half-past eight." - -"Then will you leave this door open, and I'll leave mine. Then you won't -seem so far away." - -"You won't expect it every night?" - -"No; just to-night." - -"Very well. You must go now." - -"I'll carry her up." Edward Webb took off his coat and wrapped it round -her. The three faces were very close together, and Theresa felt the -hastiness of her mother's kiss and the half-unwilling urging of her -hands. - -"Go, go; you ought to be asleep." - -"Are you sure you can carry me?" Theresa asked as he went carefully up -the stairs. "You're not very big." - -"But you are very little." - -"I'm going to be tall." - -"Are you?" He held her close to him, pressing his cheek against hers. - -"Yes, tall and willowy. I'm looking forward to it." - -"That's right." He tucked her into bed. - -"You won't forget about the door, will you?" She liked to feel that if -anything dreadful happened she would be at once aware of it, for there -was no delay and no evasion in her nature. Better be in the thick of the -fight, see swords drawn and blows given, than find cold bodies in the -morning, and something almost as bad as this, she dreaded. She had been -dowered with a bright and fierce imagination, and had she not read the -literature favoured by Bill and Bessie? - -But she fell asleep to no other sounds than those which, all her life, -had carried her into dreams or waked her to a new day, but to-night -there began for her another phase of dreaming, one which was to endure -for many years and make her sleeping hours almost as important and more -adventurous than her waking ones. She dreamed of mountains and of still -lake water. Very black were the rocks and the water, black and awesome, -but holding peace. Sometimes she sat by the lakeside and waited; -sometimes she clambered to perilous places among the rocks, and there -were dangers often, people to be avoided, people with whom she must -fight, but always the mountains and the water were unmoved, unruffled. -They saw all things, and kept their counsel; they seemed to her, as she -grew older, to be both judge and friend; they were more than the scene -of her adventures; they were inseparably part of them, and when there -came nights wherein nothing happened and she sat by the water without -expectation, warmed with content, she knew that her happiness was not -all from within, that if her dream permitted her to wander away from the -precipice and the lake, a chill, like a bitter wind, would fall on her. -Sometimes she made a struggle to get away, but she could never go. There -was a white road somewhere, she knew, but she could not walk on it: she -was a captive beside this dark and burnished mirror wherein she saw a -face not like her own. In the daytime she would continue the stories -begun in dreams. Very often she was a maiden fought for by savage -tribes, a treasure for which men gave their lives in anguish, and at -night she put her head on her pillow with a glad anticipation of horrors -done for her sake. But as she grew older and the dreams themselves grew -and changed their character, keeping pace with her own development, she -was content to be without adventure in a place which never changed, -except to be more beautiful. All other dreams were dull, unwelcome -things, and if many days went by without one of these loved ones, she -felt that half her life was not being lived, and then she would seek out -shops where, by chance, there might be pictures in the windows to allay -her hunger. She was not often fed, for such paintings as she saw were -poor and unreal things, but they made her dreams more perfect. This was -not in the earliest years of her new dreaming, and on this night she had -but a repetition of her father's tale. She sat on a ledge of rock and -she was afraid. She heard a sheep calling through the night, a stone -spattering down the cliff, and she woke, wet and in fear. - -"Grace," she cried--"Grace! I was falling. I'm afraid of falling. Will -you hold my hand?" - -"What were you dreaming of, Terry? It's all right. I've got you." - -"Mountains," she said sleepily, falling back on her pillows--"mountains. -Oh, I hope they'll come again." - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -Edward Webb did not deny himself another pilgrimage to the mountains. -Tenderly and silently, without disdain or ruthlessness, he put aside -Nancy's prejudices. He knew something which was denied to her; he knew -that the mountains gave him strength--the strength he so much needed to -supplement his own; perhaps, though he hardly thought it, to counteract -her weakness. There were days when he felt the desperation of fear: his -children and his wife must be fed and clothed and housed if they were to -live, and it was only he who could make that possible. He must work yet -harder, he must make himself more valuable, he must be braver. He would -gather endurance and courage from that vast storehouse where they were -garnered, and if he hurt Nancy she would learn some day that it had been -to save her. - -When he was away he would tell her very simply of his intentions. -"To-morrow I go to the farm. I am looking forward to the silence of the -hills. They bring me nearer to you and all lovely things." Did she smile -happily as she read, or had her lips the bitterer downward twist? He -never asked aloud, for on that subject there was silence between them -when they met, and it was Theresa's greedy ears that absorbed the tale -of his experiences. "Tell me about that boy," and "Tell me about the -mountains," were her two demands; but she was a willing listener to all, -and Nancy, hearing fragments of their talk, would purse her lips. Yet, -in letters, she, too, would be more open. "I'm glad you are going, -dear." And then the little thrust, "Be happy there, and forget your -worries and your poor useless Nancy." He would sigh over that, grimace -over it painfully, and then settle his features with determination. -There was Theresa: she must not be wasted. He saw her bright, like a -star, and never a day passed but what she seemed more glowing, more -necessary to give light to a world which, at times, was very dark. She -shone for him, but she must shine for others: she must not be hidden -behind the clouds of poverty that threatened. "On, on," he would murmur -to himself as he stepped into that shop where, from behind the counters -the young women laughed at him; and "On, on," he urged himself again, -when his enthusiasm about his wares was failing him. It was hard to be -eloquent about hooks and eyes, safety-pins, patent contrivances for the -support of skirts, collar-bones and buttons, but there were times when -he was served by his very depreciation of the goods, when his nervous -"But no, of course, you would have no sale for things like these" -persuaded his customer that some deep meaning underlay the words, so -that he bought quietly, with covert eagerness. But Edward Webb only -heard doubt in the tones of his own voice. "I was not born to be a -pedlar!" he cried silently to the heavens. "I have no glibness. It is a -gift. I cheapen the things in my very praise of them--but Theresa, -Theresa!" That had become his battle-cry. - -But it was good to strip himself of what might be called his uniform, -don a grey suit and a soft hat, and, carrying a walking-stick, take the -train to the little station by the shore. There followed a long walk for -a tired man, but he was sure of a welcome at the end of it and, all the -way, he had the company of the hills. - -On a Friday evening in July, a little less than a year, and for the -fourth time, since he had first seen the place, he tapped at Clara's -door. She opened to him, and he saw anxiety in her face. - -"Oh, come in," she said, and led him to the kitchen. "Jim's away, but -Alexander'll be home soon. I wondered if you'd come, and your room's -ready." - -"You don't look well." - -"I've a headache." - -"I'm sorry Rutherford's away. Perhaps you'd rather I went back -to-night." - -"Of course not. I'm glad to see you, and so will Alexander be. And you -do him good. He has no friends but you and Janet." - -"I'm fond of him," Edward Webb said simply. - -Moving in the sure strength that gave meaning to everything she did, she -set the table for tea, then stood in the doorway and looked out and up -towards the Spiked Crags, shading her eyes. - -She turned to him for an instant. "I shan't be long. Will you mind the -kettle for me? Tell Alec I've only gone a little way." - -A few minutes later he heard Alexander's nailed boots in the passage, -saw him enter quickly and look round the room, like a man who takes note -of circumstances for the sake of safety. - -"Oh, you're there!" They shook hands. "I've been wishing for you," said -Alexander. - -"Your mother has gone out for a little while. I was to tell you she was -not going far." - -Alexander leaned against the mantelpiece, and his face was dark with -anger. "She'll kill herself, tearing about the place, worrying her life -out over him," he said in his monotonous tones. "And I'd as soon see him -killed as a rat. Mr. Webb, I hate that man, my father." - -"My boy!" - -"I do. He's spoilt my life for me. We hate each other, but he hated me -first." - -"There's more life before than behind you." - -"Perhaps, but I'll never be a boy again. I'll never have been young at -all. I can't remember anything of him but his scowling face and his -drinking fits." - -"There are worse men." - -"Who do less harm. I believe that." - -"Your mother cares for him." - -"You think that proves him good. It just proves nothing. And I wish she -didn't. If she hadn't watched over him, he might have killed himself -long ago. And now he's tired of getting quietly drunk, and he's gone -off, and the devil knows where he's gone to. I believe he's mad, but -I'll not be his gaoler. I'll neither look for him, nor be glad when he -comes back; if I saw him walking straight for death, I'd not touch his -coat-tails to keep him back." - -"Be quiet!" Edward Webb put up his hand, and there was command in his -voice. "Tell me what's happened, and don't stain your mouth with talk -like that." - -"I'll stain it with no lies, and can you not see that I must speak? Do I -talk to my mother like this? I just hold my tongue, but you're the only -friend I've got, and if you'll not let me talk to you I'll just have to -murder him. I've got to do something. Drunkenness, what's that? It's -little enough with some men; I'm not blaming him for that. It's the -black selfishness of the beast that angers me. Anger! It isn't anger; -it's something hard and hot that's been growing in me since ever I can -mind, when he didn't answer my questions and left my mother alone. I've -seen her cry. And I've seen him blubbering over her, sorry for himself, -not for her! Well, he went off two days ago. A kind of fever took him. -He said he couldn't stay, and when she tried to stop him he shook her -off. He said, "I'm my father's son"; he kept saying it--"I'm my father's -son. He came and went like the wind." And my mother says my grandfather -used to wander off when the drinking fits came over him, and no one knew -where he went nor when he would come back. So now she's still more to -bear. I hope _I'm_ not _my_ father's son. For two nights I don't believe -she's slept--she's listening for him. I'm glad you've come. She wouldn't -let me stay away from school; she said it would be better if he came -back and didn't find me here; so I went. It's important for me to get -that scholarship, you see, but if he's playing these tricks all this -next year, well, I'll just have to practise forgetting, when I'm -working." - -"If you learn to do that, you'll have a valuable possession. Is there -anything we can do?" - -"I'll not stir a foot." - -"To help your mother, I meant." - -"That's the best way of helping her." - -"We must let her decide that, I think." - -Leaning his forehead on the hands that held the mantelshelf, Alexander -went on, heedless of all but the desire to speak his black and -clustering thoughts. "She knows I hate him. She likes me less for it." - -"I don't believe it. She has a wide heart, a great and simple -understanding." - -"But she likes him best." - -"She should." - -"I'm not jealous, I don't care, but I tell you I've been robbed of -something all my life. I've missed something, and that man's the thief. -He's my father, my father, and what has he done for me all these days?" - -"No one can tell you that." - -"Ah, but I know. It's just nothing." - -His listener rose and moved to and fro in agitation. - -"You've no right to say that. How can you tell? How can anybody tell? -You touch me very nearly. I am a parent. I think--I seem to myself to -have done much, very much, given constant thought for my children, yet -to Theresa how do I appear? Careless of her, perhaps, selfish, obtuse. I -do not know. There's a chasm opened before one--a chasm of ignorance and -doubt. One treads so falsely, takes the wrong path, and to her the way -to help her may be so plain. Human beings, all of us, yet we speak -strange tongues. The Tower of Babel with us still--still. It may be that -you misunderstand your father's language, Alexander." - -"He never speaks." - -"Ah, don't be wilful. Under that ill-temper I believe he suffers." - -"But why should I pity him? It's his fault." - -"That's why you should pity him. That's the worst suffering." - -Alexander shook his head. "I can't feel anything for him but hate. I -hate the things he's touched; I hate to think I'm of his flesh." - -"That's wickedness." - -"Maybe. I feel all black inside. I'm burnt up like a cinder." He went to -the door. "She's coming back. I'll make the tea." - -"Is she alone?" - -"Why, yes. He'll be miles away." - -The three found little to talk about that evening. Clara sat sewing, -with her ears at stretch; Alexander had a book; and Edward Webb -marvelled at the change in him a year had made. Last September he was a -moody boy; this month he was a still more moody youth. The bones of his -face had grown in prominence; the lines of the jaw and chin were fine -and hard, boding trouble for those who brooked him; and the lips, still -wanting in maturity, had settled themselves in rather sullen curves. -Trouble stirred at the man's heart. He liked this boy: if he had had a -son, he thought, he would have chosen such a one: the brow promised -brains, the flare of his nostrils was sensitive and proud, and passion -brooded in his eyes. There was power in the face, but there was danger -too, until his reason should learn to control his will; and before that -day came there might come another, bringing tragedy. He moved uneasily. -The room to him was like a cup holding a poisonous draught which must be -spilled before it could work harm. He cleared his throat, loudly, -startlingly, as though to warn a would-be drinker; the two looked up, -and Alexander, in that quick hunter's way of his, glanced round the -room. - -"Nothing," said Edward Webb--"nothing." - -"It's time we went to bed," said Alexander. Last year he had been sent -there. - -"Yes, yes. It's half-past ten." - -"You'll go, mother?" - -"Yes, I'll go. We'll leave the door unlocked and Jock at the stair-foot. -He'll let no stranger past." - -"A dog's a grand thing," said Alexander. - -They laughed, and bade each other good-night. - -Once more Edward Webb lay long awake, listening, as he knew the others -did, for the noise of a hurried step outside. "Poor man! poor woman! -poor boy!" he murmured, and then his thoughts hung hoveringly over the -fact of his own parenthood. What had he done? Worse still, what had he -left undone? The wind rose with a gathering swell of sound; rain fell -and pattered on the window, pattering, pattering, until it seemed like -voices. He fell asleep, but in a little while he wakened. Someone was -moving about downstairs. Very quietly he went to the head of the stairs. - -"Who's there?" he called. - -Clara answered him. "It's only me." - -"What are you doing?" - -"Just making up the fire. It's such a stormy night--and cold." - - * * * * * - -The morning was very fair. The world had the washed look it needs in -mid-July, and there were still raindrops sparkling in the sun. - -"I think he'll come back to-day," Clara said to Alexander. "Will you -take Mr. Webb for a walk--a long walk? You'd better not be here, either -of you." - -"You're not afraid?" - -"Afraid! I'm only afraid when you're there, Alexander." - -"You needn't blame me." - -"I don't," she said. - -After breakfast Alexander and Edward Webb set off together. - -"Will you have a bathe?" the boy asked when they reached the Broad Beck -pool. - -"I should like it." - -"Can you swim?" - -"Yes--well, I can keep up." - -"All right, then. Look how deep it is. Last summer it was shallower by -four feet." - -He stripped and dived, and Edward Webb, not to be outdone, followed him -with a splash. - -"Ah!" He came up bubbling. "How Theresa would like this. It's cold, -distinctly cold, but it does one good, braces one. But I think I'll just -get out on this rock for a while." - -Alexander, lying on his back and kicking the water gently with his -heels, appeared to address the sky. "I thought you had two girls." - -"So I have. Oh, I see your point." He slipped into the water again, made -three strokes, and found he could touch bottom. "It's shallower here." - -"No," said Alexander; "I really thought she might have died, or -something." - -"I'm very fond of her. Alexander, this water's very cold. I think we -ought not to stay too long. But I admit that Theresa does seem more akin -to me. I hope I have not let Grace know it. You were right to reproach -me." - -"I didn't mean to--at least, I hope I didn't mean to." - -"You must not think I do not care for Grace, but Theresa--well, Theresa -has all the gifts I wanted when I was young. Have you a towel?" - -"What were those? No, no towel; the shirt does. What were those gifts?" -he was obliged to ask again. - -"You haven't seen her. If you saw her, you would understand. I'll bring -a picture of her next time I come. I wish you'd get out, my boy; it's -very cold." - -"I'm used to it. All the year round I bathe here." - -"But, besides, she's clever. She'll make a name." - -"How?" - -Clad now in shirt and trousers, Edward Webb approached the pool, and -perhaps he thought the silver birches bowed their heads to hear. - -"She's going to write." There was a gentle rustling among the trees, but -Alexander, showing no more than his wet face and hair, opened his mouth -and said nothing for a space. Then, "Was that what you wanted to do?" he -asked, and paddled to shore. - -"Yes, yes, it was my ambition. But I had no time. It was a struggle to -live, and I married. Only lately----" - -"You've been doing it?" - -He bowed his head. "I have told no one else," he said, and seemed to -wonder at himself. - -"Not Theresa?" - -"No, no. You see, Theresa is very young. But she shows signs. I have -seen little poems." - -"Is it prose you write?" - -"No. I'm--I'm afraid not. I cannot think that I ought to do it. It's -self-indulgence, I believe, but if I have given the palest spark to -Theresa, if she----" - -"It was you who gave me Keats," Alexander said. "Have you had anything -printed?" - -"I haven't tried. What does it matter? It's the doing of it, you see. -I've never found Theresa care for anything that was not good--strange in -a child, I think. Significant. She has unerring taste, if I am any -judge." - -"I wonder, would you let me see your things? I've never seen anything -but printed stuff. I'd like to see it fresh from a man." - -Edward Webb flushed deeply. "I should be very grateful for your -criticism." - -"I couldn't give that." - -"To oblige me, please. I--I haven't had the benefit of your education. I -had to leave school early, and I know but little of the classics. I -thought once of pursuing them, but there is so little energy when one's -work is done--exhausting, uncongenial work. I know no scholars; in fact, -I know few men, and those I meet are--are like myself. I want to give -Theresa more than I had." - -"Yes. Shall we be going on? Across the stream. There's a little bridge -farther down." - -They crossed and, emerging from the birch-wood, were on the flank of the -Blue Hill. A narrow path led them upwards and soon they looked down on -the level valley, its few houses, the church among its yews and the -winding river, fringed by trees, flowing into the wide lake. And far off -there shone a thin line which was the sea. But the path wound round the -hill, so that they must turn their backs on these things and face a -steep ascent, with another stream rushing down the hollow at their -right. Without speaking, they toiled on, Alexander walking as one born -to the hills, Edward Webb panting with an attempt at noiselessness. He -turned once with a forced smile, for the going was hard. - -"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." - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -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. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -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. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -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. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -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. "I _am_ keeping 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -Theresa left school without regret. She had made no friends there, for a -deep shyness overlaid the endearing qualities which she learnt, later, -to use for the capture of hearts: she had not cared for the work she did -easily, if without brilliance, and her ambitions had ignored and swept -far beyond a schoolgirl's triumphs. Moreover, novelty was breath to her: -if her heart had been torn at leaving, she would have welcomed the -wrench for the sake of the new part she was to play. She was the martyr -to domestic affliction and, accordingly, she smoothed the hair which the -years were sobering to the colour of mingled autumn leaves, and fastened -it austerely into a thick, swinging plait. - -She was now the mistress of the household. She rose at seven, roused -Bessie from her heavy slumbers, waiting outside the door until she heard -the creaking of the bed and the subsequent thump of sleepy feet on the -floor, before she ran downstairs for a plunge into chilly water. She and -Grace, exiled from their old room by the arrival of Uncle George, now -shared the one above, opposite their father's little sanctum, and, still -higher up, Bessie slept in a long, low room under the roof. The maid -complained of the numerous stairs but Theresa liked them. Rushing up -them and down, she had a sensation of speed that excited her. She went -two steps at a time, and when the flight was composed of an odd number -she descended the last three, perilously, at a leap, and she learnt to -do it so lightly that even Grace the agile was impressed. - -"But you'll hurt yourself some day," she said. - -"Oh, well, one must do something! I pretend there are wolves after me, -or assassins. It makes life so much more interesting. I get through -everything like that, except dusting. I can't make up anything about -dusting, it's the dullest thing." - -"I wish I had time to do it for you. I like the look of things -afterwards." - -"I can never see any difference. I'm not doing my natural work." - -"What's that?" - -"Oh, if you need telling----" She retired to the study and sat in the -cold before a sheet of paper, with a pencil in her hand. The immortal -poem was her natural work, but how could she find time to write it with -a household of six people to care for? Her mother breakfasted in bed, -Uncle George was fastidious about his meals. Grace needed them at any -odd and inconvenient moment, and Theresa found herself a better cook -than Bessie. With a cake in the oven it was not easy to compose her mind -to the calm necessary for her first arresting lines: the family liked -her cakes, and praise was dear to her; therefore the poem and, she -feared, the public suffered, and sometimes at the thought of what -circumstances would not let her do, her body became a vessel for hot, -tumultuous anger. She felt it churning within her, and she longed to -raise her hands and strike. At these times she hated Bessie, she chafed -at her mother's weakness, she scorned Grace, she despised her father and -she took pains to plan annoyance for her uncle. After all, was it not he -who had caused this trouble? she would say, and somewhat against her -will, for she liked a reputation for good management, she would forget -to order the packet of dried cereals which formed his meal at -supper-time, so that he would be forced to eat meat and have -indigestion, or to go hungry. But a growing pride in her task soon -disdained these tricks, and she became almost maternally interested in -his appetite. - -"You're not eating your cream," she told him one night. "I got it -specially for you. That stuff looks so husky. It makes me think of the -Prodigal Son." - -He ignored the Biblical allusion and looked at her with a cold disregard -for her juvenile irreverence. - -"I must use my natural juices," he assured her. He looked singularly -bereft of them. His face, clean-shaven but for short grey whiskers, was -as dried and colourless as his cereals, his grey hair was stiff and -dull, his hands were lean without nervousness. - -Watching him, the twitching of her lips grew into a smile. She began to -like him. In his nature there was something grim and uncompromising -which enabled him to keep his teeth shut on speech and the expression of -his religious convictions. She recognized that this gift, or his wisdom, -had thwarted her. She had meant to tease him, to taunt him with his -Seaman's Club, where, on Saturday nights, the strains of the harmonium -he had carried there droned a melancholy yet compelling welcome to the -loafers about the docks, but she was robbed of opportunity. He never -spoke of his pursuits, seldom of himself, and she was startled into a -friendly pity for him. He had wanted a home and, at last, unwillingly, -he had been admitted into this one, yet here, in the place of his -desire, he sat silent and reserved, carefully keeping even a mental -aloofness from the doings of his relatives. Was this gratitude, or a -fear of ejection? And did he find any happiness among them? She frowned, -for her heart was softening, and she foresaw that when she had time, -when that poem was written, she would have to turn her powers to the -understanding of him. This was capitulation, she confessed, but then, -she comforted herself, analysis of men and women was important for her -future. - -He looked up, caught her puzzled, eager stare, and smiled. Smiling, too, -she nodded. Really, she thought, why has not someone fallen in love with -him? - -When the meal was over and Edward Webb had crept quietly to his study, -and Uncle George had departed to his harmonium, Theresa stood before -the fire and looked down at her mother, gently rocking in the old chair. - -"Do you think he has ever been in love?" she said. - -"Who?" Nancy asked. - -"Uncle George, of course," said Theresa. - -"I don't know, dear. I never heard of anyone." - -"It's not lawful to marry one's uncle, is it?" - -"I suppose not." Nancy's brows were raised. - -"I'm coming to the conclusion that he's rather an attractive man--and -very mysterious. If I ever marry, I shall marry a mystery." - -"I shouldn't advise it, dear." - -"I should tire of anyone else in a year--less! I must have excitement." - -"There's a time of life when one longs for peace." - -Theresa jerked her head upwards. "Not for me!" she cried, and clasped -her hands behind her back. Like a young horse, not yet broken, she -believed herself unconquerable. - -Nancy smiled. "Where's Grace? She has no class to-night." - -"No, I expect she has gone to see someone." A little dart of anxiety -pierced her, for she was a shrewed guesser, her eye was quick, and -Grace's symptoms during the last weeks had been disturbing and familiar -ones. She sighed. - -"Are you tired, dear?" - -"No, thank you." - -"Then I wish you'd see what Father's doing. He looks so white to-night. -Just give me those new books off the sideboard, first, dearie." - -Theresa went upstairs. She felt a vague irritation against her family, -and tasted life's staleness in her mouth. It brought nothing but a round -of common tasks for her, dreary labour to her father, a strange darkness -of energy to Bessie, and ill-health to her mother; to Uncle George, an -emptiness he tried to fill with a harmonium and a hymnal, and to Grace, -a breathlessness of dancing, smiling, dressing, flirting. All efforts -and all persons seemed so separate, yet so united, and she could find no -meaning in them beyond that. The thought wearied her, her body and mind -felt old, and, remembering that it was long since she had dreamed of -mountains, she realized the cause of her unrest--that romance and -excitement were easily forfeited if she might see the hills in sleep. -She paused on the landing and drew breath sharply, as though it were the -mountain air she gathered. - -She opened the study door, and saw her father bowed over his desk. He -was writing, but he stopped and looked up to welcome her. - -"Are you busy? Writing letters? Shall I go?" - -"No, my dear, stay." - -She went to the window. The blind was up, and she could see the quiet, -lamplit street. - -"Houses and houses, and people in all of them, and they all have -relatives, and friends, and troubles. And they all care so much more -about themselves than about anything else. I can't get used to that. And -when I see people crowding into tramcars, it's the same. Sometimes I -like it; it's exciting"--she caught her lip over the word and laughed -secretly--"and then sometimes the thought's too big--worrying. I like -the other side of the house best. I feel that I can get out--to the -sea." - -He was enchanted by her unusual readiness to talk. - -"Do you want to get to the sea?" - -"On windy nights, when the ships call me. Do you hear them in your -room?" - -"Oh, yes!" he said. - -"Does it make you want to go?" - -He hesitated. "No, I'm a chilly person, but I admit it stirs me to think -of others facing cold and danger. The sea--I'm afraid the sea frightens -me a little." - -Like a child who is too shy to speak of what it loves, she forced him to -name it for her. - -"You don't like the sea best, do you?" - -"No, Theresa, it's the mountains that have snared me." - -"Tell me about them." - -"It's so long since I've been." - -"Why?" - -He showed his jaded face. "I can't get there for nothing, my dear, and I -don't want to leave your mother. But some day, when she is better, I'll -take you there. I think you would be happy." - -"Should I?" she questioned innocently, hiding her smile. "Let's pretend -we're on the way. You tell me what we're coming to. I'll shut my eyes." -She chuckled delightedly at her own babyishness, but he seemed unaware -of it, for this was the little girl who had always wanted stories and -never been denied. - -"We'd get out of the train," he began, "and smell the sea; and then we -should smell a fresh and wonderful wind, and we should know it came from -the mountains, and we'd hurry along the road. We're hurrying, Theresa, -to the place where that wind was born. It's the spring, I think. There -are primroses in the hedges, lots of them by the stream, but I expect we -shall see some snow on the hills. It lies late in the gullies, and at -night it falls up there, when it is almost warm in the valleys. It's a -long walk, but we're going very fast because we are so eager, and now -we're turning a corner, and the wind comes more smartly, stealing our -breath, and it is hard work to raise our heads against it to see----" - -Theresa's parted lips drooped sharply, without warning, and stopped his -speech. "Don't!" she cried imploringly. "Don't tell me! I--I don't think -I like this game. Pretending!" She hid her face and indistinctly -murmured: "I don't think I can bear to talk about it." - -"My dear!" - -She looked up: there were tears in her eyes. He blinked. - -"My dear," he repeated helplessly. "What is it?" She shook her head, -laughing, and yielding to the persuasion of his hand, she sat on the -arm of his chair, and leaned against him. - -"I'm silly," she said. - -But he would not allow that: he triumphed in her sensibility. "No, no," -he said. The pressure of his encircling arm assured her that he -understood, and she did not try to check her weeping, for she enjoyed -it, and all the nameless troubles of her youth seemed to be finding -solace. She was surprised at her emotion, and became interested in it: -thought dammed the flood, and with the back of her hand she wiped her -eyes. Edward Webb continued to hold her firmly while she stared before -her, not guiltless of an occasional sniff which had for him the pathos -of a cry. Considering herself, she decided that she was strange. Why had -she silenced her father? Her glance fell, broodingly, to the papers on -his desk. Was it because the hills were her religion, her love for them -her form of worship? She liked the notion and saw herself enhanced by -it. Her heart beat a little faster; there were depths in her she had not -sounded, and her blurred gaze cleared itself in this excitement. Her -mind looked inward while her eyes mechanically followed the lines of her -father's writing. They were partly concealed by blotting-paper, but some -of them she read over and over again, making accompaniment to her -thoughts, until their meaning flashed and blinded her to all else. They -were words of love, brilliant, coloured words that startled, horrified -her. She had read such words in print, but to see them in her father's -handwriting seemed to strike life out of her. - -Her mind had a curious sensation of lop-sidedness; it was partly numbed, -partly acute; she was incapable of remembering to shift her glance, but -quite clearly she saw words which told her the letter was written to -that woman in the hills. There was no doubt of that. Was he not -comparing her face to a sun-bathed peak visible through cloud? She -learnt this in half a minute's passing, and then she rose. She was cold, -but her mind was once more a whole, and merciless in its conclusions -and its indictment. - -"Are you going, my dear?" He moved his papers into a little heap. - -"Yes." - -He did not look at her. "I wish," he said, beating a tattoo on the desk -and speaking with an effort--"I wish you would always come to me, -Theresa, when you are--when you are not happy." - -"Oh!" she cried chokingly, and rushed away. - -He found her confusion easy to understand, and he loved her for the -reserves so seldom and so delightfully broken. - -The icy darkness of her bedroom enclosed Theresa with the chill and -colour of life itself. The future was cold and rayless; she groped -towards it and was afraid, but she had the courage of anger and as she -stumbled against the bedpost, she lifted her head. How could he? how -could he? She saw her mother sitting down there by the fire, rocking -gently, with that faint smile curving her lips; she remembered the -shadow that had sometimes seemed to fall between her parents, and -loyalty ran out towards her mother like a wave. And, on the other side -of the landing, bending over his desk, that meek, uncertain father of -hers wrote his love letters in secret. He wrote love letters because he -could not afford to go to the mountains and the woman, because he would -not leave his wife! - -The terrible, sickly blackness of things covered her. She struggled -under it, and with the effect of something magical, mockingly plain, yet -distant, she saw, all the time, the lights of the docks, and heard the -clanging of the tramcar bells in New Dock Road. Lights while she -floundered in gloom, human sounds while she wandered in fear-inhabited -caverns! She had rejoiced in the reading of such situations, she had -fancied herself fitted to cope with them, but she found reality too -real. Anger at something greater than a small personal injury was a -bigger passion than she had imagined, and pity, doomed to voicelessness -and impotence, tore her with strong hands. - -She moved rapidly to and fro between the dressing-table and the bed's -foot. She had loved her father, and now she saw him a deceiver. The -thought hung on her as she walked. Surely truth had looked out of his -kind eyes, love had shone there, and could deceit give a hand to each? -She found it hard to distrust him utterly, for did he not believe in -her? But she crushed this relenting in her clenched hands, and continued -her restless pacing. That little grey man a lover! Had he been tall, and -strong, and masterful, he had been easier to forgive, but that a small, -meek man should be unfaithful made the insult to her mother doubly -bitter. And that woman Alexander's mother! She came to a stand, holding -her throat. Did Alexander know? He was her father's friend, but she -hated him, and immediately she imagined him the abettor. Oh, how they -sullied her glorious mountains, and, oh! was it possible that she was -dull and prudish? Was she missing the grandeur of a hopeless love -because she was too near to see it well? The question stilled her. In -books--to these her judgments always turned--she was able to sympathize -as much with the guilty as the innocent, but here----. Ah, well, she was -not in a book, and she had loved her father, and downstairs her mother -sat ill and miserable. She might die at any moment, and Theresa felt the -pang of her father's remorse. Had he thought of that? Once more her -heart seemed to stop its beating. - -A knock came at her door. "Yes?" she said. - -"It's me, Theresa. I want to show you something. May I come in?" - -She opened the door to Edward Webb, and stood rigid, glaring fiercely at -him out of her white face. Yet he was unchanged. The odour of sin was -not upon him, and he blinked and smiled as he held a paper towards her. - -"All in darkness? Look, my dear, this--this is something Alexander sent -to-day. I should like you to look at it." - -"Alexander!" Her low voice had turned shrill. "I don't want to see -anything he has sent! I don't want to know anything about those people!" -She pushed past him and ran down the stairs. - -An hour afterwards, having tenderly seen her mother into bed, Theresa -went to her own room, too heart-weary to be anxious about Grace. -Everything seemed ruinous and wrecked, what matter if Grace fell, too? -This was her mood as she slipped off her clothes and bravely stretched -herself between the cold sheets, yet she kept her ears alert, and when -she heard an unmistakable step she made a hurried movement of relief. - -Grace flung herself into the wicker chair, which creaked dolefully. - -"Oh, Terry!" The gas was turned low, but Theresa could see the beauty of -her pose. - -"You're very late." - -"Don't be cross. I can't bear it. Terry! Theresa! I'm so happy that I -want to cry!" - -"Why don't you, then? I shan't mind. And for Heaven's sake be quick and -come to bed." - -"I did hope you would be in a nice temper, and you're horrid." She sat -on the bed and laid her cheek against Theresa's. "You really must be -good to me to-night." - -"I suppose you've engaged yourself again?" Her tone was hard at the -thought of love-making. - -Grace withdrew her caress. "I have never been engaged before," she said -distinctly. - -"Then you've told me lies, twice. A good thing I didn't believe them!" - -"You're hateful! You know the other times were only folly." - -"Yes, I knew, but I didn't know you did. I shouldn't tell anyone else -about this if I were you. It won't last long." - -"It will last for ever and ever." She took off her hat. "Don't you want -to know who it is?" - -"Is it that Wilkinson with the undeveloped head?" - -"It's a beautiful head--classic. Theresa, you are horrid. I thought you -would understand." - -"I do, and I'm not a bit disturbed. He will never be my brother-in-law. -You've too much sense--somewhere. Now do your crying, and then get into -bed. It's rather cold all alone." - -"I'm burning," said Grace. She would not be snubbed, and she hummed -gaily instead of weeping. - -"Did he ask you to-night?" said Theresa, unwillingly curious. - -"Yes." - -"Where?" - -"I'm not going to tell you." - -"Oh, all right. I asked Bessie to leave out your milk and biscuits. Did -you have them?" - -"Milk! Biscuits! As if I could eat anything at a time like this! You are -the most unromantic person." - -"It's safer," said Theresa wearily. She made a deeper nest for her tawny -head, and dismissed Grace's light affairs. They became negligible in the -face of the tragedy she knew, and with the closing of her eyes she shut -them from her mind. She prayed that sleep would bring the mountains, the -clean mountains which, after all, could not be smirched by human beings, -and they came to her. She saw them, tall, dark, superb, and inviolable, -and she woke with something of their courageous peace. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -Theresa had not the prophetic gift, but she garnered her experiences; -she had good judgment and, when it pleased her, she could use wisdom in -her dealings with her kind, so that, two months later, when Grace came -to her, sore over the sufferings of the young man with the undeveloped -head, yet still determined to be cruel to him, Theresa received her -without surprise or any reference to the promised eternity of Grace's -love. - -"It was a great mistake," Grace said ingenuously. "I'm afraid I like -admiration, and I can't help liking people who give it me." - -"You must like the whole world, then. What a big heart to carry!" - -"It's not quite as big as that, and you take up a lot of room in it, -Terry, though you think I'm such a silly." - -"You'll improve," said Theresa cheerfully. - -She was able to be cheerful, for two months is a long time at seventeen, -and the pain of her spirit was dulled: she had become used, though not -reconciled, to the sight of a familiar figure, branded with shame. She -no longer compared his every word and action with the truth she knew of -him, for the beautiful green growth of custom was hiding the staring -ugliness of her discovery. It was there, underneath, but now and then -she was able to forget it, and that capacity almost persuaded her -sometimes that her imagination had played her false. She watched him. He -was the same man, it appeared, but for the shrinking wonder with which -he looked at her, hurting her, striking doubt into her young criticism -of things beyond her. Was it his guilt or her cold treatment which had -cast this visible shadow over him? It should have been his guilt, but he -had offended and yet gone clear of cloud before she found him out. It -was her frowns that troubled him, and while she hated the immature -self-righteousness which forced them from her, she could not keep them -back; a smooth brow would have been disloyalty to the woman over whom he -bent with a hypocrisy so perfect that it seemed impossible. She had hard -work to restrain articulate scorn, but her curled lips did duty, exiling -him to that desert place whence he could not see her smiles. In these -days his shoulders became more bent, and Theresa learnt how he had -looked in the shops where he was afraid of people's eyes. The knowledge -shook her; he was like a frightened child who longs for kindness, and -only by repeating those beating words could she forbear from putting her -arms round his neck and kissing him under the brows. She longed to do -it; her love fluttered and struggled in her breast, so that she had to -quiet it with the pressure of her hand, and this was the beginning of a -habit which never left her. - -She watched the postman, too. Letters, addressed in Alexander's writing, -came from the farm among the hills: they were thick and sometimes -sealed, and the eagerness with which her father took them to his room -convinced her that they held enclosures. At such times he seemed to her -like an animal secreting food, and the striving love lay still. - -On an evening when this had happened, she sat with her mother by the -breakfast-room fire. It was May, but a cold wind rattled the windows, -and Nancy had her feet inside the fender and a shawl round her -shoulders. Theresa was sewing, as a silent protest against the ardent -letter-reading upstairs. Her lips were tightened, and conscious virtue -enveloped all of her but the hair that flamed in love's own colour. She -was now eighteen, and the hair was massed on her head, overweighting it, -strengthening the pallor of a face where only a few golden freckles -broke the white. - -She shivered. "May is the worst month of all," she said, and threw down -her sewing. "Such light, long evenings, and spring's news almost old. It -makes me miserable." - -"I wish you would go out more, dear." - -"I took Uncle George for a walk yesterday, and Father the day before." - -"That's not what I mean. Why will you never go with Grace?" - -"I don't fit in. I feel like a great piece of furniture when I'm with -her friends. I can't talk as they do. They have a way of making -jokes--all about nothing and really not a bit funny--that turns me dumb. -I don't know how they can think of such imbecilities." She did not add -that she envied their facility, that their gay scraps of talk, their -ease in each other's company, the way in which they wore their clothes -and did their hair, shamed her for her silent awkwardness and robbed her -of any comfort in the belief that she was alien because she was unique. -Her eyes were quick, but they did not see that though she lacked the -loveliness she had always wanted, her face had the beauty of her swift -and vivid spirit, she had the pliant grace of a larch, the freshness of -its early green and the courage which has caused that tree to be set in -wild and desolate places. She thought the more highly of the intellect, -and in this region she was aware that she overtopped the women of her -acquaintance and the men with whom they danced, and laughed, and talked -with such incomparable ease. - -Nancy uttered a platitude serenely. "It takes all sorts to make a -world," she said. - -"I know, but there don't seem to be any of my sort--and I could be a -friend!" - -"You are a friend, dear, to me and Father and Uncle George and Grace. -Since you began to take care of us all, I think I've never been so -happy. You mustn't think I haven't seen, and now I want to tell you in -case I never have another chance. My heart was very bad last night--but -don't tell Father. Don't worry him. The attacks must come, and one of -them will take me with it. I don't want to tell anyone but you, Terry, -and I tell you because you're strong." - -The colour rushed over Theresa's face, and she stammered as she spoke; -but it was fear, not pride, that swamped her; though, in after silences, -the words echoed back to her thrillingly. - -"You must let me sleep with you. I can't let you have attacks all alone -in the dark like that. Pain"--she breathed the word--"must be so -terrible alone. Doesn't Father wake? I should, if you moved." - -"So would he, but I don't move, you see. And I'm not going to be parted -from him for the time that may be so short. And I've endured worse -pangs, Theresa, far worse. Thank God, they're over." The faint smile -deepened, the corners of her mouth were reminiscent, her lips had the -softness of a girl's. "Where you give love, give trust, Theresa, when -your great time comes." - -The wavering colour came back to Theresa's cheeks. She looked pityingly, -adoringly, at her mother, and then her brain seemed to swell with -reckless anger. - -"I'll never love!" she cried, "because I must trust where I love, and -men--men are so faithless! Oh, I know!" She ceased, trembling, watching -her slim, shaken wrists. She heard laughter. - -"Is this books, or Bessie?" And then, as Theresa raised her face, -"Terry! What has happened? Nothing to you--or Grace?" - -"No, no, dear, it's just the things I hear about. Truly." She was on her -knees, stroking her mother's face, aghast at her own carelessness. "It's -Grace who is unfaithful, and no one gives a thought to me!" - -"You are so dramatic, dear! Don't give way to the temptation." - -"I know," Theresa murmured. "It's wicked of me." But this time her -outburst had had no impulse but what came from her own indignant heart. - -"You're not always sure, are you, of what you really feel?" - -"Oh, how did you know? But is anybody?" - -"Lots of people, I think. This--this may be my farewell sermon, Terry, -so be attentive!" - -"I won't listen if you talk like that." - -"I won't, then, and I'm not going to preach. I only want to tell you to -go on taking care of them all for me. You do it better than I ever did, -and it has been a sacrifice." - -Had it? Theresa looked back through the months. What would she have done -with them if they had been hers to use? The thought of the immortal poem -rose up in a cloud of dust. It would never be anything more than dust, -offensive to eyes and nose, choking her. With a defiant movement of the -arms she scattered it, yet still its odour remained, mocking her with -its dry offence. She spurned the idea of herself as poet, her head was -unaccountably humbled, yet through it there darted swiftly the vision of -herself as novelist. It was a vision easier to live with, and she -welcomed it, straightening her back. - -"There's Grace," her mother was saying softly; "she is so pretty. Don't -let her marry the wrong person, Terry." - -"She's rather clever at dodging the mistakes. She has a lot of -commonsense. I'm much more likely to do something insane, in spite of my -looks! Being plain makes one so independent!" - -"You're not plain, dear. Father thinks you're beautiful." - -"Oh, Father!" The old allegiance and the new scorn were fairly mingled. - -"Yes," said Nancy, twisting her lips, "it is rather like that, I know. -And there's Uncle George. He's much nicer near than at a distance. -Theresa, do you mind him very much?" - -"I rather like him," she answered, reddening. - -"Aren't we being good?" said Nancy gaily. "And you'll keep Bessie. I -know she's not much use, but she's a friend. I shouldn't like you to -have a stranger. And--and there's Father." Tears dropped straight and -unheeded into her lap. "Theresa, he loves you so much, and he'll need -you. Be kind to him. He's so unhappy when you're not." - -The appeal could only throw his treachery into black relief, but in an -illuminating flash that went violently through her head, and left her -weak and giddy, she thought she understood it, understood all things, -and she promised, weeping, too, that she would care for him. - -Her mother's gentleness stole through Theresa and stayed there: she felt -in herself a largeness of forgiveness that astonished her, and she -looked on her father without rancour, with the wide gaze, she thought, -of one who sees beyond the flesh. And the mood, unnatural, but not -false, imposed by another's tenderness, lasted, uninterrupted, for the -short time before her mother died. Theresa was glad that inward peace, -as well as that outer one of a June night, surrounded the pale, still -figure on the bed, as she gave the little sighing breath which lightly -sent her spirit across the border, glad that she felt no resentment at -her father's tears. She had time to think these things before there came -over her a terrible quiet which was not peace but desolation, wherein -worlds broke God's rules and changed their course, and, amidst their -bewildered going, she thought her mother tried to find a place. Her -discarded lodging lay in the bed still bearing the imprint of her -spirit, but what was essentially she was racing perilously among -uncertain worlds. She steadied herself. She refused to visualise a thing -she could not understand, and she found strength. The wandering worlds -dropped back into their circuits, she heard the dreadful catch and -outlet of her father's breathing, and, as though this were but part of -her daily task, she stroked her mother's cold, soft hands, and touched a -little wavering lock of hair that had fallen across her brow. - -She lived and ate, and slept through the medium of a body which had no -connection with herself. She would rather have suffered tortures, but -she could not regain her personality or any of the emotions it would -have felt. While Uncle George went gloomily about the house and Bessie -sobbed in the kitchen and Grace lay prone upon her bed, Theresa, feeling -ashamed of her coldness, seemed to live a life whose normality was only -broken now and then by the sight of a fleeting, ghostlike figure that -could not find rest. When she woke in that first night she heard its -hurrying, ceaseless steps, and the sound of doors opened by its -unbelieving, eager hands, and she knew that her father's body, -uninformed by his numbed mind, was searching and researching the house -for a living Nancy who would defy the stark evidence of her death. - -She sat up in bed. Grace was in the deep sleep that follows weeping, and -she drew herself carefully out of the sheets, set her feet on the rough -carpet of the stairs, and pattered after him. She found him on the -landing below, and she touched his sleeve and patted it. - -"You must go to bed," she said very soothingly. - -He turned on her, and in the darkness she saw the glistening whites of -his eyes. "Whose bed?" he demanded, and again, "Whose bed? I have none," -he added on a sob. - -She had not thought of that. Only the half of Uncle George's couch -offered him shelter, and the awful pathos of that carefully preserved -space set her chin and her lips trembling. - -"We'll go into the breakfast-room. We'll light the fire. I'll stay with -you." And by that fire they sat together, cheek against cheek. - -Day comes early in June, and the birds were singing before Theresa had -stiffened in her chair, or their hands had refused to hold each other -any more. In the white light one white face gazed into another. - -"You've only got your nightgown on," he told her; and then, -inconsequently, "but I've got you back." - -"Yes," she said. She had never felt closer to him, and the guilt which -she could not forget had become no more than a thin film of smoke. - -In the afternoon of that day, when she entered her mother's room to put -fresh flowers in her hand, she saw her father already filling them, but -not with flowers. It was a sheet of paper he fixed between those -strangely unresponsive fingers. - -Across the bed he looked at Theresa, and frowned in his piteous need to -speak. - -"It's all I have to give her," he said, "and she would have liked it. -She hadn't seen it because I never showed her anything until it was as -good as I could make it, but she must have it now. It's hers." - -She bent over the paper. She saw the regular lines of verse, and, -starting out of them, the words that haunted her. Her mouth fell open, -and she looked at him through an immeasurable distance, before she -dropped to her knees under the unbearable weight of her abasement. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -On the last Saturday of that month, the sun, waking Theresa to the great -emptiness of the world, robbed Alexander of the sleep which was his by -right of holiday and, a moment later, the clamour of an energetic and -triumphant hen dispersed his drowsiness. - -As he lay and looked through the window and felt the wind on his face, -he heard a kind of music in the noise, for in its unconscious, harsh -insistence, there was a glorifying of life, joy in a creative gift, and -praise for the wise use of it. It held, moreover, a call for energy, and -Alexander, who had been born loving pre-eminence, could not consent to -lie in bed while a hen prated of accomplishment. Murmuring gentle -maledictions on the creature, he threw off his coverings and thrust his -head and shoulders through the window. - -It was six o'clock, and the earth seemed to have dipped its face in its -own running water, and now, still glistening with drops, it was holding -up its head that the wind might dry it. It was a light and frolic wind, -taking pleasure in the vast spaces of the world and the youth of -morning, whirling about the hill-tops, daring the dark and dripping -gullies that rent the cliffs, yet not disdaining the rose-tree on the -house wall, nor the points of Alexander's flannel collar and the -roughness of his hair. Sharp at his throat it sent its cool, long -fingers, and after them came the sunshine with a warm caress. - -The ceasing of the hen's exultation brought a startling quiet, and -through it there came softly a consciousness of water falling. From the -Steep Water and the Broad Beck it was heard, a sound half of melancholy -and half of joy, and sometimes it was loud, and again had a note so -fading that silence caught at it. - -There was a cap of cloud on the Spiked Crags, but the Blue Hill stood -broad and clear, and when Alexander turned his head and looked seaward, -he saw that shining thread of water, and the lake, and the lower hills -lying under a pale and lofty sky. - -Vague scents of flower and tree, of soil and wind, rose to his nostrils -or went past him: he thought he smelt the very essence of the earth, he -thought he felt God breathing on His world. Peace was spread on it like -a hand, and in that blessing Alexander shared. - -A homely sound drew him from the heights to which contemplation had -carried him, and looking down, he saw a procession of brown and speckled -hens, who lifted their feet delicately from the dust of the road, but -did not refuse to peck in it. Dappling the little throng with white, -three solemn ducks waddled heavily, and, last of all, like marshalls of -the flock, the grey geese came, craning their necks and gobbling gently. -They paused at the gate that lead into the field, argued for a while, -and slipped, one by one, under the lowest bar. - -Alexander followed them over the wet fields. He left his slippers at the -gate, and went barefooted, for he was in love with the morning, and -greedy of all it had to give: the damp earth was pressed into the arches -of his feet, and the long grasses shook down their hanging drops. A -blackbird sang to him as he swished by, and when he reached the pool -under the birches, he thought it waited for him like a mistress who had -no life but his. Not yet quite wakened from the night, it stirred -languorously and spread dark arms to hold him, while the thin birch -leaves fluttered on their stalks, quivering in a selfless joy. - -He raised his eyebrows with a humorous, unequal lift, and looked deeply -into the water he thus appropriated. He was amused, a little dismayed by -a mood in which he tuned the world's music to his own key. His ambition -might have seen men and things alike conquerable by his mind, but his -vanity had never heard them as a refrain to the song of self, yet now a -sparkling morning, a whistling bird, and wet grasses brushing on his -feet, had made a coxcomb of him. That was the epithet he chose to use, -for his proud youth would not confess the power of a summer morning on -his austerity; yet, as he took the plunge into water which still held a -memory of the snows, he was grateful to a cold that vanquished -sentiment, and gave back freedom to the mountain stream. He felt he -ought to ask its pardon on his knees, but he did not pause in his -drying: the feeling, he thought characteristically, was enough, and, -lifting his brows again and twisting his lips in company, he decided to -keep the kneeling posture for the time when he should have learnt to -pray, and with the remembrance that he had been at worship, if not at -prayer, as he stood by his window and divined the immeasurable presence -of God, he walked home soberly, absorbed in the problems of his own -spirit, and heedless of the geese that cackled after him. - -He found his mother kindling the kitchen fire and he watched her as he -sat on the table and dried his hair. He had, for everything concerning -her, an eye as keen as that of a woman or a lover: he took pleasure in -the sure quickness of her hands, and the clear skin on the cheek she -turned to him, yet his gaze had that parental quality which, still -unsuspected, had influenced his dealings with her from boyhood. He saw -how the brave back defied the grey that crept unwillingly through her -hair, and he knew that neither age nor sorrow would ever daunt her, -because love had given her an invincible supremacy. Years ago, with the -wisdom of the threatened, her heart had challenged her mind to combat, -and had beaten it, and thereafter she had made of it an ally, so that -her defences were unassailable and her fears at rest. He understood. Had -he not watched it all? At first he had seen her little shifts with -scorn, he had felt pity for her determined blindness, and then his own -sight had been cleared, and he looked straight into a maternal heart -that awed him, though it pulsed so eagerly for the father that there was -hardly room for the son. His training had been a hard and useful one, -and his passions were well chained: he was rarely resentful: what was -noble in him was truly glad of her captured happiness, and he had learnt -to use towards her the indulgent tenderness which she kept for his -father. - -He laid aside his towel and stood up. "Let me do that for you." - -She gave the laugh, not to be silenced by experience or proof, of the -capable woman who hears man offering to do her work. - -"No, it's alight at last. The sticks were damp. You forgot to bring them -in last night." - -"I'm sorry." - -"I'll see to them in future." - -"Oh, isn't that just you! I forget, once in three months, perhaps, and -you talk as though it were only that once that I'd remembered." - -She sat on her heels and smiled at him. "Nonsense! I'm juster than you, -my son! And I like doing my own work." - -"But this is mine. I gathered kindling wood for you as soon as I could -walk, and I used the chopper before most children are allowed a -table-knife. The smell of the woodshed and the fear I had of it at -night! The door has the same creak yet, when there's a strong wind from -the sea. I've suffered torments, crossing the yard in the dark, and I -have my reward in remembering them. I'm going to get the wood for you -till the end of time. It's bound up with the thought of the geese, and -the smell of earth, and the sound of bees in the heather, and the wonder -if I'll see my father striding out into the black when I'm coming in -with my arms full. And it's queer how you end by loving the bad -memories best. I think it will be because we're all proud to look back -on trouble." - -She heard disloyalty in his words. "Trouble! How much of it have you -had? You've had your way in everything, you've never been thwarted." Her -voice dared him to speak his thoughts. He was silent, but he had a -vision of a small and solitary boy's figure moving always under a cloud -that might open to let out thunderbolts. How he had feared, hated, and -at last, when it failed to do more than darken his days, how he had -despised it! - -He looked in a kind of wonder at his mother. Her hands were folded in -her lap in a pretence of calm, but he knew she held them tightly, that -her heart went a little faster in her anger. Had she been unaware of his -sufferings, or had she chosen to ignore them? Now, it did not matter. -The horror was over: it had helped to make him what he was, and, were -that good or bad, he answered truthfully when she turned to him with a -sharp: "Well, why don't you speak?" - -He was smiling faintly. The lips which had been petulant in boyhood had -taken on firmer, straighter lines that refused the indignity of easy -rage. "I'd not change a day of my life for that of any other man," he -said cheerfully. - -She was a little suspicious of his meaning, but she had to take it at -its best. She rose and put a hand on his arm. - -"Out of my way, Alexander, if you want breakfast. Why did you get up so -early on a Saturday?" - -"Ask the sun." - -"Shall I give you a dark curtain?" - -"No; I'll go without sleep rather than have my window blinded. What -would I do when I waked in the night if I couldn't see my hills?" - -"Sleep again the sooner, perhaps. No wonder I can't make my candles -last. Alec, you're not to touch a book to-day." - -"Come for a walk with me, then." - -"Get Janet." - -"No, she can't walk like you. Come." - -"I mustn't." His flattery loosened her tongue. "He wouldn't like it. Go -and get dressed, my son. I'll have your porridge heated in ten minutes." - -So after breakfast he set off alone, with a packet of sandwiches in one -pocket and the forbidden book in the other. He followed the little track -amidst the bracken, and, having mounted, looked down on the watered -valley and across it at the opposing hills, and his love and need of the -place leaped in him like a thing alive, and mingled with the steady -happiness of doing his chosen work. - -He remembered the summer evening of the year before, when he had come -home from Oxford for the last time. He returned, having done the thing -he meant to do, and his degree was not a disappointment even to himself, -but neither was it a surprise; and if it was possible to have a deeper -satisfaction than that of holding the thing for which he had reached -out, it was in the sure knowledge of the use to which that thing must be -put. An earlier generation might have made a preacher of him, his own -pointed to the school and not the church. He believed he had been born -to teach; he found his most potent temptation in his lust for giving -knowledge, and though not the least worthy of desires, it was none the -less a self-indulgence. But its gratification was not always pleasant, -and after suffering some of the sharp pangs that youth knows how to -inflict on youth, he learnt to hold his tongue among his peers. He had -that cruel lesson in his first year, and for the other three he -contented himself with listening. The power of observation taught by -loneliness was turned on the men who seemed so light-heartedly young to -him. He liked them, he had a kind of envy of them, and watched the -gambols of their minds and bodies with the melancholy pleasure of an old -sheep looking on the lambs of spring. He had the good sense not to try -imitation, but he spent on them the study which he was incapable of -withholding from anything that fronted him, and if he saw little of -women during those years, he had, at the end of them, as good an -understanding of men as his youth could compass, and one that steadied -his belief that there was no higher calling than the one he meant to -follow. The contest in his mind, as he walked homeward that night, a -year ago, had been between ambition and a duty whose existence he did -not disclaim. Here was his mother and her need of a sane being in her -house, and beyond there was a large world with a place in it for his -ability. With all the garnered control of his strength he wanted to find -that place and fill it, yet it seemed the gods willed otherwise, for in -his pocket there lay a letter offering him a mastership at his old -Grammar School, and it was pressing against his side with the urgency of -a command, pricking him with a pointed question. Was it the personal -ambition or the impersonal ideal on which his eyes were set? It was easy -to entangle the two so that the answer fitted with his will, and he -walked bewildered. He found there were many sides to duty, that -inclination is not perforce opposed to it, and he was still struggling -for clearness when he turned the corner of the road and saw the hills. -Their calm mocked his restlessness, and their splendour made a little -thing of him. He stood and fed on them. - -Against the tender colour of the sky they held the darkness of the -coming night, and soon their arms would open to let forth a dusky -coverlet for the world. Proud of that burden, they lifted serene heads -above it and waited for the stars, and after them the day, and then the -night once more, and all the buffetings that time, and wind and rain -might bring them. Their beauty and strength and patience were holy to -Alexander, and at the sight of them he was ready for any sacrifice of -his ambition, while his mind was confused with longing to express his -gratitude and praise. This was more than the appeal of the aesthetic: -through nature he was half consciously trying to find God, and his -troubles left him and went like winged things to the heights. - -He walked on: he had a conviction that his way would be made clear. This -was strange to a mind that only came to its conclusions after fierce -wrestling; but he did not question it, and, rejoicing in this new -submission and in the clang of his boots on the hard road, he marched on -until the hills drew more closely round him and the lake narrowed to -receive its feeding streams. Green rushes grew in the shallows and were -stirred by the water's gentle surge, and among them, unseen, Alexander -thought the reedy pipe was played. The music woke such echoes in his -heart that his stern self-control tried to refuse it hearing; but the -hour was victor and the hills were its allies. In the perfection of -impulse they swept upwards from the valley, and it was amazing that the -dark and stunted yews round the little church, the scattered houses and -the grazing cattle should have been allowed to keep the places men had -given them, for the curves of the mountain's mysterious sides had the -fatality of a wave. But they had the placidity of their own strength: -themselves the victims of Nature's ruthlessness, they had learnt -ruthlessness from her, yet remained benign, and in the face of their -serenity the man was willing to distrust the efforts of his own mind. -But only for this moment was he the yielding child of these numerous and -mighty parents, ready to let his future be what they decreed: and only -because he was aware of his waiting will, did he find this happiness in -obedience to the evening and the hills. - -With the fluty song beguiling him, he left the road and walked by the -banks of the Broad Beck, until his bathing pool shone out among the -birches. He saw himself mirrored dimly in the water, and the blurred -image appeared to him as the true presentment of the thing he was, vague -and incomplete, the rough shape his soul must perfect. The trees, in -their drooping, veiled the fading light and curtained Alexander from the -rest of the world, but he felt the Blue Hill behind him and fancied he -could hear its breathing. - -He had meant to take the bath that was always like a new baptism into -the life of the hills, but the shadowy form prayed him not to shatter -it, and the hanging stillness of the wood forbade disturbance, so he -shouldered the knapsack he had laid aside, and treading softly, struck -across the fields for home. - -He found Janet sitting on the horse-block. - -"You're here!" she said. "What way did you come?" - -"By the beck. The water drew me." - -"And I've been listening for the sound of your feet on the road. More -than an hour I've been here." - -"Where's my mother?" - -"Over the hills, somewhere, after that man of hers. He's like a bad -child: runs for the pleasure he gets in seeing her follow, I believe." - -"Was he drunk?" he asked, and looking round, he saw a tragedy in every -shadow. - -"He'd been drinking. She sent for me." - -His look sharpened. "For the first time?" - -"The third," she owned. - -"It's like that?" - -"You see, there've been long years of it." - -"I know! Do I not know!" - -"He slept till morning, but when the light came he went, and she after -him. It's oftenest at night he goes, and then she cannot always follow. -It's bad, Alexander. You'll not be leaving her again? Or will you?" - -He crossed the rutted lane and leaned on the wall. Here was the solving -of his problem ready to his hand as he had foretold, but now he was -rebellious. He stared across the field to where the birches stood about -his pool, and he saw the brilliance of his future sadden and fade as -though a star had drowned itself there, in the water among the trees. He -made a movement as if to follow and bring it back, yet he stayed by the -wall: his hands gripped the stones, but his heart had gone after the -glowing treasure, lost and sunken, and as yet he had no wish to kindle -the little rushlight of his faith, blown out by his own gasping breath. - -He faced the blackness and turned to Janet. "I'm staying," he said. He -had made his decision, but, as though he looked at himself from afar -off, he saw all the pitiful struggling of his youth and felt its -loneliness, and his mind swung forward to the years when he should have -ceased to suffer from the unbearable throb of his own being. And though -he was no easy smiler, his mouth widened. Life and his conception of it -were things too mysterious for anger, or sorrow, or speculation, and for -an instant he was glad to think himself splendidly delivered from free -will. But that thought passed swiftly, and he became proud in the -possession of those qualities that make life difficult. - -"Janet," he said, and the smile lingered, "you've played me false. Here -I've been thinking you'd save us from the toils; I've been thinking you -were a witch, and I find you're nothing but a common woman after all!" - -She had no merriment to give back. - -"I've been delivered out of temptation, so far," she said, "but I may -fall yet. How often do you think I've said the Lord's Prayer when I've -known that poor soul was bleating all over the mountains like a lost -sheep, and your mother after him with the lantern in her hand? 'Deliver -us from temptation, deliver me from temptation,' I've said over and -over, to keep back the thoughts. I could say charms over him. I brought -him to my door once--only once--when I knew the drink was crying out in -him; but not again. It wasn't a face that I was meant to see, the one he -showed me that night, so now I say my prayers. I'll do no more, -Alexander." - -He drew near. "Ah, but if I wanted you to, Janet? If I needed help?" - -"Ah, then." She brushed a hand across her face. "Pray that the day won't -come," she said. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -He remembered how he took Janet home through the soft darkness, and -returned to find his father and mother in the kitchen. She was kneeling -at her husband's feet, and though she turned and smiled, she did not -speak. The light of the single candle showed her white face patched with -shadow; her clothes were disordered, her hair fell in wisps on each side -of her face. - -"This is a fine welcome," Alexander said. He pushed her aside, and -pulled off the heavy, sodden boots. - -"So you're back," said James Rutherford. - -Alexander made no answer. With his hands in his pockets he stood and -looked at the smouldering fire. Clara lighted the lamp. "It looks so -cheerless," she complained. Her fingers moved stiffly: she wasted -several matches. "Would you like anything to eat, Jim?" - -"No, I'm sleepy. I'll go to bed." His eyes looked glazed. He lifted -himself from his chair and laid an awkward hand on Alexander's shoulder. -"I'm glad you're back," he said, and passed out. Alexander did not move -until the creaking of the stairs had ceased, and his mother spoke. - -"Alec, you didn't say good-night--or anything." - -"If I'd said what I was thinking----" The red light in his eyes -flickered as he saw how she drooped against the table. "Why are you not -sitting down? Come here. How many miles have you tramped to-day? Let me -have your boots. Why will you do it? Why will you do it?" He chafed her -stockinged feet. - -She leant forward to touch his face. "Alec, I'm sorry we weren't here -when you came home. My heart was here." - -"No, no!" - -"Part of it, then." - -"As much as that? I was thinking you'd be in the porch, with the light -from the kitchen creeping round the passage corner; and there was Janet -on the horse-block, like a great black bird. Couldn't you have let him -run by himself for this one day?" - -"I daren't." She shivered. - -"If you did it once he'd stop." - -"No, it's like a disease. It's inherited, Alexander." - -"Ay, that's his excuse. It gives him the kind of pleasure a child gets -when it's ill." He thought it was the first time he had heard her sigh. - -"You'll have to be patient with us, Alec. And could you stir the fire up -a bit? I'm cold, my son." - -"Are you? Ah, you're killing yourself!" He felt her hands. They were of -a clinging cold that frightened him. "I'll have a blaze in a minute," he -said; but as he would have risen he felt her limp arms round his neck -and her cheek against his. - -"Such miles, and miles, and miles," she sobbed; "such miles and miles! -And to have you angry at the end of it! You mustn't be angry, Alec." - -"I'm not; I'm not." - -"You must help me." - -"I want to." His own voice was as strange in his ears as her appeal. "I -shan't leave you again. I'm going to stay with you." - -She started back from him and sat straight in the chair. - -"No! How can you? I'll have no idle son." She wiped her eyes and -smoothed back her hair. "Let me see to the fire," she said briskly. -"What do you mean, Alexander?" - -"When did you eat last?" - -"I don't know. I won't have you doing things out of pity. I don't need -pity, or you, or anyone. I was tired to-night; and yes, perhaps I do -need some food. Alec, you're not going to live here, buried." - -"Will you have your milk hot or cold?" he said. "And here's a -rice-pudding." - -"You've never known me behave like that before. I'm getting old, but, -still, I'm strong--very strong." - -"Or would you rather have some meat? The pudding will be better at this -time of night." - -"You must forget it, Alexander. It seems as if I was -complaining--unhappy. There's no woman happier than I am--and have -always been. Remember that. But the sight of you, and being tired, and -cold, and hungry----" - -"I won't listen till you've had your supper," he said, and filled a -pipe. - -She ate quickly under the whip of her thoughts. - -"If anyone but you had seen me just now----" - -"But no one did. And I've forgotten it, very nearly." He raised that -droll left eyebrow, and she smiled at him. - -"A night's rest is a very good thing for a memory that's too thorough," -she said. - -"I expect to find it so." - -"Then, Alexander, what did you mean by saying that? It's not fair to -take advantage of a woman's crying, and the only time you've ever seen -her do it--or shall." - -"I shall remember again if you're not careful. I'd decided before I saw -you. Read that." - -She read, and handed back the letter. "You'd never dream of it," she -said. - -"Why not?" Her indignation was the mirror that reflected his own late -despair, seen now as a small and foolish thing; and as he gathered the -thoughts which were to silence his mother's protests, the ideal came -floating back to him, with pinions spread, so near and beautiful that he -almost touched it. - -"You with your degree! You could go anywhere." - -"I don't know. I'm not a social success. I've lived these four years in -fear of being called one of Nature's gentlemen." - -"Alexander, I'm not a worldly woman, but to go to that little place -would be wasting you. Why, you're brilliant! And anybody would do to -teach those lumps of boys. I could do it myself." - -"I was one of them once. Oh, Mother!" he stood up and let out the -passion of his past restraint and the hopes he wanted to keep uppermost. -"Oh, Mother, does it matter whom I teach? It's not the learning I'll get -into their thick heads--there'll be little enough of that; it's the men -I want to make of them, whether they belong to the tinkers, and tailors, -and the rest, or to the cabinet ministers! Do you think that God has -different values for different folks?" - -"Well, I'm not in His counsels, but from the way He makes some of them, -you'd think He had a grudge against them. But you were made whole, -Alexander, and you've got to do something great with yourself." - -"And isn't it a grand thing to think you're going to fashion men?" - -"I'm sure you'll enjoy the feeling," she said drily; "but I doubt if -you'll do much." She saw the familiar tightening of his lips. - -"I'm going to try, anyway," he said. - -"Your father won't be pleased." - -"That's the last thing I'd expect." - -"It's a waste. What did you go to Oxford for? It's a waste of time, and -money, and talent." - -"It shan't be, Mother." - -"Well, I suppose you'll please yourself; but I won't have you thinking -you've done this for my sake." - -"I'm doing it for its own," he said, and spoke the truth, for in -opposing his design, Clara had shown him all its beauty. - -A year later, as he strode upward amid high-growing bracken, on that -Saturday in June, he saw the same beauty, and it was undimmed, -untarnished by labour and disappointment. The joy of knowing had been -Alexander's all his life, and he had suffered sincerely at the discovery -that most boys were dull to its delight, and spent their energies in -escaping it. He had lived through some haggard months in trying to lure -them with careful morsels, but he had ended by administering learning -like medicine and under no disguise. But if here he felt himself -cheated, there still lived and grew in him the early belief that in all -he did and was he would be helping to fashion men, and, as he stood to -give a lesson, he knew that the character of Alexander Rutherford was of -more importance to these indifferent listeners than the words of Virgil. -There was a cause for humility, and an inspiration, and if, in that -first year, Alexander watched his soul and his thoughts overmuch, it was -but the fault of his earnestness and his youth, and, outside his work, -he was not given to self-analysis, that frequent offspring of self-pity. -He was not sorry for himself: the brooding time of his boyhood was past, -and now, even when anxiety had its claws in him, and he hurried home -from school in fear of what he should find, he was conscious of an -underflow of happiness as ceaseless as the streams he loved, whose -voices were always with him as he followed the track his own feet had -made. The sound came in changing volume through the curtain of the mist -as though, behind that grey wrapping, doors were opened and then shut. -On these days of dripping quiet, the water cried, but there were others -when it chuckled between its babbling sentences, or roared in its fury -to reach the sea. - -The thin figure of trouble might walk with Alexander and lie beside him -when he slept, but it could not rob him of content. Roused in the night -by the opening of a door and stealthy feet on the stairs, he would pull -on his clothes and follow his father into the darkness, and hardly -regret his bed when the freshness of falling rain met his cheek, or the -night smell of flowers assailed him; or, when he waited in the kitchen -while the coals slipped in the fireplace and lost their red, and he -strained his ears for a voice or a footstep, they were comforted by the -singing of the larches. At those times, when he could not read, he made -a comrade of Theresa, who looked down from the mantelpiece. A new -picture of her stood there, with her hair upturned, and a smile that had -no tiresome permanence: it came and went, he thought, according to her -mood or his, and always the eyes looked at him with friendship. He would -nod to her as he filled his pipe, and be glad of her companionship. He -spoke to her sometimes, but his thoughts never went to Radstowe and made -her solid. That would have been to spoil his vague conception of a girl -who gave all he wanted and asked for nothing, who was there when he -desired her and absent when he chose, who was no more and no less real -than he would have her be; and when Edward Webb wrote of his Theresa, it -was of another than this pictured girl that Alexander thought: it was of -the spoiled child of a fond father, fixed by him in a false pose of -genius, and unrelated to the sexless being who looked and smiled at him -on lonely nights, and was as fine, and free, and formless as the wind. - -Alexander walked far that day, and came back with the stars. His steps -were loud on the stony path, and through the soft and palpable darkness -he heard the stirring of the creatures in the henhouse and the dog's -welcoming bark. - -There was peace in the kitchen. His father and mother sat close together -before the small wood fire, and the lamp, lighting the book from which -he read to her, strengthened the colour of her hair. The murmuring voice -stopped as Alexander entered, and the book was closed. He felt -intrusive, out of season, like one who has come upon lovers unawares. - -"There's a letter for you," said Clara, and rose to put food on the -table. "Is it from Edward Webb?" - -"Yes." - -It was not the usual bulky package: the envelope held no verse for -Alexander's criticism, but a thin sheet of paper, hardly covered. He -read the letter, walked into the yard, and back again. - -"His wife's dead," he said. - -"Oh, Alexander! Oh, poor soul!" Clara stood in the middle of the room, -seeing the desolation of that man without a mate. "What will he do?" She -set the plates down gently. "There'll be nobody to take care of him," -she said. - -"We could ask him to come here." - -"We could." - -"I'll write to him." - -"There's no post till Monday." - -"Time enough." - -"Let him be, let him be!" Rutherford said. "He's a poor little stick of -a man, and he's here too often. Why can I never have the house to -myself?" - -"It's a long time since he has been here, Jim." She had one of his hands -in hers. "Ask him, Alexander. And tell him to bring that girl of his, if -he will." - -"Need we have the girl?" - -"He'll be happier with her." - -Her glance went to the mantelpiece, and Alexander's followed. He was -near crying out, "But that's not the one he'll bring!" and then the -thought flashed: "But she must be like that, or how did we ever get her -picture?" The reality and the dream jostled each other, merged, and -separated with all their outlines blurred. Discomfort was in his breast -like a snake in grass. - -"I'm against asking the girl," he said firmly. - -James Rutherford lifted his head. "And I'm for it. You don't consult -me--either of you. Isn't this my house? We'll have the girl; but aren't -there two of them? Let's have them both. Two of them, aren't there, -Clara? Well, then, Alexander--both." He stood before the fire and -stroked his beard. - -"They shall be asked. There is also an uncle." - -"Oh, never mind him! Three's enough." - -Alexander went away laughing, but he was uneasy until he had the letter -in which Edward Webb accepted the invitation for himself, and refused it -for both his daughters. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -He had begged Theresa to go with him, but she had snapped her pale lips -on her decision. "I'm not going." - -He looked anxiously at her. The thin figure drooped in its mourning, and -her neck seemed without sufficient strength to hold her head and its -thick, untidy hair. "You don't look well," he murmured in distress. -"Theresa, don't people sometimes have their hair cut off; when they're -ill, I mean?" - -"I believe so--yes." - -"I think, my dear, you ought to sacrifice some of yours. You have so -much of it, and it seems to tire you." - -"But I haven't got a fever!" she protested. Under her shadowed eyes the -nerves were twitching. She wished he would not discuss her; she wanted -to forget her own existence. - -"No, you're too pale for that," he agreed, gazing at her so earnestly -that she laughed. He raised his brows. "I don't know why you are amused, -my dear, but I know the mountains would make you strong. And you've -always wanted to go there. Why won't you?" - -She could not tell him the whole truth. She could not say: "I thought so -wickedly of you and the woman there that I cannot face you both -together. And the mountains would frown on me in anger and frighten me. -I must wait till I'm forgiven." She told part of the truth. - -"I've to learn to earn my own living, and I must begin. And, besides, I -never did like Alexander. If he wasn't going to be there----" - -"I don't want to press it," he said, and left her a little disappointed -that he had not pursued the subject. - -Edward Webb went to the hills, and she began her training as a -secretarial clerk. For the sum of five pounds Blister's Commercial -Academy undertook to fit her for the work, and find a situation for her -afterwards. She did not like the large condescension of Mr. -Blister--preferably called "The Professor," and, by jocular spirits, the -"Mayor and Corporation"--but she knew she could learn anything he could -teach her, and she tried not to allow her feminine conception of him to -prejudice her against his instruction, tried to be so impersonal as not -to shrink when he stooped over her shorthand, looking, and sometimes, -alas! even feeling, like a large and clever whale. - -Her fellow-students, youths as well as women, were to her a new race, -drawn as if by some common inheritance to these inky labours. The youths -were for the most part genuinely young, but the women were of all ages. -There were girls of fourteen, pert or simpering, with premature glances -for the dusty, doubtfully collared young men; there were young women -with the independence of their generation, and scorn or frank -comradeship for men; their glances were straight and piercing, painful -to the undeveloped male, wishing to be paramount. There were older -women, jerked into the necessity of earning bread, with the sheltered -look still on them, and an air of injured or shy surprise at Fortune's -hardy ways, and elderly women, making a last effort to cheat Fate. While -she worked there, these people were of an absorbing interest to Theresa, -but like all, save the most foolish of them, she soon passed out of the -Academy, and, as she went, they fell back into the less active places of -her mind; and it was strange, yet, in some way, pleasing to think that -she, too, made one of a crowd of half-remembered fellow-creatures, with -her own tiny but irrebuttable influence on some one's conception of -life. - -For farewell, the Professor embedded her hand in his. - -"I'm glad you've got such a nice appointment," he said. "Such a -gentleman. You'll find yourself very comfortable there. Come and tell me -'ow you get on. My young ladies often come and see me." - -He was a kind, if somewhat familiar whale, and she decided not to throw -away her glove. - -Her gentlemanly employer was a solicitor called Edgar Partiloe. He was, -she judged, about thirty years of age, and beginning to attract clients -to his dingy office. No one could doubt his learning, and ability -glimmered behind his powerful spectacles. His forehead was knobbly, and -it shone, but his hands were beautiful, and she suspected elegance in -his feet, though they were shod in crumpled leather. - -She shared the outer office with an elderly and impoverished clerk -called Arnold Jessop. He always wore an overcoat, and keeping his lunch -in the pockets of it, he would begin, from an early hour, to extract -crumbs of bread and cheese, and quickly pop them into his mouth when he -thought she was not looking. He lived with a sister who kept a small -Home for Cats, and his first sign of consideration for Theresa was when -he brought a kitten out of the pocket where it had been sitting on his -lunch. - -"It's an orphan," he said, and blew his nose. - -"Poor thing," said Theresa, stroking it with a forefinger. "I hadn't -realized a kitten could be." - -"Could be?" - -"An orphan." - -"Of course they can. I should think so! Pussy, pussy, pussy!" she heard -the grating of his teeth as he rubbed the creature's neck, "ain't you an -orphan, then? Ain't you? Course you are--just like anybody else. You can -have him if you like," he added, and turned away as though he disdained -his gift. - -"That's very kind of you," she said. She hated cats, but for Mr. Jessop -she felt affection. "That's very kind," she repeated. "But are you sure -you won't miss it?" she asked hopefully. - -He gave a single shake of the head, and bunched up his lips. - -"There are always more of them coming on," he said with melancholy. - -She looked at the little animal as it wandered adventurously on the -office table. "Then I'll take it home to-night; but, till then, would -you mind keeping it in your pocket? I'm afraid it will get trodden on. -And, oh, look, it has put its wretched little paw into the inkpot! If -you dare to smudge my beautiful clean papers----" She held it gingerly -by the body while Mr. Jessop dabbed its foot with blotting-paper. - -"You'll be kind to him?" he asked wistfully. - -"Of course I shall, and I'll call him Arnold, after you. Because," she -added hastily, in dread of misunderstanding, "because it was so good of -you to give him to me." She smiled vividly, with her unfailing wish to -please. - - * * * * * - -For three years, while Grace danced, and laughed, and made people happy -by the look of her, and fell in love and out of it again; while Edward -Webb did his dull clerkly work until evening brought him to his poets, -and Uncle George bought and sold his grains, and yearned towards his -harmonium and the seamen, Theresa went daily to Mr. Partiloe's office. -She had meant to spend her leisure in writing, and though she had not -yet penned a word, she still saw her future haloed with fame; and when -she was saddened by the thought of her blank pages, and the fact that -she was not even mastering her technique, she found comfort in the -belief that the experiences of her idleness were necessary to her -stock-in-trade. - -With the upper froth of her mind, she was learning to be social. - -"Grace," she said one night, as they lay in bed, "I wish you'd furbish -me up a little bit, and--and drag me about with you to places, if I -shouldn't be a nuisance." - -"Oh, Terry! Would you really come?" There was a break in Grace's voice, -and her hand sought Theresa's. "Would you? I've always wanted to." - -"Have you? Won't you be ashamed? I'm such a gawk." - -"Ashamed! You're lovely. I shall be so proud to show you off. There's no -one like you, Terry. You're--you're a person! And if you'd only be a -little tidier, you would be pretty. And nothing"--the loyalty of her -heart swelled triumphantly into her voice--"nothing can prevent your -being distinguished!" - -Theresa chuckled. She had no illusions as to her outer self. - -"Don't overdo it. I don't expect to be a success, but I should like to -have a little fun. I've been--a bit lonely." - -"Oh!" Grace moaned over her and held her close. "I didn't know you were -wanting it. I didn't, Terry!" - -"And I wasn't--truly. But now---" - -"Well, you shan't be lonely any more, darling." - -Theresa was wiser. She knew there was something in her nature which -would not be so easily satisfied, but she did not know how to feed it; -it was always piteously hungry, and even when she had drugged it with -the sweet drink of gaiety and laughter, she could hear its muffled -weeping far down in the depths of her heart. - -The social engagements of these hard-working young women were not of an -extravagant nature, nor were they many; but there were dances now and -then, and supper parties, and sometimes a bevy of men and maidens would -wait patiently outside the theatre for the joy of sitting in the front -row of the pit, where they eat chocolates between the acts. On these -occasions Uncle George always went to bed before their return, as a sign -of his displeasure, but Edward Webb had the kettle on the fire and warm -slippers for them if the night were cold. - -Theresa liked dancing, and she liked going to the theatre, but she never -lost her sense of strangeness in the company of Grace's friends. She -knew she was essentially different from them, and she always found -herself looking at things from the opposite side to theirs, so that -there seemed to be a high wall between them, barring sight and deadening -sound. Yet she had her little success among them. They thought her -amusing, and she enjoyed their admiration, but gradually she dropped out -of their affairs. That voice within was now impervious to the drugs, and -she could get no peace from its clamour. Constant listening to the sound -brought back the elfin eagerness of her looks, she grew thinner and more -restless, yet her face grew indefinably in beauty of line and texture, -for though she was unsatisfied and uncertain, she was at least listening -to the claims of her spirit, and trying to understand them. - -"What's the matter, Terry? Why aren't you coming?" Grace asked, with -wide eyes full of anxious love, and Theresa, after searching for a way -of putting it, replied: - -"Well, you see, they are all very nice, but one time is just the same as -another, and I think I want to read. I feel dried up inside. And Grace, -I can't stand men. They always seem to be expecting something, and they -bore me horribly when I'm not wondering how they ever came to be -created." - -"Yes, that's how you look at them. I'm glad I'm not so particular, -though I don't care for any of them." - -"That's because there isn't one you haven't been engaged to." - -"Theresa, don't be vulgar." - -"Isn't it true?" - -"No--not quite. And Terry--I think I'm rather tired of gadding about -myself. Let's stay at home together and mend our stockings." - -"Mine do need it," said Theresa, glancing downward. - -"And there's Father." - -"Yes." - -So they stayed at home, but at nine o'clock Grace said she wanted air, -and would go for a little walk. - -"Shall I come with you?" Theresa asked lazily, and was so much startled -by Grace's quick and emphatic, "Oh no, thank you!" that she almost felt -it in her conscience to follow her; but she sat still, frowning, and put -a direct question when Grace, returned, unusually silent, and stood to -warm her hands before the fire. - -"Have you been out with a man?" - -"Theresa, you're horrid. No, I have not. You talk to me as though I were -a servant girl." - -Theresa smiled. "I wish you were as unsusceptible as Bessie. She gets -all her romance out of novelettes, bless her!" - -Grace drew a troubled breath. "I've been doing something like that -myself to-night." She stared into the fire, and spoke with a slight -blurring of her words. "I feel as if I want to tell you. I've just -been--imagining." - -"Don't you often do it?" - -"Why, no! I'm generally much too busy with the present, but lately--oh, -well, I expect I'm silly." - -"No. Go on." - -"I'm nearly twenty-four." - -"And I'm twenty-one." - -"And, Terry, I'm beginning to want things." - -Theresa knew the meaning of this general term. "It must be nice to know -what you want," she said softly. "And to want such simple, beautiful -things of every day." - -"Yes, but they're hard to get. You can't do it all by yourself. I've -been wandering up and down the streets, wishing I were going back to a -little house with my own man in it, and a soft thing in a cradle. -Theresa, aren't women wonderful?" - -"What makes you say so?" - -"They are so good! Oh, I want to be loved! Sometimes I so badly want to -be loved that I could go and ask someone to do it!" - -"That's not wanting to be loved," said Theresa bluntly. - -"Well, words don't matter so long as you understand. But I don't do it! -And think what men do!" - -"It's worse for men." - -"Not for all of them. Those are the only times when I want to read -poetry, the only times when there seems any sense in it." - -Theresa gave her chuckling laugh and hugged her knees. - -"Am I horrid? Are you like that?" - -"No; I think it makes me rather sick. But, then, I'm a queer person." - -"I'm glad you don't think it's wrong of me. I'm frightened of myself -sometimes." - -"I'm sure you needn't be," Theresa said cheerfully, but she was anxious. -Grace, with her beauty and the warm, swift blood flushing her cheeks, -seemed to her the very embodiment of life, and she feared its impulse. -Her own knowledge had the vagueness of inexperience, and it was the more -alarming, so she watched Grace jealously, and knew something of the -cares of parenthood. - -Some weeks later, on a cold and windy evening in March, she walked home -very quickly from Mr. Partiloe's office. She held her head high, but for -once she was unobservant of how the chestnut trees were swelling into -black, shining buds, and how the sound of her feet on the pavement had -the ring of spring-time in it, and the birds were giving out shrill -notes of joy. She went to her room, flung her hat on the bed and ran her -fingers through her hair. - -"I never go to that man's office again," she said to Grace, who was -sitting on the window-sill with hands loosely clasped in her lap, and a -tender smile on her lips. - -"What's the matter?" - -"I've left." She flounced on to the bed, expectant of more questions, -but none came, for Grace was gazing straight into heaven. - -"I've left," she repeated. "Mr. Jessop nearly cried, and so did I; but -I've asked him to come to tea on Sunday and bring his sister and as -many cats as they like. Grace, do you hear?" - -"Yes, I hear. Then we must tell Bessie to take a lot of extra milk on -Sunday. Have you really left?" - -"Yes, I have." She kicked her shoes to the far end of the room. "Good -heavens! The creature asked me to marry him!" She shuddered strongly. -"Grace, he asked me to marry him! And his hands trembled! I didn't know -people could go on like that. Never, never, never, shall any other man -do it. I won't give him a chance. It was dreadful." - -"It wouldn't have been dreadful if you had loved him." Grace spoke -softly. "Poor little man. What did you say to him?" - -"Say! I couldn't speak! How did I know he was going to be so ridiculous? -And to do it in the office! I thought I might conceivably fall in love -some day, but I know now that my affection wouldn't survive the -proposal. Why didn't you tell me people behaved like that?" - -"I expect they are all different. Tell me about it, Terry." - -Theresa padded up and down the room in her stockinged feet. - -"It was this afternoon. I went into his room to take down letters, and -suddenly he stopped dictating. Oh, I can't tell you! But he says he has -loved me for three years, and something about the sunlight on my hair -when I first entered the office--I don't know!--and his eyes looked like -lamps behind those enormous spectacles, and his face was white and--and -quivering. Oh, let me forget it. But I never shall. I want to go into a -nunnery. I feel stained." - -"Don't talk like that, Theresa dear. He couldn't do more than ask you to -marry him, could he? And you are insulting him, and--and love, too!" - -"Good gracious!" Theresa stood still and looked down on her sister, -whose upturned face was pale and earnest. The luminous eyes looked -steadily at Theresa: they had lost their sparkle, and showed dark and -unsuspected depths. "Who taught you to be love's advocate?" - -Grace made a weak little movement with her hands and turned to look out -on the docks. In the silence Theresa heard her breathing and saw the -throbbing pulse in her throat. Speech came with difficulty. - -"Love itself, I suppose," Theresa heard. - -"Are you ill?" She forced a place for herself on the window-sill, and -took Grace's hands. "Grace, what has happened?" Fear pumped at her heart -and shook her body. "Grace, tell me." - -She turned for a long, full look and the eyes were not those of an -unhappy woman. "I'm going to be married in a month," she said. - -Theresa's mouth fell slack. "What--on earth for?" she asked. Dreadful -visions flashed, but Grace dispelled them with her bubbling laughter. - -"Oh, Theresa! Because I am in love! Because--because I understand your -poor little Mr. Partiloe." - -Theresa released her hands. "You don't mean to say that your man behaved -like that?" - -Grace was dignified, almost matronly. "My man," she said, "behaved -exactly as I could have wished." - -"And where," asked Theresa, with the coarseness of desperation, "did you -pick him up?" - -"He lives next door--lodges there." - -"Not the man who strums, and fiddles, and sings?" - -"He plays in the theatre orchestra." - -"Here's fame!" - -"He's a musician." - -"I'll take your word for it. I've no ear myself." - -"Theresa dear, be nice. I have liked him ever since he came here----" - -"Are you watching for him to come up that road, because if you are I'm -not going to listen." - -"He is at the theatre or he would be here," she said. "It's your Mr. -Jessop who has made the match, Terry. Do you remember the night at -Christmas time, when we couldn't find Arnold?" - -"Yes. He was next door." - -"But I didn't tell you that when I was outside calling for him, Phil -came up the street--he had been to the theatre--and told me where he -was." - -"Who was?" - -"Arnold, of course. He was in Phil's room." - -"Had he stolen him?" - -"Well--temporarily. He truly likes him----" - -"Oh, these pronouns!" - -"But he got friendly with him in the hope of getting friendly with us." - -"With you, you mean. How charming!" - -"Yes, I think it was," said Grace simply. - -"And so it went on?" - -"Yes. I think Bessie knew. Didn't she say anything?" - -"Has Bessie ever sneaked, in all her days?" - -"This afternoon we went for a walk. We were both free----" - -"And now neither of you is. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" - -"Oh, Terry, do be glad." - -"But you looked miserable. I thought something terrible had happened." - -"So it has. It's terrible to like anyone so much." Her lips trembled. -"And we're not going to waste any time apart. I shall just go and live -with him, and we shall each do our own work. He teaches too, and he -composes. Some day he'll be heard of, now that he has some one to -believe in him. Do be glad. And won't it be lovely to be so near each -other still? Next door, Terry! He is coming to see Father to-morrow, but -I shall tell him to-night, only it had to be you first." - -Theresa was meditative. "It seems a mad notion." - -"Mad! It's perfect! To be so sure of each other, to feel so safe! Oh, -Theresa, I'm ashamed of all the sillinesses I've done. Letting other men -touch me, and fancying I liked them! But he knows. He knows everything. -And I didn't have to tell him!" - -Theresa walked to the dressing-table and studied her face in the glass. - -"I wonder if Mr. Partiloe wanted me as much as that," she said. "I'm -beginning to be rather sorry for him." - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -"There's snow on the hill-tops," said Clara. - -"Yes, I saw." - -"Did you have a cold drive?" - -"I wasn't cold." - -"My dear, your hands are like bits of ice. And your feet, too, I expect. -Let me take your boots off for you." - -"No, no, please. I'll do it." - -"Very well. You sit there and toast your toes, and you shall have some -nice hot tea in a minute." - -Edward Webb pattered down the stone passage, and put his head in at the -door. - -"Theresa, come and look at the Blue Hill. It's wonderful in this -light--wonderful." - -"Don't go, my dear. Leave her alone, Edward. The Blue Hill will be there -to-morrow, and the child's cold." - -"Oh, mayn't I? Just for a minute!" She rose from the red-cushioned chair -and Clara gave consent with a nod of the head and a flourish of the -bread-knife. - -Issuing from the dark passage, she was confronted by the Blue Hill. -Night was falling, and what little light there was seemed to be stealing -into the mountain. She thought it had opened its arms and its breast -like a great door, and the day was creeping into it. Only to the west, -beyond the lake and out over the sea, there was a pale amber streak, -refusing shelter, but slowly, as she watched, its colour faded, melted -into the universal grey, and was gathered home with the rest. - -"I have often wondered what happened to the day," she said in a small -voice. She thought there was a slight movement of the hill, as though, -with the last light safely housed, it closed its doors and settled down -to sleep. And the other hills folded their arms likewise, and slept. She -heard their breathing, and then she became aware of the ceaseless -running of the streams. - -A sharp pain of joy ran through her, and she had to hold her throat lest -a sobbing sigh should be let loose and spoil with human sounds the -marvellous stillness of the night. Swiftly she stepped back into the -passage and leaned against the wall. Its solidity assured her that this -was not another of her lovely dreams, and the smell of tea and hot cakes -was confirmation; yet, as she felt her way to the kitchen, she feared to -wake. - -But nothing vanished. James Rutherford, back from returning the cart -Janet had lent, was by the fire, and the dog sat with its nose on his -knee. - -"Alexander is away," said Clara. - -Yes, Theresa had heard that. - -"You are to have his room. Sit in the armchair again and have your -supper by the fire. We're going to have a fine Easter, aren't we, Jim? -Jim is weather-wise," she explained. - -Theresa smiled nervously at the gaunt man who was rhythmically stroking -the dog's head. He looked very dark and shadowy where he sat beyond the -rays of the lamp. "Yes, it will be fine," he said, and nodded at -Theresa. - -"I should like one day, only one, to be wet," said Edward Webb, fussing -up and down between the two doors of the kitchen. "I want Theresa to see -the mists. She hasn't seen the mountains until she has seen them hidden. -I want her to hear the wind howling and see the rain driven. That's rain -personified, half god, half man, urging and urged. In a town, it's -nothing more than water falling, but here----" - -"This is how he goes on," said Clara. "He and Alexander!" - -"No, no. Alexander keeps a wise silence. It is I who am so--so -garrulous, I am afraid." - -"Oh, we like to hear you," she said. - -A voice came from the shadows. "I like soft rain on my face, in the dark -among the mountains. It is very dark among them in the night." - -The burning wood stirred uneasily, a flame leapt, and Theresa saw the -hand, pallid in the fierce glow, still working on the dog's head. The -flame sank, and the small sounds in the kitchen, the clink of teacups -and the dull drumming of a light wind at the pane, added to her sense of -mysterious and impending happenings. She sat here, at last, in the -kitchen she seemed to have known all her life. Above her, on the -mantelpiece, her own eyes looked down, smiling in comradeship and -welcome and amusement at her surprise. Those photographs had been sent -without her knowledge and she felt strangely at a disadvantage. For all -these years Alexander had been familiar with her looks, while to her he -was still a vague form, perpetually menacing an exacter shape. She was -like someone who has thought herself alone and finds all her actions -watched. But Alexander was away, and she would not have to meet the -scrutiny that compared reality with pictures. If she had not been -assured of that she would not have been here among the hills. -But--happiness triumphed above discomfiture--she was undeniably here! -The smell of burning wood was in her nostrils and, outside, the hills -were powerfully, peacefully asleep under their caps of snow. She was -here, with the freshness of the mountain air on her cheeks, while, in -the warm west, Grace was a three days' bride. But on the thought of that -surrender Theresa would not dwell. - -She felt she was having her revenge on Alexander, when, having been -lighted up the stairs by his father, she closed the door of his room; -for if he had been able to study her face during all these years, she -could now retort with an examination of his belongings. His books, she -considered, would be quite as tell-tale as her appearance--and then she -caught back her thoughts. He had probably never so much as glanced at -the mantelpiece, and why should she be curious as to his tastes? - -She went to the window, and, kneeling before it, undressed with hasty -hands. She saw the fields and the mountains, and a great moon swung in -heaven: she had realized a dream, but her one wish was to put out the -light and draw the bedclothes close about her head, and lose -consciousness of this room which moved her like a presence. - -It was a long time before she slept. A mouse scratched in the wall, -somewhere a door was shaken in its frame, and often the stairs creaked -as though a foot had pressed them. She hated the bed she lay on, and the -blankets covering her; they were unbearably intimate. This was the -pillow Alexander's head had dinted, and the moon made his possessions -clear to her wakeful eyes. The room was whitewashed, and the walls, -against which many books were stacked, were bare of pictures. "Dull -creature!" she exclaimed, and, muffled to the chin, sat up in bed, -determined to be done with foolishness. She would not allow the man to -mar her joy, for to do so was to admit an importance to which he had no -right. She punched the pillow defiantly and, holding her ankles, rested -her chin on her knees. Sitting thus she could see the shoulder of the -Blue Hill, and she nodded to it grimly, in a kind of challenge, for it -seemed to hold the judicial scales between her and Alexander, and to -persuade her to its own wise tolerance. What, it asked mildly, had -Alexander done to offend? and she was bound to answer: "Nothing. Nothing -but make me feel inferior, ever since I first heard his name. How could -I like a boy who was not afraid of geese when I was terrified by them? A -boy who tramped long miles to school at an age when I thought it an -adventure to go down to the docks, a clever boy who won scholarships I -knew I could never get? I was prejudiced against him at ten years old! -Oh, Alexander, I have been very silly! I'm quite willing to be friends." -She kissed her hand. "We are friends, I tell you. But be careful how -you behave, my man. I'm very hard to please!" She laughed at the moonlit -night. "As if he cares!" And then, hitting the pillow forcefully again, -"Oh, but if I saw him, I'd make him care!" - -A beautiful windy morning waked her. She found her father on the -horse-block, his nose and cheeks blue with cold, his eyes reddened but -bright with joy. - -"Where shall we go to-day, Theresa? I hoped to take you to see Janet, -but Clara tells me it is not convenient, so that must be for another -time. There are the Spiked Crags--look! You see them? And the Blue Hill, -and what Alexander calls the school track----" - -"The Spiked Crags, please," she said. - -He nodded. "I knew you would choose them." - -During the ascent, she owed it to her father's breathlessness that they -did not talk, and in the silence that was only broken by his panting -Theresa could realize the hills. Yet she wished she were quite alone. -She could feel her father's mind, like his body, straining after her -wondering what she thought of this and that, watching for signs, and her -desire was to sit as unheeded as a stone and let the winds play over -her, and be a little part of something so much vaster than herself that -her petty frets and follies would be of no more moment than the sound of -one heather stalk grating against another. - -"Do you mind," she said, "if I go on ahead of you? I'm--I'm so impatient -to get to the top." - -He smiled and nodded, patting his chest to account for lack of speech. - -"You're sure you don't mind?" - -"Yes, yes," he nodded, and she sped on. But she did not sit and ponder -on her insignificance. Joy took hold of her and made her its own. There -was a great tumult of singing in her breast, the wind lashed her, -torturing her skirt and flicking the hair into her eyes until she -clapped a hand to each side of her head to control the struggling -locks, and let go again to wrestle with the greater problem of her -petticoats and to wind her skirt about her waist. - -She danced through the hard patches of snow lying here and there; she -shouted because she knew the wind would tear the sound and scatter it; -she was as light as the driven clouds, and she waved her hands to them. -She forgot Mr. Partiloe, or, remembering him, did not shudder; she -forgot the restlessness of her being, and rejoiced in the lithe young -body that bent easily before the wind, and pushed its way against it, -and loved its buffeting. There was no one to watch her and, when she -reached the summit, she behaved with the abandonment of all young things -in the spring-time of the year and their own lives. Little pigs, and -lambs, and colts have their squealing, skipping, prancing ways of -praising God, and Theresa had her own. She ran as fast as the wind would -let her, with her hands high above her head; she lay down in the places -which the snow disdained; she drove her fingers into the snow and sucked -them warm again; and she loosed her hair so that it was flung out like a -pennon. Dishevelment is seldom fair to see, and Theresa did not look -beautiful. She did not care. She wanted to feel the wind's fingers at -the roots of her hair, and she liked the tug and the sound as the -strands were whipped this way and that. She stood alone on the mountain -top, and gave her body to the elements, yet remained free. The elements -made a generous lover: they took all she could give, yet they kept -nothing, and they resigned her at a word. Poor little Grace, she -thought, to be fastened for ever to the body and soul of a man, even -though the man had intelligent green eyes and an adoring heart! It was -better to be the wind's lady--easy come and easy go, and no fragile -human feelings to be a hindrance. - -The sight of her father toiling upward sobered her ecstasy. She sat down -to await him, feeding on beauty as she braided her hair. She could see -the valley, the lake, and the river all running towards the sea between -walls of ever lessening hills. Here, at the valley's head, they were -immense; they swept to the sky and rolled their great backs into distant -valleys, and the little homesteads down below were meek in their shadow; -but, like a wave that has spent its strength, the heights diminished as -they approached the shore, that shore lying between two oceans, the one -of water and the one of hills. - -Her eyes felt cleansed of all the doubtful sights they had ever met, and -her mind shared in the cleansing. Her happiness was so deep that she did -not know of it; for, as nearly as human beings may, she was seeing -things filtered of self, and the wide winds were in her soul. - -She had made two thick plaits by the time her father sank to the ground -and leaned his head against her shoulder. - -"I wish your mother could have seen this," he said. - -"The dear soul would never have got here. And now she doesn't have to -climb at all. She'll be very glad, you know, to be allowed to look down -on it all without any trouble." - -"I came here so often without her, but it was not time I could have -spent with her. That comforts me. But there are little things one did or -did not do. Theresa, when you love, don't be afraid to let your conduct -reflect your heart." - -"Well, am I not very nice to you?" - -"Very nice, my dear; but I was thinking of a different kind of love." - -"Oh, don't talk to me of that! Not till I'm middle-aged. Then, perhaps, -I'll consider it, and marry a comfortable widower, slightly infirm, so -that I can occasionally escape, but not ill enough to need nursing." - -"You'll have no such jog-trot end, my dear. I hope you'll run in harness -with a swifter steed." - -"I don't want to be harnessed at all," she said, and lay back. - -Their thoughts went on different journeys, and his were so absorbing -that, when he halted at his next remark, he had forgotten how easily she -might trace his route. - -"I hope you will meet Alexander some day," he said. Then he flushed -guiltily, and, with a pitiful attempt at carelessness, began to hum -untunefully. - -Her words came instinctively, like an arm raised against a blow. "Oh, I -expect I shall." The next moment, she could marvel at the readiness with -which she had spoken, in spite of her stiffened body and the lump of -revolt in her throat. - -She lay very still, but her heart was thudding and, as though with the -glow of her father's blush, her face was crimsoned; but soon it faltered -into white and her lips trembled. The quality of her anger brought her -near tears, and a great pity for herself surrounded her like air. Was -she a chattel to be proffered in hope of sale? she asked silently, and -that brought pride to drive back her weeping. She sat up with a -beautiful, strong lift of her back. Pride was her strength. It enabled -her to deceive her father. - -"Shall we go on?" she said, and smiled, so that he thought she had not -understood, and was thankful. She saw care visibly lifted from him, and -her heart was tender for him. Was he not true to his own advice, and did -not all his actions speak of love? She could not blame him since he -loved her, thought her incomparable, and said so, through his eyes. - -She linked her arm in his, but her rage against Alexander was red-hot. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -On the evening of the next day, James Rutherford was not at supper. -Theresa had been warned of his peculiarities, and she readily obeyed a -hint that she should go early to bed; but she went reluctantly, for she -grudged missing any new experience, and she lay, reading by candlelight, -while the voices of her father and Clara rose, and died away, and rose -again. - -She had taken the book from Alexander's shelves. It was the Keats her -father had given him. She saw their two names and the date, and for an -instant she held it close. The feel of it produced a vision of her -childhood as in a pictured show. She saw herself standing by her father -before the breakfast-room fire, listening to that tale of how he was -lost among the mountains. That was the day on which they had become part -of her life, and when, indissolubly united to them, she had first heard -of Alexander. Black-haired boy with the solemn face, clattering about -the yard among the geese, he had been stamped on her eager brain, never -to be removed. She would keep that old memory, lovingly, for her -childhood's sake, and she could feel tender towards the book which she -carried into bed, without doing violence to her cherished independence. - -The pages of the book were well-worn, and the cover had suffered. No -doubt it had been with him on many a walk among the hills, on days when -the rain had run off his hair into his mouth and eyes and neck, and -soaked into his pockets, or when the sun's warmth had curled the leaves -while he read. Had he taken it to Oxford? Quickly she began to read. -Questions in ancient history she could allow, but these more modern -ones were unforgivable. - -She read until she heard James Rutherford come home. There were sounds -outside, then her father's step on the stairs and the closing of his -door, and Clara's voice ringing clear through a mournful muttering; more -steps on the stairs, the brushing of bodies against the wall, another -door opened and shut, and then peace. She blew out the light. - -When she woke it was to find the book held in her body's curve. - -Downstairs there was a note for Edward Webb. "You won't be surprised -that we have gone out--probably for the whole day," Clara wrote. -"There's plenty of food in the larder, and Mrs. Spencer will come and -help if you send for her." - -"It will be rather nice to be alone," said Theresa. "Who's Mrs. Spencer? -We don't want her, do we?" - -"No. It's Easter Sunday. She will be going to church. She is a carter's -wife, down by the inn." - -"What a man to be married to! Mr. Rutherford, I mean." - -Edward Webb would not discuss his host. He helped to prepare breakfast. - -"After handling pens and typewriters for three years," said Theresa, as -she cut the bacon, "it's a relief to turn to the homelier arts. Put that -in the pan, please." - -He hesitated. "It looks remarkably greasy." - -"Prod it with a fork, then. You're dreadfully civilised. Here's another -piece. Do you think you can cook it while I set the table?" - -"I'll try," he said. - -"Don't let it stick." - -"How," he said politely, "is one to prevent it?" - -"Oh, you silly! Perhaps I'd better do it, if I can trust you not to -break the china. Now, think of what you're doing." - -"I'll do my best, ma'am." He delighted in her tyranny and in her -company. "Theresa," he said, with a cup hanging on each forefinger, "I'd -like to end my days up here with you. We could rent a little -cottage--there's one close to the church. It--it might be dull for you, -but--there's your writing. You'd have time for that, at last." - -"You forget," she said in hurried interruption, for his ambitions for -her always smote her, "you forget that I shall be caring for my -widower." But that unwise allusion brought the red to her cheeks, and -she turned quickly to stir the porridge. - - * * * * * - -It was a morning of clear blue and green, with a high wind to blow the -larches and lash the waters of the streams that were swollen with the -melted snow. The shadows of passing clouds made transient blotches on -the shining emerald of the hills. The tolling of the one church bell -came now loud, now low, at the fancy of the wind. - -"It's Easter Sunday," Edward Webb said again. "Theresa, there's a -beautiful little church, ten miles away, across the hills. I went there -once to service in the afternoon, and I think I'll go again. Will you -come with me?" - -"I'd rather not. I don't like churches. I think I'll just go and sit -beside the stream, and have a little adventure of my own. You'd better -take your lunch in your pocket." - -"And you'll wrap up warmly, Theresa. And mind you have enough to eat. -And don't sit too long, and don't wander away too far. A mist might come -on. Be careful." - -"I believe you'd like to lock me in a cupboard! Don't you wish you had a -little pouch for me, like a kangaroo?" - -"Yes, I do," he said, blinking earnestly. - -"Well, I expect I shall stay beside the water. There are pools, and -creeks, and waterfalls, and rapids, and dreadful, silent little woods. I -shall be able to frighten myself finely." - -"And Abraham will keep guard over the house and you. I shan't be back -till dark. You won't mind?" - -"No, I shall feel quite courageous. And, do you know, I've never been -really alone in my life. There have always been houses, and tramcars, -and policemen, and no chance of being brave! If tramps come, what do you -say to them?" - -"Ask Abraham. He'll bark at them, but I think few pass this way. There's -no high-road. Good-bye, my dear." - - * * * * * - -She thought that was the most wonderful morning of her life. It was the -kind of weather she loved best, with a piercing quality of both wind and -sun, and everything glowing, swaying, rustling, creaking. She was -gloriously alone, and as she followed the stream and forced its passage, -jumping from stone to stone, and feeling water oozing through her shoes, -her years fell from her. She was childlike in her acceptance of the -hour, nor did she look in upon herself and say, "See how like a child I -am!" She was enthralled by the gilded water and the little ferns and -mosses growing between the stones, and by the sober presence of the -hills that stood far off and looked down with friendly faces. It was -only when she passed under the brooding silence of a wood that she -remembered her womanhood, and remembered it with fear. Among clustered -trees she was not the mistress of her fate: there were influences at -work on her, malicious eyes peering, hands ready to tease or bind her, -and she hurried from them to the open, where there was nothing between -her and heaven. - -It was as she returned across the fields that she saw a man leaving the -house. He stood for an instant just outside the door, gave a quick -glance up and down the lane, and hurried up the valley. She began to -run. The man turned sharply to his left, making for a grassy track that -skirted the larch wood. She followed, realizing the sterling value of -policemen. He went fast, with long, easy strides, and as she noticed -the manner of his walking, she was sure this was no common thief. He was -a free man by the look of him, fearing nobody. His head, his back--she -crushed down a cry, and as, with her eyes still on that back, she would -have swung round to retrace her way, she stumbled against a stone, and -it was he who turned. - -She had not fallen, but her hand was at her throat, her attitude was one -of fear, and he ran down the slope. He saw a pale and slightly freckled -face under a crown of heavy, burnished hair. He knew the face very well, -but it had grown thinner, he perceived, and the photographs did not show -the golden freckles, nor the colour of her hair. She was a little -breathless, but her lips were tightly closed, and he was acutely aware -of the physical control she exercised: there was no sound, the hand at -her throat hardly rose or fell. Her eyes, wide at first, narrowed a -little, and her lips quivered into a smile. - -"I thought you were a thief--so I ran." She made as if she would wave -him onwards. "I will pretend I haven't seen you." - -He looked beyond her. "I ought to have gone out by the back." - -"Yes, you were very careless." But as she spoke she knew why he had -chosen the dangerous and longer way. She, too, had rejoiced in the great -blue wall that barred the kitchen passage, but rather than explain her -understanding, she endured the cool distance of the stare that told her -plainly she was alien and unwelcome. But, as she looked at him, -returning his gaze with one of frank, unguarded interest, she decided -that she did not mind his rudeness, that, indeed, she rather liked the -unconsciousness of it, and, without warning, she laughed aloud, and -checked against her sides the friendly impulse of her hands. - -He condescended to smile, too, under his drawn brows. - -"Well--good-bye," she said. - -"Good-bye." - -Neither moved: each looked over the other's shoulder; Theresa, upwards -at the swell of green hills against the sky, and Alexander down at the -quiet valley and his home, with Abraham sitting before the kitchen door. - -"Where are the others?" - -"All gone for walks." - -"Don't you walk?" She saw the red sparks in his eyes, and his face -mobile for the next emotion. This one was a gently disguised scorn, and -again she was unmoved. - -"I'd rather run." - -"If you're alone, won't you come back to Janet's?" - -"No, thank you." - -"She would like to see you." - -"And I should like to see her. I've known about her for so long; -but--it's good to be alone, isn't it? This is the first day I've ever -had like this. I'm greedy of it. But if I could just go and speak to her -and come back again, that would be best of all." - -"You can do what you like at Janet's," he said. "I'm staying there." - -To that she made no answer, but her mind was busy, adding this last -statement to Janet's refusal to see visitors. She smiled, and through -her thought there ran a pleasant sense of liking for Alexander's -company. His face was almost what she had expected, but his effect on -her was not. She had forgotten her old enmity and all the lurking, -half-seen fears that caused it, and she walked easily by his side and -knew no embarrassment at their silence. - -"We've got photographs of you in our kitchen," he said suddenly; "but -how did you know me?" - -"Well, I guessed. No I didn't!" She stood still to think. "Oh--I knew." - -"You're like your pictures." - -"You see," she was explaining her recognition of him--"I've heard about -you since I was ten years old. Did Father ever tell you about me?" - -He gave a shout of laughter. - -"Oh!" she said, "was it as bad as that? No wonder you wouldn't stay in -the house with us." - -His face became grave. "I had work to do." - -She looked at him with a like solemnity, showing him a face which might -have been reverential but for the dancing light in the eyes, and for the -lips, held back as in a leash. He lifted his head with a jerk, and -stared before him until they were at the crest of the slope, and Theresa -paused to see the valley. - -He cast a glance at her. She wore a short skirt of some dull purple -stuff, and a woollen garment of the same colour that fitted loosely, yet -defined her slimly rounded shape. He thought that among the gold and -copper of her hair he saw a bronze glide into a glinting purple, and it -came into his mind that she was like the heather. Her feet, shod soberly -in brown, were planted firmly, but her body, like that mountain plant, -gave to the wind, and thereafter she and the flower he loved best were -for ever one to him. - -She knew he looked at her and she looked back at him, now with a -different smile--how many had she?--frank and friendly. - -"I do like being here," she said, and clasped her restless hands behind -her back. - -"That's Janet's house among the larches," he said. - -The dogs greeted them, and then Janet's tall figure slipped through the -trees. - -Shyness took hold of Theresa, and when she sat in the dark kitchen she -was conscious again of the mystery of woods. The larches were close to -the window, scratching the panes, and the room was full of shadows. - -Janet did not try to talk, but, having seated Theresa by the fire, she -took her stool on the other side of the hearth and scrutinized her -keenly, while Alexander leaned in the door-way, reading. Theresa could -think of nothing to say, and decided that if these two were content with -silence there was no need for her to break it; so she looked into the -fire, at Janet's face and the plates on the dresser, at the fire again, -at Alexander and the lean hands holding his book. - -She had been free and happy outside with him, and now she was uneasy, -fettered. - -"I think I'll go back," she said. - -Alexander closed his book. "But you're going to stay to dinner. Isn't -she, Janet?" - -"Of course." She looked at Theresa in her brooding, unsmiling way. "I -like to have you here. Your father's a friend of mine." - -"Did he ever tell you that dream of Janet's?" Alexander asked. - -"The one about the birds? Oh yes, he told me that." She smiled. "I think -he tells me everything." - -"I'll see about the dinner." - -Slightly frowning, Theresa looked at Alexander. "Must I stay?" - -"I thought, if you would, I'd take you afterwards to a place I know. -Will you come? It's a fine place." - -"I'd like to come," she said. - -Janet fetched food from the larder while Laura, the little maid, with -her arms bare beyond the elbow, laid the table and cast casual remarks -at Alexander in a pretty monotone. She herself was pretty, but -Alexander, reading again, hardly looked at her. He murmured his assents -and "no's" and interjections into the book, while she told him how -someone in the village had driven into town, and the white horse had -fallen and cut its knees, and it was a good horse and a new one. "So -they'll have to bide home till its knees are mended, and that's awkward -for them with their coal and all to fetch." - -"Ye-es," said Alexander. "It'll be hard work fetching the coal by hand." - -"They'll never do that!" she exclaimed, and laughed as she saw the queer -raising of his brows. - -Theresa was unreasonably angered by these pleasantries. She wanted to -tell Alexander he was not funny at all, that she could be much funnier -herself; but he had returned to his reading with so little apparent -satisfaction in his mild joke that she forgave him. Moreover, she liked -the way his head rose from his neck, and the line of his chin; he had a -manner of touching books that pleased her, and on small likes and -dislikes Theresa could hang a serious mood. - -A little later, with the dogs leaping round them, they set out together -by the front door of the house, and Theresa turned among the larches to -wave farewell to Janet, who stood looking after them with her strange -passivity. - -But to-day, below the quiet of her face, she was feeling all the tragedy -of her lost youth and her empty arms. These she folded across her breast -and pressed heavily against her heart to still the pain, and, in the -trouble of a mother who has had no lover but her son, she saw the -shadows drop back into their places as the two figures passed through -and on. And she stood there, rigid, with the hurt smile on her lips, -until the dogs came back and lay down at her feet, with lolling tongues. - - * * * * * - -Alexander led Theresa to a broad green path which they could see curving -far before them. - -"Have we to walk on this all the way?" she asked. - -"You need not. It's quickest in the end." - -"But it's simply crying out for our obedience! Don't let us obey. Take -me the long short cut." - -"Well, if you like walking on the sides of your feet----" - -"Better than walking in other people's footsteps." - -"I like to tread where other men have been," he said quietly. "It links -me to them." - -"Links? Chains! I want to be free." - -Amused, he looked down at her. "But you can't be, you know." - -"But I am!" - -"You'll find someone tugging at the other end one day." - -Turning her palms up and down, she showed him her unshackled wrists. -"There's nothing there." - -"Well, lead on, then. Straight for the gap." - -She went before him. To her the walk was a revelation of her capacity -for happiness and when she went to bed that night, she could look back -on the day and marvel at the ease with which she had talked about -herself, what she wished to do, what she feared she would never do, -telling him all without a thought of making any effect, impelled by her -conviction of his sympathy, and her own need to speak. Only now, in the -quiet of the bedroom, did she speculate on Alexander's judgment of her. -She had walked with him for hours, she had been careless of his opinion -because she trusted it, because she had so completely and immediately -accepted him as friend that another conception of the relationship had -seemed impossible, and she saw now that her feeling for him had been too -sure and swift for any reflex action. She was less likely to pose to him -even than to herself, and, pondering on that remarkable fact, she sat on -the bed and drew off her stockings. After all her years of introspection -and enjoyment of an audience, this new condition neared the miraculous, -and it grew in significance as she sat, slowly unfastening her clothes. -Why, it had all been as simple as picking a flower and putting it in her -dress, but that Alexander was hardly comparable to a flower. What was he -like? A hill, she thought, mirroring the clouds and growing light again -with their passing. - -She told no one of her meeting with him, and she did not see him again. - -To Alexander the memory of that day was a tempting and detested scourge. -He was twenty-seven, and the two women who were his friends had held him -in their laps. Young women were strangers even to his thoughts, and at -Theresa's invasion of his home he had left it, only to have her gold and -purple thrust into his hands. And how tightly he had held them all that -day! How he had watched her going before him, turning, now and then, to -speak! The allurement of her poised body had been strong for him: she -had come upon him out of the very earth, with the sun on her hair, and -his unguarded senses had greeted her in spite of the dictates of his -mind, and, powerful against all warnings, he felt the stirring of the -life that had been so long asleep. - -But it was when they rested in the promised place that he felt the -kinship of her spirit, and did his best not to acknowledge it, and -yielded before the vision of her enraptured face. He had taken her to a -tower of grey rocks, whence she could look forth as from a window on -fold after fold of hills: blue and purple they were, green and grey, -colours so intermixed and blended that the eye could hardly part them, -and as she gazed out on these serene and solid waves of earth and the -deep troughs dividing them, or looked straight below her at the narrow -valley streaked with the cotton threads that were streams, up at the sky -and the bird that hung there, and down to the ferns in the crannies of -the rocks, he knew she loved the hills with a passion younger than his -own, but as strong. He knew it through his heart and mind, and in the -same instant, he was jealous that she should love them, and that they -should be loved by her. - -Separated from her by a few yards, he sat on a rock, smoking his pipe -and saying nothing, nor did she show any wish to speak. Sometimes he -turned to look at her, and always he saw his own emotions on her face. -She sat very still, leaning a little forward: the fingers of her clasped -hands were interlaced, except when she brushed aside the ruffled hair -that strayed into her eyes: her cheeks were pale, but about her there -was a subdued light like that in the sky long after the sun has dropped -away. - -Presently she rose and wandered off, and, in fear lest she should be -lost, he followed and found her lying at full length, propping her chin -with her hands and digging little graves for her toes. Smiling, but -looking at him with solemn eyes, she released one hand and patted the -ground beside her in invitation, and thus they lay until her shiver -warned him that the air was cold. - -"We must go," he said, and remembering the softness of his voice, he was -tormented. - -She sprang up, and the long silence was broken. They walked home side by -side, and she had talked and drawn talk from him until he was telling -her the thoughts he hardly knew were his, and now found were his best -possessions. With perfect confidence in her interest, he told her the -great and little things about his work, and she did not fail him. It was -her mind he sought and she gave it gladly; he knew there were no -barriers raised against him, and his own were all thrown down. - -They had clasped hands in farewell, and she had thanked him for her day, -and suddenly her face had become as beautiful for him as her body. It -was elfin in the gloaming and tremulous with life, and he saw the -loveliness of her lips. - -Long after she had left him he sat staring at the stream, shaking and -half-afraid because of his fierce desire to touch her. - -The water was dark and hardly discernible except where foam gathered and -pale waterfalls were splashing, but it was Theresa that he saw. Now he -would push her from him in anger, hating himself for his need, and a -moment later twine his fingers among hers and draw her back, looking -into her clear, unflinching eyes, telling her it was her companionship -as well as her sweet frame he wanted, the mind that had sprung so -swiftly to his meaning and never fallen short. And then again there -would come a terrible distrust, born of his physical desire. How was he -to clear himself of that and see an uncaged Theresa flown from the vivid -body that might and might not be the expression of herself? Better -perhaps to see neither bird nor gilded wires, to forget the singing she -had started in his breast, and to go steadily on his chosen road. Why -should he introduce strange new gods into his worship? Would they -satisfy him? Would they not hinder him, and demand the offering up of -sacrifices he could not give? - -He cried aloud, and his voice fell in with the sound of the rushing -water. "Oh, Theresa, you heather flower, I'll give you anything but my -work, if you'll only be what your face says you are. But you can't be -that. Can you? Can you? It would be like Heaven opened. Oh, -fool--fool--fool!" - -He stood up strongly, holding down his hands. "And I thought myself a -stubborn man to beat! Well, and I'm not beaten yet." - -Nevertheless, late that night he stole round the house and sat long on -the horse-block, for it was just below her window. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - -While Alexander battled against the physical with hopes divided between -a conquest which might show Theresa to him in spiritual beauty, and a -defeat which would keep her clothed in flesh, and so preserve him from -complete capitulation, Theresa, as yet untrammelled by these cares, went -home rejoicing in a friend. There was no other to whom she could give -that name with the same fulness of meaning, and the glow of her splendid -possession did something to remove the chilliness from a home with no -Grace in it. She had, too, a new belief in herself based, not on fancy, -but on Alexander's confidences and her own understanding of them, and -with that to help her, she set about finding work. Her view of men had -been almost imperceptibly readjusted by half a day's communion with one -of them, and she would have returned to Mr. Partiloe but for the -certainty of planting hope in him. She could not do that, and she spent -much time and weariness of body in looking for someone whom she -considered fit to be her employer. Weariness of mind, she had none; she -was conscious of a strong effect of wind and sunshine there, clearing -the dust and dirt from its corners and making room for fresh and urgent -powers, and she saw life as a thing too short for the use of her -vitality. - -"Your holiday has done you good," Grace told her. - -"How do you know?" The bride's statements were now delivered with such -authority that Theresa was forced to question them. - -"You're so good-tempered." - -"You think that because you're not living with me. Ask Uncle George! We -quarrelled this morning. He wants me to be secretary to one of his old -societies. I think it was in aid of the children of devoured -missionaries." - -"Oh, Terry!" - -"It was something quite as bad. And for a mere pittance! He told me the -work would be reward enough. I nearly threw the coffee-pot at him. Am I -not worthy of my hire? Why can't they employ one of the undevoured -children? And he turned the other cheek. He said he would try to find -something else for me. He likes me, you know." - -"People seem to. Phil thinks you're charming." - -"Does he? By the way, do ask that enthusiastic young man not to play the -fiddle quite so late at night. I can hear so plainly through the wall -just when I want to go to sleep. First there's a squealing--oh, it -really is squealing; you must face facts--and then there's a wailing, -and then one note that you know is meant to be a musical one, and you -think at last the tune is coming--but he stops there. And there's a long -pause, and I know you are saying, 'Oh, Phil, how wonderful! Play it -again.' And he does. It makes me hot all over, and I hate you both and -call you names. I don't think I like having only a wall between us. I'm -always wondering what you are talking about, and I feel as I used to -when I was little, and heard Father and Mother talking in another room. -It always sounded so mysterious and so important, and I wanted to -listen, but I should have found it very dull, just as I should find your -conversations." - -"They're not dull. There are no end of wonderful things to talk about -when you really like a person." - -Theresa's lips curved in a small, superior smile. Did she not know? - -"You needn't look like that," said Grace sharply. "You'll know some -day." - -"Married people," said Theresa, "do nothing but prophesy their own -feelings for other people. Bless you, I don't want to feel as you do. -It would be like--like feeding me on grass." - -"I suppose there's meant to be an insult there," said Grace placidly, -"but I don't understand it." - -"No, it was only an unsuccessful simile. One can't always hit the nail -exactly on the head. I like that way of doing your hair." - -Grace scanned herself in the glass. "Yes. Phil made it up." - -"Good Heavens! He ought to be a hairdresser!" She could not imagine -Alexander concerning himself with such trivialities. - -"He could only be that if he were in love with all his customers," said -Grace, preening herself delicately and feeling that the last word was -hers. - -"The source of all inspiration! Oh me! Where's mine?" - -"Your what?" Grace had been executing an intricate step, and now she -stood on tiptoe, poised like a dragonfly. - -"My inspiration, and the fountain head thereof. My river is all dried -up. But I never was a river; I only thought I was." - -"I don't know what you're talking about." This was the remark which had -punctuated their childhood, and Theresa laughed, swinging forward to -clasp her knees. - -"Of course you don't! I'm talking of the nonexistent. Alas, alas, and I -thought myself a torrent that could never be dammed! Grace, Grace, do -you think there's any chance of my becoming a torrent some day?" - -"I think," she pirouetted, "you could be almost anything you like, -if--oh, look! wasn't that rather pretty?--if you cared enough." - -"That's just it," said Theresa gloomily. "I only care about myself, and -I am that already. At least, I suppose I am. I'm not sure. Grace, have -you got a self you're sure of?" - -"Yes." - -"Just one whole, compact little bundle of self?" - -"Yes, I think so." - -"Oh, how did you do it? There are parts of me in every star and in every -earthworm, and I don't know which is which or where! What magnet will -draw them all together?" - -"Ah!" said Grace. - -"Oh, don't be silly. It's no good talking to a woman with only one idea -in her head." - -"It's a good idea," said Grace serenely. - -"Yes, for you." - -Grace laughed now, with a wise little giggle of premonition. "Poor -Theresa!" - -"Go back to your hairdresser. I'm going to do some work." - -"My hairdresser is giving a lesson. There's a wretched man who wants to -learn the banjo from him. The banjo!" - -"I'd rather hear the banjo any day than Phil playing the fiddle. Why do -you let him? He'll end his days scratching the thing outside -public-houses. He's just the type. And you'll stand on the pavement with -a tin mug. Do go home--while you have one!" - -"Yes, I must go. I have a class in an hour. Good-bye, darling. You've a -lot of new freckles, and you look so well. Have you forgiven Mr. -Partiloe?" - -"Oh yes, I've forgiven him. He doesn't matter any more." - -"What did you think of the Rutherford boy?" - -"He's not a boy; he's a man. He was away from home." - -"Oh, how dull." - -"Not a bit." She straightened the bow of her slipper and spoke quickly. -"There's no need of people when there are mountains." - -She did not raise her head until she thought her blush had faded. And -why had she blushed? Why had she replied evasively, she who prided -herself on speaking truth? Because, her ready mind made answer, to say -more would not have been fair to Alexander. And oh, cried the voice of -her heart, taking her by surprise, because, like a miser, she could not -bear to speak about her gold. She held her friend close, and looked on -him as though she tried to appraise his value, which was immeasurable; -she saw his strong, lean figure, the quietness of his face with the -passions subdued below, and heard the voice he so seldom raised beyond -the pitch that accorded with the mountain noises. Looking down, with his -hands in his pockets, he had walked beside her, listening, and at a word -that pleased him or reached beyond the outskirts of his being, he had -swiftly lifted and turned his head to look at her. And when she ceased -and he began to speak, it was haltingly at first, with eyes still -downcast, but again there came those sudden looks, marking his -earnestness. No, of these things she could not speak; they had no -parallel in words, and the miser might as hopefully try to express -adoration of his stores. And it would certainly not be fair to -Alexander, she repeated, doing homage to that useful suggestion of her -mind. - -"Father told me he was very sorry." - -"Yes, he likes him." - -"Have you ever thought, Terry, that Father----" She stopped and looked -through the window, meditatively biting her lips. - -"Go on." - -"No, I won't say it." Already she had acquired something of the matron's -discretion, and saw the faint barrier between married and unmarried. In -a day her knowledge had so far outspread Theresa's that what she would -have said freely two months ago was now checked for consideration. Was -it wise to say this to Theresa, who was a girl? There was less danger in -silence--so she stood biting her lips. - -But Theresa knew that Grace also had divined her father's wish, and -though she was not angry she felt indescribably sad, nor did she -understand why, for the rest of that day, she seemed to move in mist. - -In the evening Uncle George pierced the veil. He looked unreal and over -large as he stood before her. - -"Theresa, I have found the very thing for you--not the thing I -recommend, mind, but the thing you'll like." - -"Lots of money?" - -"A hundred a year." - -"Oh, good! That's better than the Christian stipend you offered me." - -"I'm afraid this will be anything but Christian." - -"Oh, good! I mean--tell me about it." - -He eyed her with the peculiar expression he kept for her, one hovering -between a controlled frenzy and an amusement greater than his -prejudices. - -"Have you ever heard of Simon Smith?" - -"No, but one wouldn't, would one?" - -"His father was a large manufacturer of cheap--but I don't say -injurious--sweets. Simon Smith is a very rich man and a philanthropist. -I have met him on committees--all of which he has left. I entirely -disapprove of his methods, entirely, but that's no reason why I should -not tell you that he has a vacancy for a secretary. I advise you to go -and see him." - -"I certainly shall. Shall I say I'm your favourite niece?" - -"Not if you want to get the post," he said grimly. - -The next morning Theresa presented herself at Mr. Smith's large front -door, and was ushered into a sunny room where a spruce young man was -sitting. He rose, bowed in a bored manner, and spoke rapidly. - -"You are Miss Webb? Please sit down. I understand you are applying for -the post Mr. Smith has vacant. What are your qualifications? Oh, very -well, then will you please take down this letter, type it, and let me -have it as soon as possible. Will you come to the table?" - -She drew off her gloves slowly and sat down, awaiting his first words -with a look of pleasant expectation. He gave back a blind and stony -gaze. - -"Dear Sir----" She bent her head over the paper. - -He carefully examined the typewritten copy, and announced that Mr. Smith -would see her. The sobriety of his face had not relaxed as he opened the -door which communicated with an inner room, and he did not respond to -Theresa's tilted smile of thanks. - -"Miss Webb, sir," he said, and disappeared. - -Beyond the names she could give for reference, Mr. Smith said he only -wanted to know three things: had she good health--in particular, was she -free from colds in the head which he considered the most objectionable -known complaint? Would she begin work at eight o'clock each morning? And -would she promise to wear shoes that did not squeak? - -She answered yes to all these questions and awaited her dismissal, but -Mr. Smith had much more to say. He was a small, dry man, almost -concealed by the great chair in which he sat, but his eyes were -startlingly keen, and they never left Theresa's face. It was her own -habit to fix people in this manner, and she expected it of others, so -she sat, coolly interested, wearing that hint of a smile which was an -inheritance from her mother, proof, in Theresa, of a shy enjoyment. - -With a courtesy and shrewdness of which she was quite aware, he led her -willingly into a self-revealing conversation. He learnt her age, the -occupation of her father, her relationship to George Webb--"Harmonium -George, we call him," he said with a twinkle--and many of her -characteristics. She helped him freely in his discoveries, but she did -it with a skill greater than his own. - -"Very well," he said, as he rose, "if Mr. Partiloe----By the way, why -did you leave Mr. Partiloe?" - -"I had been there three years." - -"Decent chap, isn't he? Decent pay? Why did you want to go, then?" - -She thought for an instant. "It was a very stuffy office," she said. - -"Ah, yes--yes. They are sometimes." He rang the bell. "Will you take a -glass of wine before you go? Excellent port? No? Well, let me show you -my flowers." - -He took her through his conservatory, gave her a spray of heliotrope, -and escorted her to the gate. - -Two days later she had a letter signed by John Neville, asking her to -begin her duties as Mr. Smith's under-secretary at eight o'clock on the -following Monday morning. - -Simon Smith's charities were exclusively his own. He seldom gave to -hospitals, never to missionaries, and all organized societies had learnt -that they were his detestation, that though he might consider individual -cases they brought to his notice, he would never spend a penny on -anything in which he had not a hand. - -"My father," he said, "never sold a sweet he hadn't sampled. D'you think -his money is going to be swallowed up while my back's turned? No, I'll -look into this little affair myself." - -Through many different channels news came to him of people he was glad -to help, and it was with his vast correspondence that Theresa chiefly -had to deal while Jack Neville, alert and always beautifully dressed, -went hither and thither, making investigations, and finding new subjects -for Mr. Smith's generosity. - -"I came across a poor seedy-looking beggar this morning, down by the -docks," he told Theresa one day, when she had worked there long enough -to be considered part of the establishment. "I got into conversation -with him, found he was a poet. He showed me some of his verses written -on a dirty scrap of paper. Jolly good they are, too. Look!" - -She fingered the paper delicately. "Was he dirty, too?" - -"H'm. What you might call medium. But what do you think of his -production?" - -"Excellent." Her lips moved with the rhythm of the words. She did not -look at Neville when she spoke. "Are you going to introduce him and his -verses to Mr. Smith?" - -"Well, what do you think?" - -"I think Mr. Smith probably doesn't know his poets as well as you and I -do." - -"Ah, I wondered if you'd recognize it." She saw his growing approbation -take a leap. "Rather a neat trick though, wasn't it? He must have known -who I was. I shall have to adopt disguises." - -"You see," she said, "you are so unforgettably well-groomed." - -"My dear girl--I'm sorry." - -"Oh, never mind." - -"I hate familiarity." - -"Let's call it friendship." - -"May I? Thanks. I was going to say that my clothes alone lift me from -the ruck. If I am not spick and span I'm nobody. It's the abominable -mediocrity of my features and the shape of my head. There's much in -heads." - -"Yes, you can hide your mouths, but we have the advantage when it comes -to skulls." She knew she had no need to conceal one or the other, for -Nature, who had denied her beauty, had given her shapeliness, and she -wondered if Jack Neville knew it. She was very happy in the -companionship of these two men: whether or not they had eyes for her -physical charms she could not tell, and it was not often that she cared, -but she was sure they appreciated her intelligence. In this, as in many -other matters, the two were at one, and gradually she was admitted to -their counsels. - -"I wanted this," Mr. Smith said. "I intended it; but I had to see what -you were made of. We need the woman's mind. There's been too much man -about things. Jack is always finding starving genius in a garret--and of -the male gender. Well, it would be a bit awkward for him if it wasn't--I -admit that. Now you--now look here, Miss Webb, here's a delicate bit of -work for you to do. Somebody came this morning with a tale about a young -woman living over a bird shop. Nasty atmosphere, eh? She's been deserted -by her husband, or else there isn't a husband--that's for you to find -out. I want the truth of the matter, and you can get it. Here's the -address. Never mind these letters: they can wait, and if you're a -success as my female agent I can get any fool to play with that -typewriter. Well, what's the matter?" - -There was a sound of trouble in her voice. "I should like to do this new -work. I think it's the kind of thing I can do, but please, please, don't -let anyone else touch my papers. I can't bear even Mr. Neville to -interfere with them, and I can easily find time to do everything. Why, -you don't work us half hard enough. And I should hate to give up my -chair, and my table, and my typewriter, and all my beautiful files." - -"There you are, keeping some other woman out of a job." - -"Oh----" - -"Never mind! Never mind! I assure you I don't want a stranger. She'd be -sure to sniff." - -The girl who was cooped up in a room hardly bigger than one of the cages -that swung below, opened her heart almost as soon as she had opened her -door to the bright-haired lady who knocked on it, and this case was the -beginning of a little feminist movement of Theresa's own. From one woman -she had hints of the troubles of another, and was off immediately on the -trail, her nose so keen for the scent that it disdained the more -material odours assailing it. She went into strange places and met -strange people, and she made mistakes; but she had more than her share -of her sex's special gifts, and she had, too, some quality that drew the -truth from others. The work absorbed her, she could not have done it -well if she had not found in it something of a mission; but she also -delighted in the perpetual show she made for her own eyes. She had a -large stage to act on, no lack of parts to play, and so she was for ever -in a state of mind that was not self-satisfaction, but an engrossment -which made her every action of interest to herself, and the very tones -of her voice as memorable as the tale some starving woman told her. Yet, -with it all, she never acted falsely, and though she saw herself haloed -by her own skill and popularity, she tried to counteract her tendency to -glance upwards at that adornment. "But it's not so serious as it seems," -she would say when she was troubled by her egoism. "It's only playing -the same old game. I used to be a beautiful princess, and now I'm a -clever young person. I always knew I wasn't a princess, and now I know -I'm not nearly as clever as I like to think, so where's the harm? Nobody -is deceived, and I have my fun." Nevertheless, she was oftener with a -heartache than without one. - -Neville complained of her activities. - -"You are swamping us with your women," he said. "My geniuses never get a -chance, and the old man says he has too much on his hands to attend to -my consumptive butcher." - -"I don't believe there is such a thing." - -"Oh, honour bright! He's more important than that last girl of -yours--you rather rushed the old man over that--and here's my butcher -threatening to marry. We've got to cure him first. We must come to some -arrangement and divide things fairly." - -"I want to be fair, but one's enthusiasms----" She ended with a smile, -and as he looked down at her he found her very good to see in her plain -green frock, with a glint of winter sunshine on her hair. - -Looking up at him, Theresa saw another face, and felt a dull throb in -her breast. It would soon be a year since she had seen the mountains, a -year since she had seen her friend. Strenuously she called him by that -name, yet she would not obey her eager wish to write to him and so talk -to him again: she was held back by some inherited instinct of waiting on -the male, and she felt her spirit starving. It was hard to live for ever -on her memories, and she turned to her old food. She must shine for some -one, and she did it so glitteringly for her father and Simon Smith and -Neville, that her pangs were dulled; but there returned the restlessness -which, for a little while, had been banished. - -Edward Webb had been to stay among the hills, and she thought she would -tear her heart out with his going. She was not included in the -invitation. James Rutherford, it was understood, was so uncertain in his -behaviour, that her presence was not desirable, and her father had -returned in some anxiety. - -"What is the matter?" she asked, and the sound of her voice taught her -more than she had wished to know, yet a joy that soared in agony came -with the knowledge. - -"He's very bad." - -"Who?" Her fingers were torturing each other. - -"James. And Alexander--Alexander isn't like himself, Theresa." - -"Isn't he?" - -"No. He's--so morose. I hardly had a word with him. I own I was a little -hurt." - -If her father had looked at her, he would have seen the strain of her -smile as she dared herself to speak her fear. - -"Perhaps he is in love," she said. - -"Oh, I hope not. But"--he was reluctant--"I must confess that -Janet--Janet hinted something, vague as herself. But I hope not." - -She spared him some of her aching pity for herself, and answered -steadily: "He must be twenty-eight. Quite old enough to marry. People -are very disagreeable when they are in love." But as she drove the nails -into her palms, she was saying over and over again: "Thank God I didn't -write to him. Thank God I didn't do it!" - -And if she had a prayer, it was that she might not dream about the -hills. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - - -One day, when the summer of the next year had slipped into September, -Theresa was five minutes late for work. She shut the door with a bang -that had a sound of triumph in it, and her face had the flush of -victory. - -Neville pointed to the clock. - -"Don't be fussy, Jack. This is the first time--and I've been up all -night!" - -"It seems to have agreed with you. You've been looking like a wilted -daffodil for months, and now you're like, well--what would you like to -be like? A rose will do. Has your arch enemy died?" - -"No." She drew her chair noisily to the table. "No." - -"Need you be quite so emphatic in your movements?" - -"I must be. It's my form of self-expression, and I wish to express joy. -I've got a niece, Jack, a real live niece. Isn't it glorious?" - -"Is it? Felicitations! If we tell the old gentleman, he'll have in a -bottle of champagne." - -"Let's have it for lunch, and if you want to dictate, start quickly, -before disinclination conquers me. I've never wanted to stay away from -work before." - -He shook his smooth round head. "I've quite a lot of nieces and nephews, -myself, but not one of them ever threw me off my balance--not one. -Women----" - -"Well?" - -"Queer things! Now, please. To Mr. Thomas Cartright. Dear Sir." - -Grace's little daughter revealed the maternal in Theresa. Grace had the -quality in its fairest shape, the one painters choose to picture, -tender, soft and content. Her arms were intimate with the small body -they held, her voice and her laughter had the mother note, and her -smiling lips took on a new and passionate droop. Her eyes, adoring the -baby, adored Phil the more, and he, through worship of his wife, -worshipped the baby. - -Watching this ancient and eternal trinity, Theresa felt her eyes pricked -with dreadful tears. She dropped her lids on them, and saw the inner -wilderness in which she lived. It was shorn of beauty, it was a waste, -empty but for the little figure of herself, moving on and on--to what? -There seemed no bourne for her. She did not know what she wanted: she -was not sure that Grace's happiness was one she envied; but she stooped -and seized the baby and held it close, not with the perfection of -Grace's instinct, but with a gaunt desire that savagely portrayed a -universal hunger. She felt the common pangs, the common easing of them -under the pressure of the little body, and while she held the child her -restlessness was soothed and she was comforted. Against all likelihood -she found a certain happiness in sharing the emotions known to other -women. It joined her to them, so that she lost her stabbing -consciousness of self, and she remembered how Alexander had said he -liked to walk in the paths of other men, because it linked his humanity -to theirs. She could consent to that, but only in this mood of soft -desires that came too often for her pride. - -She suffered through that autumn. The nights brought happiness that only -made the days more lonely, and she rushed to her work for refuge. She -wrought at it with something near to genius and remained unsatisfied, so -that she began to know a secret, faint despair of self that shook her -into fear, and so into defiance and a determination not to fail. She -drove herself back to the gallant thoughts of childhood: she remembered -that it was wonderful to be alive, splendid to struggle, that she had -looked to difficulties as her destiny, and here was her chance to -combat them. She took the chance, and in those days, Neville, watching -her, saw that she went with her head carried higher, and a new calm -about her lips. He tried to draw her into talk, but she avoided it. She -feared his quickness as she feared her father's love, and it was to -Bessie she went when weariness came to mock at her bright courage, for -Bessie was tonic in her simplicity and her readiness to do without the -thing she could not have. - -"Are you happy?" Theresa asked one night, when she came on Bessie -sitting solitary in the dimly-lighted kitchen. - -"Happy?" she answered. And more emphatically: "'Appy? Oh, I don't know, -Miss Terry. What's 'appy, anyway?" - -Theresa laughed, and put a hand on Bessie's knee. - -"I like you, Bessie," she said. "I don't know what I'd do without you. -You see things. That's because you live in this cave and don't get -dazzled by what doesn't matter." - -"It's not such a bad kitchen," said Bessie practically. "At least, I'm -used to it." - -December came, and one evening, when she returned from work, Theresa -found a letter waiting for her father. It was from Clara, and Theresa -put it on her father's plate, and walked with dignity from the room; nor -did she enter it again until she was called to supper. - -After that meal she waited for the word which, sooner or later, she -would have to hear. - -"James is better." - -"Oh!" - -"Clara wishes me to go there for the New Year." - -"That would be nice for you." - -"If I can get leave. I hope it is not an extravagance." - -"Your only one." - -"There may be an excursion." - -"Very likely." - -"Would you like to read the letter, my dear?" - -Her brows were doubtful. "Oh yes, thank you." She read it. Clara had -included her in the invitation. She handed back the sheet. - -It was a little while before he said: "You notice that she asks for -you?" - -"Yes, it's very kind of her. Please thank her, nicely and regretfully." -She added lightly, finally: "And do be careful not to take cold up -there. I suppose you won't stay longer than a week?" - -Blinking, he put the letter in his pocket. "Not so long as that. Three -days perhaps." - -She nodded. The subject was dismissed. - -On New Year's Eve, Theresa was kept late at work, for the affairs of -twelve months had to be finally set in order, and long after the usual -hour Neville and she had tea together. Simon Smith was out, and these -two sat by the hearth with the tea-table between them and a shaded lamp -to light the luxurious room they called the office. - -"This is comfortable," said he. - -"Yes. How many hours of work have we?" - -"Bless you, I'll do it all." - -"No, you won't. You always muddle up my things. And I want to stay." - -"I don't call that sufficient reason. Have some muffin. I shall begin to -think you yearn overmuch for my society." - -She leaned forward as she laughed, and touched his sleeve. - -"Jack, do you know what a dear you are?" - -"Certainly. This is my favourite coat, Theresa. Are your fingers buttery -by any chance?" He took them in his and gave them a friendly squeeze. -"Well, I think we've always dealt honestly by each other. And now I'm -going to catechize you. What time do you go to bed?" - -"Oh, I don't know." - -"Do you sleep?" - -"Why else should I go to bed?" - -"Theresa Webb, how often do you lie awake?" - -"Not often." - -"And do you dream?" - -She raised her brows. "That's part of sleep." - -"Not with me, thank God," he said heartily. "But you come here in the -mornings, looking as if you'd had nightmares." - -"I don't believe it! But I do have nightmares--wild beasts and -burglars--all the ordinary things. I daresay it tires one." Colour was -in her cheeks, and her eyes were guarded. She looked at him, but she saw -the place of the dreams that came in spite of prayer; the quiet lake -under the riven rock. She felt the soft wind in her hair, and heard the -water lapping. - -The shaking of Neville's head blurred her vision, and his voice boomed -through the chaos of dissolving hill and lake. - -"It won't do. I've watched men and women for years, and I know there's -something on your mind. What's the matter?" - -She leaned back, with all her defences up and pride for the strong inner -wall. She scorned herself for sentimental weakness, and with feverish -hands she thrust it back for the enemy it was. - -"There's nothing the matter," she said, and determined that, henceforth, -those words should be the faithful echo of her heart. "I'm a restless -sort of creature. I wear myself out. I'll try to be more sensible." Her -smile was a little stretched. "One doesn't always know what one wants." - -"I think----" He jumped up and took a pipe from his pocket. "Let's talk -in peace till the old gentleman comes back. He has gone to the station -for the Landed Proprietor." - -"Who's that?" - -"Nephew. Quite a swell. Sits on the bench, I believe; rides a horse in -the Yeomanry; very good-looking, quite intelligent. The sort of man who -is a father to his tenants. You'll see. I was going to say, I don't -think the independent woman is a great success. Now, then!" But the -expected indignation did not come. - -"Oh?" she said politely. - -"Aren't you even going to show fight?" - -"I'm much too lazy. But go on." - -"It's difficult to argue with a non-combatant, but I'll try to rouse -you. You're a failure yourself, Theresa." - -She raised her tired eyes, and again she encouraged him. - -"Oh?" - -"You do your work almost perfectly, and it doesn't satisfy you." - -"Yes, it does." - -"No, it doesn't." - -"Well, does yours?" - -"Of course. But you have some female hankering or other. God knows what -for." - -"I expect He does, Jack, even though you don't. I suppose you are -suggesting that I ought to marry. You're as bad as Grace. A husband and -a home, and then content! I won't believe it! I don't believe it! My -life can't be bound within a wedding-ring. As though that could soothe -one's restlessness, satisfy one's desires! Yet it's the only solution -anybody offers." - -"Then you admit the problem?" - -"Oh yes--I admit it!" - -"Ha----" - -"There's no life without it. But I don't think the hankering is a -feminine one, Jack. I think it's--it's of the spirit, and I had it when -I was quite a little girl. I can't find what I want. It's up and -away--beyond everything else." - -"And love has wings," he said, twisting his face comically to roughen -the words. - -"It has nothing to do with love. Mind, I don't despise it. How could I? -But"--she threw out her hands--"I will not have myself hemmed in by it. -I want wide spaces." - -"You'll get them when you get love," he said. "You see--I know." - -She looked up with a different animation. "Oh, Jack, why haven't you -married her?" - -"She's dead," he said. - -She gave a little strangled sob, and stared at him as though she saw -something wonderful, and when she spoke, it was to say a strange thing. - -"Then you have her quite, quite safe." She seemed to look on him as on -one who has reached the desired harbourage. - -Her own uncertain voyaging seemed the lonelier, the more endless. She -could not steer a course, she needed piloting. She confessed the need, -and then, lifting her head, her pride strove with such pitiful -dependence. She remembered that long-past morning by the docks, when she -had suffered to see the stately sailing-ship obediently following the -little tug: she remembered how the lofty masts had bowed themselves in -submission, with what a sad humility the ship had been drawn through the -water. She felt the old pain, yet here she was crying out for a leading -hand. - -"No, no!" she said, and looked across at Neville. "I'm sufficient for -myself," she told him; but in her face he saw the danger of her hungry -moment. - -"That's right," he said; "don't borrow a particle of anyone unless -you're forced to it." - -"I shan't be forced to it," she answered. - -The maid had carried away the tea-things, Neville had gone into the -inner room to fetch some papers, and Theresa stood looking into the fire -with one foot on the fender, one hand on the mantelpiece and the other -hanging at her side. The room was in darkness but for one rosy light and -the flames of the fire, and in this brilliance she stood enshrined. - -The door opened, she slowly turned her head, and her hand dropped from -the mantelpiece in the excess of her trembling. A tall, dark man, -wrapped in a great coat, stood by the door, and for an instant she had -thought she looked at Alexander; the next, Mr. Smith had bustled in, -exclaimed at the darkness, turned on another light, and presented his -nephew to Theresa. - -Mr. Basil Morton made a deep bow in response to her exquisite little -inclination, and she had an impression of a handsome, serious face -emerging from the upturned collar of his coat. - -"Bitter night," said Simon Smith. "I'll drive you home, Miss Webb. Much -too cold for you to walk, and you never have thick boots. You shall have -the brougham. We had the dog-cart. B-rrrh!" He rang the bell, and tried -to shake himself into warmth. - -"Please don't order the carriage." She was vividly aware of Mr. Morton's -continued gaze. "I can't go home for hours." - -"Why not? What's Neville thinking of? Jack! You two know each other, -don't you?" - -Neville shook hands heartily with the Landed Proprietor. "Cold drive?" - -"Very." He turned to Theresa. "But your streets are beautiful at night." - -"The docks are best," she said, and as a siren called through the -darkness, she waved a hand towards the window. "It's full tide." - -"We didn't pass the docks," he said. - -They spoke in low voices: there seemed to be a wall round them, and, -from outside it, Simon Smith harangued Neville for allowing Miss Webb to -overwork herself. - -"She wanted to stay, sir. I can't use force!" - -Theresa made an effort to overcome the barrier dividing her from these -two. "I can't have Mr. Neville put in authority over me! I want to stay. -And there's nobody at home." - -"Very well. We dine at eight. But if you hadn't been gadding after that -young woman with the false address and the false face, you would have -had your correspondence done." - -"We're doing the accounts." - -"I don't care what it is. I'll get that clerk if you're not careful. -Wasting your time over a woman anybody could have seen through in a -blink! Miss Webb," he said, turning to Morton, "is an anomaly. You can't -deceive her about men, but she's a tool in the hands of her own sex." - -"I'm really the best judge of character of us all, male and female," she -said, lifting her chin. "Don't you think so, Jack?" She felt power -strong in her. She was the centre of a little circle which she -controlled. The eyes of the three men were on her, and she knew she was -admired according to the nature of each one. - -Neville answered with his cheerful friendliness: "Of course you are!" -Simon Smith chuckled indulgently. At Morton she did not look. She could -feel the colour in her cheeks, and the sparkle in her eyes; she held her -lips in their easy smile, and the weariness of her heart and mind had -leapt from her. - -"Well, we'll leave you to your work." - -She made Neville laugh three times while he did addition sums and she -classified cases. - -"It's a long time since I've been so funny," she said in great -contentment. - -"Or wasted so much time." - -"Oh!" She made a rueful face. "Don't you like me to be gay?" - -"I always like you. Does that satisfy you? Let's attend to business." - -At dinner Theresa talked very little. She had an instinctive wisdom in -the making of her half-conscious effects, a sense of fitness that rarely -failed her, and having let these men feel the tug of her personality, -she let go her grip, and became responsive to theirs. She dropped a word -here and there, laughed when she was amused, and presented no more than -an intelligent expression to jokes that bored her, and throughout the -meal she watched every movement Morton made, and was sensitive to each -tone of his voice. It was a full, low voice, like that of many another -man, and he treated his syllables with respect. This, like his -appearance, pleased her; and when he turned his dark eyes full on her, -she felt a little tremor run from her feet to her throat. In his looks -she read lofty and earnest aspirations and a fastidiousness of mind -which made her own view of things seem coarse. She was not humble, but -she put a higher value on her own opinions when he turned and asked for -them with his deferential air. - -At five minutes to ten Simon Smith bade Theresa put on her hat. She said -good-night, and again she knew that sense of power as Mr. Smith got out -of the chair that dwarfed him, and Neville stopped in his light playing -of the piano and gave her his good smile, and Morton looked deeply into -her eyes as he opened the door. These were courtesies that men always -paid to women, but she knew she had more from them, that they gave her -of their minds because she demanded the gift, and she laughed as she ran -up the stairs and fastened her hat to her shining hair, and settled her -coat to the lines of her slim shape. - -She liked walking downstairs because there was something in the pointing -of her toes that always pleased her, and to-night, because she was -rejoicing in all the little skilfulnesses of her body, she went down -slowly, pulling on her gloves, and, as she looked into the hall, she saw -Morton looking up. - -"May I be allowed to see you home?" he asked, as she touched the bottom -stair. - -"Please don't. I'm going in the carriage." - -"I know." His words were almost a reproof. "You won't forbid me?" - -She flashed her brightest, frankest look at him. "Why no!" - -He put the rug over her knees and took his seat beside her. She did not -speak. She leaned back against the cushions, taking pleasure in the -shadows of the bare trees, splashed across the pavements. - -He told her it was long since he had been to Radstowe, and the tone -implied regret. She had made no answer before the horses stopped. - -"This is my home," she said. - -"So soon," he murmured. - -"It was absurd to have the carriage, wasn't it? Look, down there are the -dock lights." They stood together on the pavement. "And there's a boat -going out. You can see the light at her masthead. Oh--do you like it?" - -"It is very beautiful," he said, but the next moment his eyes were on -her face. - -The house was very quiet when Theresa entered it. The hour was early, -but, in the hall, the lowered gas told her that Uncle George and Bessie -had already gone to bed. She was glad to be alone. - -She leant against the door, listening to the sound of the departing -carriage; and when she could hear it no longer, she stretched up an arm -and put out the light. The darkness fell on her warmly, clothing her. -For a little while its thickness hid her thoughts and muffled the quick -beating of her heart; but as the umbrella stand took shape, and the -dining-room door became more than a pale blot, she had to face her mood. - -Something lighter than laughter seemed to be bubbling in her throat. She -was sharply conscious of her body and its strength. She stood straight, -tightening her muscles, throwing back her head. She found herself -smiling, and at that, with a gesture half of denial and half of shame, -she ran up the stairs; but her room was like a friend, and in its -presence she was doubly aware of her own strangeness. Her mood was still -to be faced, and she attempted no evasion. - -She shut the door and sank to the bare boards beside it. She took off -her hat, and threw it, like a quoit, on to the bed. She laughed at -that, and frowned, hugging her knees, staring into the gloom, swaying -very slightly to and fro. Her meditations grew to a point that was a -single name, and she uttered it on a growing note. - -"Alexander, Alexander, if you knew how tired I am----" - -The rasp of her boots on the boards was like her mind made audible. - -"If you think I'm going to make excuses----" she whispered fiercely, and -stood defiant. Her cheeks were hot with old memories, and new thoughts -rushing to the future. She shook her head impatiently. - -"Be quiet!" she said. "Be quiet!" But she talked to herself without -ceasing, while she undressed. - -"Life's very lonely. I haven't lighted the gas. It doesn't matter. I -don't want to see my ugly little face. No, I won't be humble. And it -isn't ugly. I like it. I won't be humble, and I won't be bound. No -fetters--but--I should like to be loved." - -She brushed her hair and plaited it. She was uncertain whether to smile -or frown, but she nodded in acquiescence. - -"Jack's right. What a nuisance! Alexander, if you're not careful I shall -hate you soon. No, I won't. You're apart--apart. My friend. But I'm -rather hungry. If you had given me honest food, food of a friend--but -you didn't after the first bite--and you won't. You can't blame me if I -take delicacies, things which are not very good for me, but nice! Are -you laughing at me? I don't care a bit, but I seem excited. I'd better -think things out." - -Wrapt in her eider-down, she sat on the window-sill and watched the -lights, but she did not think. Her mind refused the effort. It gave her -pictures. She saw herself standing before the fire, with that empty, -aching place in her breast; she saw the opening of the office door and -the entrance of a man, dark, like Alexander, but with no other likeness, -unless it were the power to make her whole, for her suffering had -vanished under his long gaze. - -"But that was only because I was interested," she said sensibly. - -He had been interested, too, and more than that. The expression on his -face was new to her. She had come to believe that admiration was her -right; mingled with adoration, she had taken it from her father; Uncle -George had mixed it with his annoyance; Neville had given it frankly; -and Simon Smith, in the guise of petulant pleasure; but in this stranger -it was overwhelmed by something for which she had no name. Surprise, -baffled by courtesy, baffling his own unwillingness, had looked from his -eyes and behind that there had been eagerness restrained. It was for -her. She knew it surely, and the knowledge brought again that bubbling -to her throat. This time she laughed, stretching out her hands. She felt -like one caressed, secure, yet free, with power to capture and skill to -elude captivity. - -"It's fun!" she cried, and stayed her gaiety at the remembrance of -Morton's grave and courteous face. She found nobility in it, and she was -sobered. - -"No, it isn't fun," she said--"it isn't fun. You must try to be an -honest woman, Theresa. But I wish the morning would come." - -She checked another laugh as she slipped into bed. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - - -To Basil Morton, haste was as foreign a quality as dignity was a native -one. He lived slowly, marshalled his actions into order and subdued his -thoughts into a fair sequence, worthy of the noble mind of man. Even in -his imaginations of a future wooing, he had pictured it as a smooth and -rhythmic progress, for, seeing his lady fair and holy, fit to be adored, -the celebration of his worship must be beautiful and stately; she must -be won to the delicately pacing music of his heart. That lady of his -fancy had been tall and dark, gracious and reserved, with no ink stain -on her middle finger, and no happy comradeship with men. She must be -above them, loftily enthroned, white-fingered, perfect; yet here he was -ensnared by this Theresa with her red hair and her quickness and her -fearless glances of eyes that were rarely veiled. He was ensnared when -he first looked into those eyes, heard her voice, and watched her nimble -gestures; and, as though to lie held in her toils were not enough, she -had magically animated him with her own quickness. The courtship he had -planned for the dark, imagined lady faded and left a fragrance of old -things, while his heart leapt with a strangeness of hurry and his brain -was hot with his impatience. Yet he liked to remember his first sight of -her, for she had been gazing into the fire, as maidens should, and for -that instant she had looked soft and vulnerable and young, needing the -protection he had to give. He longed to give it. Thought of the lives of -unprotected women could always give his social conscience its sharpest -pang, and as he saw Theresa turn her latch-key in the lock, that pang -had changed to bitter pain. How often did she walk home late at night -alone? Into what dreadful slums and dens of wickedness was she forced by -his uncle's folly? What right had he to employ her for these purposes? -What horrid sights had she seen, what language heard? She should not -suffer that degradation of eyes and ears. He hated the hours she spent -with Neville. She must be taken from such work; she should live, he -vowed, a life more fitted for a woman, and he resolved to win her to it. - -Wondering greatly at the headlong manner in which he had fallen at her -feet, he forced himself to sleep, anxious to bring the day and meet his -lady on her way to work. - -It was a foggy morning, and she came towards him through a grey mist -which had bedewed her clothes and hair. Her cheeks were a pale pink, her -eyes were very bright, and at the sight of her he felt as though he had -been bathing in some rare air where prejudices could be blown away, and -youth regained and strengthened. - -"May I be the first to wish you a very happy New Year?" he said. - -"You are too late. Bessie, our domestic drudge and best friend, was the -first; then Uncle George. He seemed to have very little hope. You are -the third--and thank you. And a happy New Year to you, too." - -"It has begun happily," he said gravely. - -"Yes. I can smell the spring coming through the mist. And soon there'll -be snowdrops and crocuses." - -"You are fond of flowers?" His words were more a statement than a -question, and his implied sureness of her love for beauty hampered while -it pleased her. - -She shook her shoulders and spoke quickly. "Yes, but I like spring -better. I like the smell of the wind and the way the earth lets things -through. It's so eager!" - -"Autumn is my favourite time of year." - -She looked at him acutely. "It's not so pushing, is it? More -resigned--and all the dying things have the respectability of age. But -my buds insist on coming out. They're active, and your autumn leaves are -passive: they just flutter down, poor things. The buds for me!" - -He thought she was like the spring herself, and was immediately -converted to her view. "I shall watch spring this year with different -eyes," he said, and the blood ran swiftly, joyously in her veins. - -He left her at the foot of the broad steps leading to the front door, -but they met at lunch, and when Theresa went home that evening she found -a sheaf of flowers awaiting her. - -"Who brought them, Bessie?" she asked, fingering them softly, for they -were the flowers a lover chooses--roses, lilies and violets, delicate -and sweet-scented things. - -"A tall young feller--strange to me. 'Andsome." - -"Fair?" - -"Dark, with a moustache." - -"I'd better put them in water," Theresa said quickly, and carried them -upstairs. - -The next day was long in coming, yet she would have urged the night to -stay. It was glorious to be courted, but she was half ashamed. If a man -had picked her up without question and borne her away, she would have -struggled fiercely, but she would have been without this strange -shrinking of the mind. She was uncertain of her position: this wordless -gift of flowers affected her like a lurking enemy. Moreover, though of -all things she loved power, and though people sometimes seemed to her -like pawns she could move at will, she suddenly felt herself unfitted to -receive such gentle homage. It made her feel large and clumsy: -remembering Morton's quiet voice, her own sounded too loud and rough, -and she was aware again of his fastidious mind. Hers was not fastidious: -she liked the truth, whatever the garb it wore, and for knowledge of -life she had a thirst ready for the bitterest dregs. Had he known that, -would he have sent those flowers? And had he sent the flowers? Should -she thank him or be silent? To thank him would surely be to assume too -much, yet she wished to thank him, for she loved the flowers. She could -see them gleaming faintly as they stood on the table by her bed, and -their scent stole towards her. She put out a hand and touched them. They -were like friends. But she would be silent: she had no choice, and it -would be sweeter so: unnamed, they would lie the closer in her heart. - -These were the thoughts that kept her waking through the night, so that -she arose pale and heavy-eyed with all her quickness gone but for the -restlessness of her hands. - -Twice during that morning she met Morton in the hall, gave him a smile -and half a smile, and passed on. At lunch they faced each other, but -Theresa's eyes skimmed over his, and she would not talk. Shyness was -like a weight on her head, and she could not shake it off. Once more she -was ashamed; she, the independent, the undaunted, to be sitting there -like a bashful child! And oh, did she look as foolish as she felt? She -hated the flowers that bound her: they had stolen her freedom. For the -first time in her unbridled life she felt the curb, and she would have -bitten the hand that forced it on her; yet, looking on Morton as the -stern master, she lost the shame she had in seeing him as the adorer. -She could kick and bite and struggle against hard measures, but against -softer ones she had no weapon, only the pain of seeing herself -unwillingly subdued. - -What were these people talking about? Their words flowed past her like a -river, until Simon Smith addressed her. - -"You'd better go home directly after lunch, Miss Webb. Make up for all -that extra work. Jack has to go out this afternoon, so there'll be -nothing for you to do." - -Slowly she turned that weighted head, and the effect was dignified, -reproachful. - -"My work does not depend on Mr. Neville," she said. "Except for the few -letters he dictates every morning our work is quite distinct. There's no -reason why I should go early." - -"Very well, very well. I thought you looked tired, that's all. Do as you -please. Do as you please. Of course, the house and the whole concern is -entirely under your management!" - -She smiled at him, he smiled at her: they understood each other very -well and, pleased with her little show of power, she glanced at Morton, -surprising from him a look so tender and unguarded that her face was -crimsoned. She felt that even her eyes were blushing, and she covered -them with rosy lids, hating her weakness, hating him, yet conscious of a -new respect for a man who could make her flinch. - -In the afternoon a knock came at the office door, and Morton entered at -Theresa's bidding. - -"I wondered if I could help you," he said; "for, indeed, you do look -very tired." He stood near her chair, looking down at her. His eyes were -deep and soft, the lines of his face were firm and fine. He seemed firm -and fine all over: his hands, his clothes, his figure, belonged to a -type of man she had not known: he stood for something orderly and -seemly, something her life had missed. - -"I am not tired," she said. "And I don't think you can help. Thank you. -It would be more trouble to tell you what to do. I don't suppose you can -use a typewriter?" - -"No." He felt the vastness of his ignorance. "But I think I could -learn." - -"It's not much harder than organ grinding." Laughter crept slyly about -her eyes and mouth. "Would you like to try?" - -"I should, very much." - -"Then you may take the typewriter into the library. It's rather an -irritating noise to work with, but I shan't hear it from there. And -then, some other day, you may be useful." - -He could do nothing but carry the heavy thing away with him, and for the -rest of the afternoon he sat before it, trying, for his dignity's sake, -to pretend he liked the sound which deafened him to the other one he -listened for, so that Theresa went home without his knowledge. - -Morton stayed in Radstowe for a fortnight, and each day hurried his -determination to win Theresa. Yet even to his fondness, to fancy her a -wife, was to imagine the chaining of a dragon fly. The moods she showed -him were as changeful as the colours in that creature's wings, her -glances were as swift as its flight. Sometimes he would find her steady, -as though she had settled on a flower, and at a word she would dart off -again whither he could not follow. He could not always even watch her -passage, it was so tortuous and so quick, and she left him puzzled, -bewildered, uncertain of her, but the more certain of himself. - -Every day they met decorously at luncheon, and often, if Neville were -out, she made him welcome in the office. "You must let me help you." - -"Of course." Her lifted eyebrows snubbed him delicately. "Will you read -out this list for me? I want to type it. Oh, but faster than that! No, -let me have it. I shall manage better alone." - -He protested. "I'm very sorry. I wasn't thinking. Let me try again." - -She was lenient: she knew he had been watching her. - -"Very well." And when they had finished she nodded cheerfully. "With a -little practice you might become quite useful." - -"I believe you despise me for a drone." - -"No, I don't despise you. And I haven't quite decided what you are." - -He looked up from the paper in his hand. "I hope you will make a -decision in my favour," he said, and his voice was vibrant. - -She sat facing the light, and he saw the slight quiver of her features. -"I expect I shall." She had no inner doubts. She found in him something -good and rare, something the more valuable because of its aloofness and -its difference from herself, and if she could not yet see him as a -whole, she was drawn to the parts made visible. - -She broke the moment's strain by pushing aside her papers and setting -her elbows on the table. She took her face in her hands. - -"Let's talk," she said. And then, "Do you ever laugh?" - -He smiled instead. "Not often." - -"I should like to see you helpless with laughter, doing all sorts of -undignified things--crying and uncontrolled. Do you think you could?" - -"I'm sure I couldn't. You'll set that down against me?" - -"I'm not making a list of your qualities," she said sharply. "But you're -honest." - -"Had you doubted it?" - -"I don't think we'll talk, after all," she said. He pleased her with the -steady look that ended in a smile, and she went home that night in a -state of happy restlessness. - -She felt herself being involved in a liking for him which resulted from -his liking for her, but was none the less sincere, and characteristically -she chafed while she rejoiced. Love, she found, has more than one means -of entry, and though she had always pictured herself seized roughly by -the intruder, life was teaching her to mistrust imagination, and she -resigned herself easily to this daintier form of worship, for there was -a novel pleasure in being enthroned, spreading herself for homage and -startling the worshipper with sudden incongruities. - -For those fourteen days she was richly fed with the delicacies she had -foretold, and when Morton went away he left her hungry. Irritation came -with the pangs, and the old anger against herself, against him and all -the world. Neville offended her with indiscreet remarks, Grace dared to -suggest she was not well, and Bessie threatened to give notice. - -"What for?" Theresa was sitting in her old place on the kitchen fender, -and Bessie was wandering, felt-shod, in apparent aimlessness. - -"Your temper always was a bit awkward, Miss Terry. D'you remember when -you had your clean clothes? We'd all try to keep clear of you for an -hour or two, and it would pass off, but for this last month--well! I've -never known when you were going to flare, and I haven't pleased you -once." - -"That's your fault. You needn't blame me. Oh, Bessie, I am a -bad-tempered wretch! Don't take any notice of me. Just be kind!" - -"It's 'ard sometimes, Miss Terry dear." - -"I know. I know. But you've got to go on loving me. I can't live unless -people like me--and, anyhow, you can't help it!" - -"But you shouldn't take advantage, Miss Theresa." - -"It is rather mean, isn't it?" she said thoughtfully; "but, you know, -Bessie, I have a hunger that's never satisfied." - -"If it's for something 'olesome----" - -"But it isn't. It's just to be made a fuss of." - -"And there's your father thinking of you day and night." - -"Yes, there's Father." She had been neglecting him of late; she had -allowed him to come home without a single question about his visit to -the farm, and now, repentant, she ran upstairs to his little room. - -"How dare you sit here without a fire?" she asked. - -"I'm wearing my overcoat, my dear." - -"Come downstairs at once!" - -"I'm afraid your Uncle George is in the dining-room. I can work better -alone." - -She knelt and put a match to the wood and paper. - -"We can't afford it, Theresa." - -"I can, though. What are you working at?" - -"I've begun again. It's foolish, no doubt--a waste of time, but the old -impulse returns. Though now there is no one who cares for it." - -"There's me." She was kneeling by the growing fire, and she could only -see her father's back, but its stillness and his silence were a -punishment for all the kindnesses she had left undone, and for an -instant she knew how she would feel when he lay dead. Gripping the -fender, she dropped her head to her knees. "And there's Alexander," she -said, in a voice muffled against her dress. - -There was a pause. "Yes, there's Alexander." - -"Did you have a happy time," she stopped, and deliberately she used -Alexander's words, "up yonder." - -"Very. Very. He was like himself again. And, I hope you won't mind, -Theresa, he wants to come here for his Easter holiday. I didn't ask -him--I wouldn't do that without your consent. He asked himself. I could -only make one answer, could I, my dear?" - -"No. No. I don't mind at all. Why should I?" - -He turned in his chair. "You seemed to have such an extraordinary -dislike for him, my child." - -On her knees she crossed the narrow space between them, and leaned her -head against his arm. - -"I've always hated to hear other people praised, and that was the way -you began about him, fourteen years ago. Fourteen years! And you've been -praising him ever since. But I'm trying to be more sensible. At least, -I'm different. At least, I think I am! Oh--I don't know! Anyhow, I don't -mind his coming a bit, a bit! He can live here if he likes!" She sank to -a sitting posture, and she beat the ground softly, hurriedly, with her -fists. - -"He won't want to do that," Edward Webb said unnecessarily. "He seems -wedded to his life there." - -"I thought he was in love." Her voice scorned the state in him. - -"So Janet seemed to think. I have heard no more of it. And he seems -content." - -"Contented people," she snapped, "have fat souls." - -"I didn't say self-content, my dear," he explained mildly. "But he is -willing to live a life of obscurity--for the sake of an ideal. That's -rather great, Theresa. With his scholarship and his power he might have -made himself a name." - -"Then he ought to have made it. Anybody could teach those stodgy boys." -Yet his own words came back to her, mingling with the water and the -wind, and once more she gave assent. - -"That's just what he does not believe. Does a preacher think one soul of -more value than another? And should a teacher? That is what he asks, my -dear--and answers. And I am proud to call him my friend." - -She went to bed, to lie there cold and stiff, her thoughts hideously and -mercifully formless, until at last, out of that mangled heap of -indistinguishable things, sleep came to her as gently as a fallen -feather. - -Morning brought her a letter from Morton, and her sores were healed. It -was the letter she had wanted. It told her delicately something of what -she seemed to him, and it revealed the aspirations of the man; it -implied that they had been blown still higher by the bright strong -breath of her spirit, and it satisfied the ancient hunger that, last -night, had shrieked ravenously for food. No one else had ever claimed -her for his inspiration, and as she put the letter in her breast, the -action was like a gage flung down, though the name of her enemy was not -cried. - -The next day, flowers came, and then another letter, and after a few -more days, more flowers, and, lying among them, a little missive, -telling Theresa that these but heralded his own approach. - -"Have you heard the news?" Neville said, when she entered the office -that morning. - -"Which news?" - -"The L. P. is coming here again--arrives to-night." - -"Yes, I knew that." - -"Oh, then, good-bye, Theresa. If you are an accessory before the act, -it's all over, but the old gentleman and I have been hoping against -hope." - -"What hope?" she asked coldly, her hands on the back of her chair. - -"We don't want you to marry the L. P." - -"I have not been asked to marry him. Oh, how can you talk like this? I -think you're vulgar!" Tears darted to her eyes. "And you spoke so -beautifully about love!" - -She had betrayed herself, but he hid his knowledge. "I say--I'm sorry, -Theresa. I only meant it as a joke. Silly fool! And beastly bad form, I -know; but, really, we do live in dread of someone's stealing you, and -we've made special plans for his abduction. You shouldn't make yourself -so lovable, my dear." He was right when he said he understood men and -women, for now she laughed brokenly, but with pleasure, and spoke -forcibly in spite of her trembling lips. - -"I don't know why I should behave like this. Is it like me? Jack, is it -like me?" - -"Not a bit! Yes--exactly," he added, and again she had to laugh. - -"And you've made me self-conscious and ridiculous!" - -"I promise I won't look when you meet." - -"Oh, Jack! Let's get to work. I do wish sometimes we were all one sex." - -Neville's promise was an unnecessary one, for Theresa did not see more -than Morton's coat hanging in the hall until the second evening of his -visit, when he called on her father. - -"The flower-man's come," said Bessie, flapping into the kitchen where -Theresa was making soup. - -"The flower-man?" - -"I mean the young feller that brought them on New Year's Day." - -"Oh!" said Theresa, on a long, indifferent note, and stirred steadily. - -"Miss Terry, is he coming after you?" - -"I don't know, Bessie." She spoke in a voice that had the clear -emptiness of a puzzled child's. "I don't know," she repeated, and then -her uncouth young womanhood came strongly on her. "Oh, Bessie, Bessie, I -think it's terrible to be a woman--terrible. Men--oh--and yet I know it -is our destiny. Nature drives us. And I'm pushing against the chariot -she sits in, pushing, pushing"--she brandished the wooden spoon--"and I -know I shall be beaten in the end." - -"Oh, Miss Terry, you've dropped some soup on your dress. Just look at -that!" - -"And I want to be beaten--oh, never mind the soup! It will wash out." - -"I'm going to wash it out now. D'you think I'd let you go upstairs like -that?" - -When they had had supper and Morton had gone, Edward Webb and Theresa -sat silently by the fire. She was happy, for Morton was better than her -memory of him, and though her heart was beating fast, she was conscious -of a kind of peace. - -She did not look at her father until he spoke. - -"He told me about himself," he said, and there was a tragedy of appeal -in the words. They implored her to reassure him, to swear that this man -had not come to take her from him. But she only nodded, looking down -again. - -"His mother is the sister of Simon Smith, it seems. I imagine he is -rich, not that he told me that, of course, but incidentally. And I think -he is an honest man." There seemed to be something he had left unsaid, -but before he had time to say it, she lifted her head and showed him -her face aglow. He could not say the words. Instead, he put out his -hands. - -"Theresa," he said. "Theresa." - -She held tightly to him, steadied her mouth against his hands, and -laughed. That laughter was unmistakable: it sounded the farewell to all -his hopes, and he heard them go clanging down to the very place of -disappointments. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - - -The months after Theresa's departure had been black ones for Alexander. -For a time her face lived before him like a flame, but it had been -extinguished by the winds of the mountains as he battled through them, -and though his hands were burnt, he was glad of the scars. They told him -he was stronger than the small vivid woman who had tried to steal his -heart and the singleness of mind that meant so much to him. He desired -nothing but his work to wife, yet Theresa had come fleetly into his -existence, luring him to unfaithfulness. He threw her off, he trained -himself to look coldly at the pictures on the mantelpiece, to tell her -he had good reason to hate those smiling lips; but at bedtime, when he -stood in the glow of the firelight and looked up at her, and bade her -his unwilling good-night, he had no heart to leave her gazing into the -darkness, and quietly turned her on her face, that she, too, might -sleep. - -In truth, he could not hate those lips, for they were nobly human, and, -with a young wisdom of their own, they defied his hatred, but his -resentment against the eager life in her had a healthy bitterness. He -could cast her off, but he could not cast out the passions her womanhood -had aroused. - -There are men as fiercely virginal as any maiden, but this was no -quality of Alexander. His disdain of the flesh, and now his loathing of -it, came of his desire to be unhampered, untrammelled, the servant of -nothing but his mind and spirit: it was the desire of the boy who had -fought his temper and controlled his ordinary, wholesome hunger, because -he must be supreme. It had been strengthened by experience of his -father's weakness and encouraged by the clean solitude of the hills. -Walking among them, lifting his feet high to overcome the heather, he -had trampled, too, on ambition, and believed himself the master of his -life; yet Theresa had come and thrown the commonest, most perilously -lovely shackles on his hands and feet. - -Now, as he walked, he had another foe to conquer, and that was a harder -matter, for he had thought himself secure, and lo! his enemy came on him -before he was aware. The wildness that he had cloaked with his strength -made him a fierce fighter, but the same wildness and the same strength -were the qualities he had to combat. He was aghast at the terrible -determination of nature. He had seen the torn sides of the hills, he had -heard storms, howling round them with awful ruthlessness, but he had -known no ruthlessness like this he battled with, that dragged the life -from him and left him sunken in eye and cheek so that the raging of the -winds was thereafter a little thing to him. - -The sight of Janet's pretty Laura was a shameful torture to him; he did -not fear her beauty but it rose before him as the very emblem of the -thing he dreaded. He drove it off at last, routed it utterly, and lay -prone in a mental exhaustion that was like sleep. And into it, as though -she were a dream, Theresa came laughing back. He felt no surprise: it -seemed she was the thing he had been waiting for. He took her coming as -a symbol, a reward for valour, and he welcomed her, but not alone for -that. It was her very self he wanted. What choice had he, when he saw -her full of courage and comradeship, with eyes that were the doorways to -her larger life, and open hands that were like an offering? He took the -hands, and as his own tightened on them, as he looked on her, he saw -clear. She cleaned his sight, and he knew that arduous fight of his had -been more a failure than a triumph. He had not fought for virtue's sake, -but for that of his own pride; it was not goodness that he loved, but -his own strength, and he was warned that it would have been less a sin -had he fallen by his weakness, and not conquered by his strength. - -Theresa taught him shame as well as love: the face that was before him -was not now a flaming one; it shone with the steady light of her eyes, -like truth made manifest. - -"It seems I need you," he said to the vision, and the moment when he -realized his human need of her was the moment when he first felt, like -an inspiration, his divine need of God. - -This was in November, more than a year and a half since he had seen -Theresa, and this was when his work became a sacrament. He had never -lacked in enthusiasm or high purpose, but now, with the fervour of his -nature, he offered all he did, through Theresa, up to God. Of these two -presences he was always conscious; they were as living as his own heart. -Theresa was the high priestess of his temple: it was she who had -interceded, she who had handed him the bread of humility to eat. -Inevitably, he saw her all spirit for a while, mingled her too freely -with the divine, but as he sat by his window on starry winter nights, -watching the great bulk of the Blue Hill stand free of the sky, she -slipped quietly into her rightful place and, already servant to her -bright spirit, he became aware of the holy beauty of her body, and his -own love of it. He saw love tearing off the ugly vestments with which -men clothe their thoughts, and felt the inseparable fusion of soul and -body that love alone can make. - -He loved her: he never dreamt that she might not love him. His need was -so imperative and so profound that it did not permit of doubt, and his -faith was so complete that, without vanity, it presupposed and claimed a -like faith in her. - -When Edward Webb had gone back to Radstowe and the promise of Easter -seemed to be carried the further from Alexander, he found he could not -wait so long in silence, and he began to shape a letter for Theresa. He -did not set it down in writing, but, as he came and went between the -Grammar School and the farm, or watched the tardy spring coming to the -mountains, he made the sentences, rounding them fairly, and choosing -words that would express his thought and please her ear. He did not tell -her of his love, yet he revealed it, for he let her into the very -recesses of his mind, the most intimate details of his work were made -known to her, he spoke of the strivings of his spirit, and through all -his confidences there flashed the bright feet of spring. He told her how -the quiet of the valley would soon be shattered, and yet built up, by -the penetrating cries of lambs and the bleating mournfulness of their -mothers, how the primroses would shine out like eyes from the banks, and -the buds would swell and glisten, with the melting of the snow. There -was no sight of bird, or beast, or growing thing that he did not -register for her and turn into a glowing sentence; no promise of spring -but had another, quicker pulse. But though this letter was written at -last, it was not sent, for he was a stiff-tongued man, and this inky -eloquence seemed to present him falsely, and too fairly, to Theresa. -This was a height of correspondence to which he could not always soar, -and she must be content with the humdrum lowlands of his life. He tore -up the paper on which he had written this careful prose, and taking -another sheet, he plunged into an unstudied letter which he did not -deign to read when it was done. - - - "My Dear Theresa, - - "I'm watching for the new heather, but it seems long in coming, - and will be longer yet. There's the old stuff still on the bushes, - but the colour's gone and it's the purple flower I want. Will you - not be here to see it flush the hills? But it's months till then, - and just now there's little here but snow, and the streams so - fierce and heavy that it takes your breath away. I think it's the - early morning that I like best, when there's hardly any light but - what comes from the snow; and this morning, just at that hour, I - was wakened by the stairs creaking, and there was my father going - out, half-dressed, and I heard my mother cry out to me to stop - him, for he'd taken the razor. We'd had peace for these last - weeks, and I'd begun to hope he'd worn himself into quiet, and - there he was again, rushing into the snow and the grey morning. It - was like chasing a ghost across the fields, for there was no sound - on the snow, and the trees looked like spectres that had never - known the run of sap. And my mother stood by the gate holding a - lantern that gave a little flame the morning mocked at. It was - like a lamp showing the door of the underworld I'd rushed into. I - came up with him at last, and he laughed at me. He had no razor, - he said, and it's true he hadn't, but he'd chosen to frighten my - mother with that lie. What are we to do with the man? He threatens - to take his life, and if it wasn't for my mother, I think I'd let - him do it; but I've got to stop him, and then he laughs at us. I - was near knocking him down, but I've always kept my hands off him - so far, and I hope I always may. But he's mad, though my mother - will not have it. And he is still laughing at his joke. Is it - cunning to put us off the scent, I'm wondering? - - "When I look back into my life, I see so many pictures of - darkness; the night and the sound of his shambling feet coming - home, the early morning and the creaking stairs, and my mother - calling softly and telling me to stay in bed, for that was when I - was young, and he had a spite against me; and the shadows in the - kitchen when I did my work, and the moving shadow on the ceiling - as my father prowled up and down. The darkness followed me when I - went to school in the sun, and when I came back I knew it waited - for me. If I went in mist or rain, there was nothing strange in - that, for it was just the shadows going with me. Yet I'm - exaggerating, for the hills always stood clear of all else, and - were themselves and friends to me. Even you, who love them, cannot - know what they have been. There's no good name I cannot give - them--except one. - - "I have written all this about myself, but it's hardly of myself I - have been thinking. Indeed, I've written without thought at all, - as if my pen knew all that I must say. I've been waiting for that - book of yours. Is it coming soon? It's nearly two years since you - were here, but I can squeeze all those months up into my hand and - throw them from me. Will you send me a letter? - - "Alexander." - -The day after he had posted this letter to Theresa, he heard from Edward -Webb. - - "Something has happened which I can hardly believe," he wrote, - "which I do not wish to believe. Theresa is to marry a Basil - Morton, nephew of the Mr. Smith for whom she works. I know nothing - against him, I believe she is happy, I hope she will be happy in - the future. Perhaps a father always dreads marriage for his child, - and yet I can conceive of circumstances in which I should not feel - this heavy load, like death. I tell you what I would say to no one - else, but I feel as if my affection for Theresa had made my very - body sensitive to what may hurt her, and receptive of warnings. Yet - she is a woman; she is twenty-five, and my feelings may be nothing - but an old man's jealousy and anger at a turn of events I had not - planned. Please understand--Mr. Morton is a man of breeding and - education. His devotion to Theresa is evident. My objections are - all of that strongest, inexplicable sort, and I feel that she has - already gone from me for ever. Perhaps I have dwelt too - persistently on the thought of her all these years, if one can - think too much of what one loves; perhaps my perception of most - things has become blunted by looking too keenly at the one thing. I - do not know. It all seems very dark to me, and the burden of - child-bearing is not all the mother's. I have borne Theresa for - five-and-twenty years, and now she is snatched from me. Is this - selfishness? I think I could have given her more willingly to - another, but perhaps not, for I find my baseness is unfathomable." - -The darkness which had so seldom left him now thickened and settled on -Alexander, but first there was a bright spurt of light, a scattering of -sparks that were the red colour of rage, and like the imprecations of -his mind made visible. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - - -Mrs. Morton sat by the drawing-room fire, listening for the sound of -wheels. The wind was high and as it dashed among the trees it made a -roaring as of many chariots. Three times already she had laid down her -crotchet and picked it up again, and now, wrapping a little shawl about -her shoulders, she went to the window and watched for a blot on the -whiteness of the drive that followed the side of the lawn for a little -way before it curved out of sight. - -The grass before the house sloped to a glimmer of water, and was edged -by clustered trees; on the other side of the lake more trees stood black -against the fading light, and close to the house there was a group of -elms in which the rooks were busy. The branches of all the trees were -swaying, flinging themselves this way and that, dipping towards the -earth and springing up again in defiance of their humility, shaking -their heads in denial, lowering them in contrite affirmation. The noise -they made was like that of the sea, but, because it was rarer, it was -more foreboding. The roaring of the sea, now loud, now soft, is as -unceasing as its ebb and flow, but the trees only cry out when the wind -whips them, and their voice is full of lamentation. - -Mrs. Morton did not like the wind. She loved her home best when the -summer sun shone on it, and the trees were clothed in green to hide -their nakedness, when the flower-beds were bright with colour, and she -could stroll beside them under the shade of her parasol. The gaunt -energy of leafless trees, their moans and wailings, were akin to the -sight and sound of a soul laid bare, and this tall, white-haired lady -with the passive face disliked them according to her dread of the -primitive and unruly. - -She shuddered as she waited for Theresa. This was no fit day for Basil -to bring home his betrothed; there was no bridal softness in the air -and, with a carelessness unlike him, he had driven to meet her in the -dog-cart. She had protested, for the wind was cold, but he had smiled, -told her Theresa loved the wind, and repeated his inconsiderate order. -She would be cold when she arrived. - -Mrs. Morton looked round the white-panelled room with its shining floor -and furniture, and she looked approvingly, for the lamps were warmly -shaded, the fire was bright, and the tea-table and comfortable chairs -were drawn close to the hearth. - -Again she strained her eyes into the dusk, and when they had cleared -themselves of the reflected lamplight and the dim picture of herself on -the other side of the window, she saw the dog-cart moving quickly. - -She was at the hall door, as she had planned, at the moment when Morton -reined in the horse and the groom sprang to its head, and she saw the -startling dexterity of Theresa's leap to the ground. - -She heard her son's reproachful tones. "You might have hurt yourself." - -And Theresa's answer, clear and gay: "No I mightn't. I can calculate a -jump to an inch." - -Morton laughed, and led the small figure up the steps. - -"Mother, here is Theresa," he said. - -She was embraced, but, in the half light, Mrs. Morton could not see her -face. She felt the cold firmness of her cheeks, and she kissed them -through strands of wind-blown hair. - -With a processional solemnity, they passed into the drawing-room, where -Mrs. Morton, Basil and a maid helped to free her of her wraps. - -"You must be very cold, dear. Come to the fire." - -"I'm not cold, thank you. I loved it. I felt as if we were another wind, -we went so fast." - -"I wanted Basil to take the brougham," Mrs. Morton murmured. She had -pictured herself settling Theresa in a chair, putting a cushion to her -back, holding one of her hands, perhaps; but Theresa was standing very -straight--her back seemed unusually strong--and she was smiling faintly, -while her hands were occupied in the swift removal of her gloves. There -seemed no point at which she could be conveniently caressed, and Mrs. -Morton sank into the chair beside the tea-table. - -"You will be glad of tea," she said. "Basil, won't you make Theresa sit -down? She looks so tired. Now, dear, you would like some hot toast." - -Theresa was in an uncertain temper, and if she had not been very eager -for buttered toast, she would have refused it as a form of -contradiction; but the sight of it shining in the hearth overcame -annoyance with desire. She foresaw, however, a quick starvation if Mrs. -Morton continued to accompany offers of food with these firmly uttered -statements. - -"You had a tiring journey?" There was just a redeeming tilt at the end -of the sentence, and Theresa condescended to consider it a question. - -"No thank you. I liked watching the country." - -"But in winter time it is all so sad." - -"But this is spring--almost! And I saw some lambs--the first. They're -early here." And as she spoke she saw the green cleanliness of the earth -when the snow has melted into it, and lambs, like little forgotten -patches of that snow, leaping about the hills. - -She went on quickly. "And there were pigs. I like them. They're so -greedy, and they don't pretend to care for anything except their--except -what they eat." - -The subject of pigs was not encouraged. Basil was handing her more -toast, as though he wished it were a kingdom, and she knew he was too -much engaged with the joy of her presence to listen to her babblings. It -was right that he should be happy at seeing her in the home they were to -share, yet, in that moment, he lost something with which she once had -dowered him. She eyed him critically. He was good to look at, and beauty -always softened her; but his strongest appeal for her had been his -distance, and here, among the teacups with his mother, he was too near, -he almost seemed domestic. She realized the cold cruelty of her phase, -she hoped it would not last, but she could do nothing to be rid of it. -She was forced to her callous scrutiny, she was entirely shorn of any -sense of possession, and while her mind told her she would recover her -old sensations, her heart was like a dead thing in her breast. She knew -the reason, for it lay on that heart which it had struck, and when she -stirred she felt the sharp edge of Alexander's letter. - -She moved now, quickly. - -"She wants a cushion," Mrs. Morton cooed, but Basil was already propping -Theresa's back. - -She smiled at him, from the lips, trying to feel the kindness that lay -crushed. - -"You're lovely," he said, under cover of Mrs. Morton's manipulation of -the tea things. - -She gave her emphatic half-shake of the head. She knew the wind had -nipped her, that her hair fell in wisps about her face, and his loving -blindness made her disloyalty the blacker. She would not be disloyal, -but she questioned her love for him, she faced the possibility of -resigning him, and at once she had an impulse to thrust herself into his -arms. Instead, she put her hand in his and held it fast, and, like a -gentle tide, she felt the return of tenderness. - -Alone in the pretty room prepared for her, and still with that -determined loyalty upon her, she made to throw Alexander's letter in the -fire; yet to do that, she argued, was to admit its power, and it had no -power for anything but a disturbance that would pass. It came too late. -A little while ago--she did not follow the thought, but she knew its -path. She shut her eyes to it. - -She loved Basil. She could not picture life without him. After herself -she belonged to him. She was proud to be his. He was good, and true, -and for all her self-esteem she wondered how he came to love her. - -After dinner, as they all sat in the drawing-room Theresa gazed at Mrs. -Morton in a kind of wonder. She sat in her chair, crotcheting slowly, -with frequent reference to an instruction book, and counting her -stitches half aloud between her amiable sentences. In uttering -commonplaces, she had a dignity which forced the listener to reach -deeply or loftily for truth, and return from that vain pilgrimage with a -sensation of having been robbed by the wayside. When she announced that -their nearest neighbours, the Warings, were to have tea with them on the -following day, Theresa waited anxiously for the something more implied -in those pregnant tones. But Mrs. Morton serenely counted stitches. At -length, "You will like the Warings," she said. - -Theresa stared into the fire. She was prepared to hate anyone thus -introduced. She was not far from hating Mrs. Morton. Her lips tightened, -her idle hands pressed each other closely. Had this placid person ever -been in love? Was she so obtuse that she could not feel the fret of -Theresa's spirit? Did she not know that solitude is the great need of -lovers, or realize that Basil had not yet so much as kissed her? The -presence of the groom had prevented confidences on the drive, and in the -house Mrs. Morton had shadowed her in excess of welcome. She looked at -Basil, who was looking at her, and raised her eyebrows wearily. He -raised his own, and they smiled in the delightful comradeship of -annoyance shared. She wanted to talk to him, to make amends for the -wickedness of her thoughts, and here they sat, all three, and her tongue -was tied. She longed to tear the crotchet from Mrs. Morton's plump white -hands; she felt the old anger of her childhood rising to her throat, and -she pressed her hand to it and forced it back. - -"Basil, Theresa's throat is sore. You shouldn't have driven her in the -dog-cart on such a day. You shall have some sugared lemon, dear. Ring -the bell, Basil." - -"Not for that, please! I haven't a sore throat. I--just happened to -touch myself there--oh, really!" There was a laughing anguish in her -voice. Was she to be handcuffed as well as starved? - -"Don't be afraid of giving trouble, dear." - -"Theresa always tells the truth, Mother." - -"Oh, of course! Very well. But she looked as if she had a sudden pain." - -"I'm afraid it is a habit." - -"That reminds me of an old lady I knew when I was young. I thought she -had St. Vitus's dance, until her maid told me that she wore all her -valuable jewellery on her--under her dress, and she was constantly -touching herself to make sure it was all there." - -"What were you hiding, Theresa?" - -She lifted her chin to show him the pretty lines of her bare neck. - -"Ah, your own beauty," he added softly. - -"Something else," she said. - -"Tell me." - -She shook her head. "You must find out." - -Mrs. Morton's voice penetrated this happy murmur. - -"You crotchet, Theresa?" - -Morton had to shake the hand he held. "Theresa, Mother asks you if you -crotchet." - -"Oh! No, I don't. That's very pretty." - -"It is for you." - -"Is it?" - -"Yes, a tray cloth." - -"Thank you. How clever of you!" - -"I'll teach you if you would care to learn." - -"I don't think I could. I've got such stiff fingers for things like -that. They're good enough for typing. Basil, did I tell you about that -last woman of mine?" - -It was during the recital of this tale that Mrs. Morton left the room. -Theresa stopped and looked at the closing door. - -"Was I saying anything wrong?" she asked. "I am so used to talking -frankly to Mr. Smith and Jack, that I forget other people may not like -it. Was I?" - -"No, dear, but the whole thing is rather disagreeable to her." - -"But how?" - -"Well, you see----" - -"Is it that she doesn't like you to marry a woman who has earned her own -living?" - -"That, of course, was rather a shock. Darling, try to understand her -attitude. She has old-fashioned notions of womanhood. She thinks you -should not have been allowed to do the work you did, and I own that it -seems unnatural to me, too. But you are wonderful, Theresa. You are the -exceptional woman who can do these things. You are unscathed." - -She stood up and fell into that attitude in which he had first seen her. - -"I am not unscathed," she said. "If you drop down into hell, even -another person's hell, you come back--scorched. And I have the marks." -She turned to him quiveringly. "Basil, have you ever suffered?" - -"I think so. My father was killed--I found him. And I--he was a great -deal to me." - -"Death!" She flung back her head. "Oh yes, yes, yes; death is so much -worse, and so much better, than people fancy. But have you felt your own -heart shrivelling to a thing like a dried nut? Have you carried that -about with you as--as some people do? And have you heard stories told by -women whose eyes are dry because they have no tears left? I have. I -have. Oh, shocking stories of sin, of things no girl should know the -name of!" She spoke more quietly. "It's quite possible that I know more -than you do of the world's evil, for you are the kind of person who -never looks in the gutters: you keep your head high, but I look -everywhere. And I want to see the gutter dirt: it's part of life, and -the sun shines on that as well as on the flowers in the gardens. But I -don't like it. You're not to think I like it. But you are to think I am -very proud of having done that work. I suppose Mrs. Morton has not told -your friends I am a working woman?" - -"She did not wish them to know. You must not think us snobs, Theresa, -but in a place like this there are so many prejudices, and we do not -want you to be hurt by them." - -"I can't be hurt by foolishness, and I won't be in the conspiracy. And -why should your mother feel like that? She is Mr. Smith's sister, and -their father educated himself, and then made sweets. From her point of -view isn't that as bad, worse even, than my honourable calling?" - -"You see, you are a woman, Theresa." - -"Are we never to go unveiled and free?" - -He smiled gently. "Moreover, when my mother married my father she -considered herself a member of his family rather than of her own." - -"Oh!" - -"Some women do, you know." - -"Oh! Don't hope for that from me, Basil. I won't be welded into -anybody's family or anybody's nature." - -"Darling,"--his arms were round her--"I never want you to be anything -but yourself." - -She leaned back. - -"But is it a self you like? Are you satisfied with it? You know"--she -touched his chin lightly with her forefinger--"we're going to have a lot -of trouble." - -"If we are together----" - -"Because we are together. Oh, I can smell it afar off. I did directly I -came into the house." - -"Don't you like it?" he asked, and released her gently. - -"The house is beautiful--but we're not going to be alone in it, are we? -Oh, I'm not complaining, but I rather wish we were going to have a -semi-detached villa, and a maid like Bessie. Yet I hate housework! I'm -afraid--I'm dreadfully afraid--I shall get annoyed." Her head was on one -side, she twisted her fingers among his. - -"Theresa, you will be considerate of my mother." - -"Don't, don't, don't! If you put questions in the form of statements I -shall go mad." - -There was patience in his look, but he redeemed it with a laugh. "I beg -your pardon. Theresa, will you be considerate of my mother?" - -"I'll try." - -"I thought you prided yourself on your tact." - -"I do. I have it highly developed, but the devil sometimes steals it." - -"You are a little childish." - -"Very!" - -"And my mother is dear to me." - -"So was mine to me. She was--sweet, my mother was, but that didn't -prevent my getting angry with her. I wish I didn't get so angry. Do you -understand that you're engaged to a volcano, an active one?" - -"I'm beginning to." - -"And I'm in eruption now. Be careful." - -"I love my volcano." - -"She'll hurt you, often. Destroy you altogether, perhaps. Basil, I want -to tell you something. There'll be times when I shall nearly hate you." - -"Why?" - -"I don't know. It's just me. I'm cruel. But love me always, and I'll -come back to you." - -"I can't help loving you, dear," he said, and kissed her hair. - -"But do you trust me?" - -"Darling, of course!" - -She made herself more comfortable in his arms. "Then I'll be worthy, if -I can. Take care of me." - -She was happy that night when she went to bed, and, sitting by the fire -with her softly slippered feet close to the blaze, she could take -Alexander's letter from its place, and hold it easily in a hand on -which Basil's diamonds sparkled. - -Only that morning the letter had been dropped into the hall as she stood -there in her travelling coat, with the veil that swathed her little hat -pushed up so that she might drink the hot milk Bessie offered. - -"That'll be for the master," Bessie said. "No, it's for you, Miss Terry. -Now, drink the milk. I won't have people telling me you're thin. Of -course, you're thin! You tell 'im I've given you hot milk every morning -this last week." - -"All right, Bessie, all right. He knows you take care of me." - -"So 'e ought." - -She had held the letter in her pocket, stroking it with her thumb; and -then Grace and the baby had come in to say good-bye, and not until she -was in the train had she been able to read what Alexander wrote. Then -she read it many times. "Will you not be here to see it flush the hills? -And the streams so fierce and heavy that it takes your breath away." She -wanted to be there. She thought she felt the cold spray on her face. She -felt the air: passing through it was to be new-made. Her steps were -buoyant, her eyes were washed and clean. She heard the water, she heard -the larches singing, and her heart cried in her breast. She would dream -to-night, and she longed for the darkness and feared it. She would see -the lakeside and the black precipice, the water would be whispering at -her feet, and she would be waiting, waiting. It was a long time since -she had been there. - -But Alexander's letter roused her to more than this sickness of longing -that she dared not analyse too closely. "I've been waiting for that book -of yours," he said. There would never be a book. And he was looking for -it. She was hurt and shamed as by a promise broken to a child. Talking -freely on that wonderful one day of theirs, she had told him what she -meant to do, and he had given her that plunging look of response. How -had she dared to talk like that, and then do nothing? She knew the -answer. And now it was too late. She was to be a county lady. She had -come to an age when she was no longer sure that she had the power she -had always wanted; but she ought to have put it to the test, for she had -told Alexander what she was going to do; she had told Alexander. The -words came with such force that her lips framed them. She had told -Alexander. She had another tale for him now. "Oh yes," she said, "you -shall have a letter," and she quickly wrote it, sitting there with the -firelight on her bare arms and her quick, thin hands. - - - "Dear Alexander, - - "Thank you for your letter. It was like seeing the place. I didn't - begin the book. I lost faith, and I'll never get it back. I'm - weak, but perhaps it is a good thing and has saved the spilling of - much ink. It was a young ambition of mine, and you know what - Father is! So I'm going to be married instead, for that's a - profession we all think we are fit for! I shall see you at Easter. - It will be two years then. - - "Theresa." - -She felt like a penitent who has relieved her soul of sin and planted a -dart in the breast of her confessor. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - - -As Theresa entered the drawing-room on the following afternoon, she felt -the imminence of ceremony. Mrs. Morton had cast aside her crotchet and -sat, in satin and old lace, awaiting the coming of her guests; and the -room, softly and rosily shaded, seemed to Theresa like a temple raised -to the social cult, with the tea-table for altar and Mrs. Morton for -ministrant. - -She closed the door with a decorous quiet and advanced, her mouth curved -into the faint smile that had some mobile quality though the lips were -still. - -"I thought you would be late," said Mrs. Morton. - -"I did my hair three times. I wanted to look nice." - -"You look charming, dear. I hope you are not feeling nervous." - -"Oh no!" - -"I expect you are--a little. I remember my own introduction to the -friends of Basil's father. It was in this room. It was a very anxious -moment for me. One naturally wants to please, and I was very shy as a -girl." - -"You were younger than I am, perhaps." - -"Only eighteen." - -"Ah, I'm twenty-five. That makes a lot of difference." The picture of a -maiden hearkening to the wisdom of the matron, she stood before Mrs. -Morton with her hands behind her back, her head bent to look and listen. - -"But you are not married, dear." Mrs. Morton was finding it unexpectedly -easy to talk to Theresa. "And until a girl is married----" - -"Yet I sometimes feel as though I have been married several times," she -said. - -The words suggested a shocking fertility of imagination. - -"My dear, what do you mean?" - -Theresa laughed. "Just that. One knows so much one hasn't actually -experienced." - -"I hope not!" - -"But I can't help it," she urged. "It's how I happen to be made." - -Mrs. Morton moved uneasily. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean. I -suppose I am very old-fashioned." She was disappointed at the very -moment when she thought she was beginning to understand her son's love -for this pale, quick girl with the watchful eyes, whose glances -half-alarmed her. She was glad when the door was opened. "Ah, here's -Basil." - -Theresa turned to him. "Basil," she said, "have you ever been in a -balloon?" - -"No." - -"But you can imagine what it's like, can't you?" - -"Yes, I think so." - -"Of course you can." She was eager, persuasive. "You would have a -feeling of having no inside, wouldn't you, and no feet? And you would -feel like a little speck of dust, and because you were so small, it -wouldn't seem to matter if you fell out into that enormous empty space? -Would it?" - -He humoured her, smiling as he took in the radiance of her hair, the -slimness of the green-clad body, the thin feet in their bronze-coloured -shoes. - -"Very likely," he said. - -"You see!" she exclaimed, laughing. "Basil knows all about something he -hasn't experienced. Why shouldn't I?" Her lips changed their curve. "Is -it because I am a woman?" Her little taunt was for him: she had -forgotten his mother, on whose face there were small evidences of -distress. - -"What is it now, dear?" he murmured, and led her to the window. "Come -and look at the trees against the sky." - -She went meekly, for the sake of the hand holding her; but she was -shaken by inward laughter. Like a child she was being drawn out of -mischief and enticed to look out of the window at the pretty sky. - -And later, when the guests had arrived, when Mr. and Mrs. Waring talked -to her kindly and ponderously, and the three Misses Waring in the glow -of their healthy young beauty asked who was her favourite author and if -she liked the country, she knew that Mrs. Morton watched her nervously. -She was annoyed by that suspicion of her manners, but stronger than her -annoyance was her determination to please, not, like Mrs. Morton, for -her lover's sake, but for her own. Her one sure talent cried loudly to -be used, and as she listened to it, she felt a stir of physical pleasure -in her breast. She, who had drawn the truth from unwilling lips, and -brought back long-forgotten laughter, had no doubt of making what effect -she chose on these amiable strangers. - -Sitting in a low chair, with folded hands on her knee, and looking -younger than she was, she listened, smiled, and answered quietly while -she studied the faces ringing her. She saw Mr. and Mrs. Waring deciding -that she was a nice little thing, not pretty, not clever, but possessed -of the vague niceness necessary for the complete young lady. That was -not sufficient tribute for Theresa, and she awaited the opportunity to -make Mr. Waring laugh. It came, she seized it with some audacity, and -the old gentleman's guffaw acknowledged her. Her lifted brows wondered -at his amusement, but her mouth betrayed her. - -A pale flush of excitement was in her cheeks. Mrs. Waring and her -daughters were smiling politely, while the head of the family leaned -back in his chair to laugh, and, between his cackles, he repeated the -joke to Morton. Morton, too, smiled politely; the humour did not reach -him and, a little ashamed of his guest's clamour, he drew him on to -agricultural matters; but those stiff smiles were Theresa's triumph, for -the joke had been aimed at Mr. Waring alone, and it had hit the mark. - -The two matrons fell into talk, and, still wearing that gentle look of -surprise, Theresa turned to the three young women: she seemed to ask for -conversational help, and they gave it in the form of questions. Did she -ride? No, she wished she did. She thought Basil was going to teach her. - -"He rides perfectly." The second Miss Waring looked across the room to -where he sat, and in that shy glance Theresa read renunciation, maidenly -and empty of all bitterness. - -"I expect you all do," she said. - -"No, my sisters don't care for it. I love it." - -"Basil taught her when she was small. She can ride anything," said the -eldest sister proudly. "They hunt together." - -"We haven't lately, Rose," the other said, and blushed. - -Theresa leaned forward coaxingly. "Oh, do go next time and let me see -you both!" she cried. "It's splendid to see people doing things really -well." - -"Oh, do you think so?" The second Miss Waring controlled a smile. - -Was she fond of gardening? This question was from the youngest beauty. -No, she didn't know anything about it. They only had a patch of rough -grass at home, and an apple-tree. There was a pause. It was Rose who -returned to the subject of books. - -"I expect you are a great reader?" - -"Oh, more or less." - -"I adore reading. And poetry. Whose poetry do you like best?" - -"I don't know," said Theresa slowly. - -She had assured them all of their superiority: they liked her; Mrs. -Morton forgot to be nervous, Basil was glad to see her in that group of -girls. - -Other visitors came and went. Two elderly sisters, adorned with large -brooches and pendulous ear-rings, seated themselves before Theresa and -told her anecdotes of Morton's childhood. Their voices defied her to -rob him of his early virtues, and their looks prophesied her pernicious -influence. She liked these ladies with their pleasant acidity: there was -resistance in them; but it was with the arrival of Conrad Vincent that -enjoyment brightened her eyes and loosed her tongue. He came in slowly -and greeted his friends without haste, but when he stood before Theresa -she felt the hurry of his mind. Behind the lazy glances of his eyes she -saw the racing thoughts and warmed to him. He sat beside her, she turned -to him as though at last she could greet a comrade, and the group broke -up, leaving them alone. - -"Do you know," Morton said, when his guests had gone, "you talked to -Vincent for a whole hour?" - -"Was it so long? It went in a flash. He is a good talker--provocative. I -enjoyed it very much." - -"You seemed to do so." - -"Do you mind?" - -"No dear; but----" - -"Was I rude?" - -"Not rude." - -"What then?" - -"You rather ignored the others." - -"I really did my best, but when Mr. Vincent came I forgot them. I like -him. I hope he'll come again. I should like to marry him for dull days -when I've nothing to do, and you for all the rest." - -"Don't, Theresa. I can't bear to hear you flippant about our love." - -"It's the result of talking to him and of listening to the others. I -wish Mr. Smith could have heard them. Did you hear the conversation -about the thriftlessness of the agricultural labourer? They had the -decency not to mention his wage. It was the eldest Miss Waring who was -so eloquent. It seems she has been telling Jim somebody's wife how to -spend her money! I wonder how much her own weekly bill of luxuries would -come to." - -"She is a charming girl." - -"Yes, her complexion has been formed on fresh air, good food, pleasant -exercise, and an easy conscience. I'm sure she's nice. I wonder what -Mrs. Jim's complexion is like. And is she charming on a few shillings a -week? Basil, while, in my professional manner, I was laughing at that -ignorant young woman, I was searching my own conscience, and I thought, -'Can I--can I be going to live in this beautiful place while Mrs. Jim is -so hungry?' And I don't think I can." - -"What do you mean, Theresa? Is this--is this my dismissal?" - -"Not unless you make it that. Basil, I wish you would come out into the -world. You are a good man: ever so much better than these dear souls who -hunt, and ride, and shoot, and prop up the country. You tower above -them. The nice hard lines of your face proclaim you! I wish you earned -your living." - -"I think I do. No one can call me idle." - -"No, you are very busy." - -"And I employ a large number of men." - -Her lips twitched. "I know. You are one of the props. But you have so -much more than you need. Wouldn't you like to do something with it? Will -you let me be another Simon Smith?" - -"I think his system of charity is pernicious!" - -"What's yours? Don't you give jellies to your Mrs. Jims?" - -"Yes." - -"It is just the same thing." - -"We shall never agree on these subjects, Theresa." - -"No; they will be fruitful in discussion. Don't you want me to talk to -you?" - -"Certainly." - -"You're angry, aren't you?" - -"I hope not." - -"Yes, you are! Look how good-tempered I am." Her eyes were alight with -battle, her lips only parted for speech, and her hands were restless. -Now she clasped them and swayed back and forward as she spoke. "I -should like to have four--no, five--hundred a year, and do good things -with the rest of your income. Perhaps to-morrow I would rather have -those pearls you want to give me, but I don't think so. Pearls do not -become me! And to-day I want to build model cottages. We could let this -house----" - -"Theresa! Let us end this nonsense. We have lived here for generations." - -She laughed softly. "I know, but somebody has to begin doing something -else. And your workmen have lived in pigsties for generations." - -"My workmen----! You don't know what you are talking about! The women of -this house have never interfered in outside matters." - -She banged her fist on the little tea-table. "Don't talk to me as though -I belonged to a harem!" - -"Don't be absurd, Theresa." He was very handsome when he was angry. - -"I'm not absurd. If you say I'm not fit to know about your affairs--yes, -and to interfere with them--I'm, I'm a chattel." - -He smiled. "Nothing so peaceful," he assured her. - -"If you wanted insignificance----" - -"I didn't. I wanted you." - -"I don't believe you knew what you were getting," she said, and left -him. - -When she came downstairs for dinner, she found him awaiting her in the -hall. - -"Well?" she said. Her eyes were very bright; she laughed at him. "Have -you forgiven me for the harem?" - -"Oh, hang the harem! Come into the smoking-room." - -She touched him on the arm. "Basil," she said, "you nearly swore. I -wish--I wish you would really do it." - -"I've no doubt there will be plenty of opportunity." - -"Oh, I like you!" she cried. "I like you!" - -He looked down at her. "That's not enough." - -He saw her eyes darken, her mouth grow tremulous, but she controlled her -lips and fortified herself against this new insistence. "Then you must -give me everything." - -"I will. Theresa, forgive me. I've lived too long without you. And if -you will come round the estate with me to-morrow, I'll show you where -and how my people live." - -"Bless you! Thank you. I really want to help, and, of course I'll come." -She gave him his reward. "Don't let us quarrel, because--I love you." - -He caught her hands. "Do you? Do you?" - -"Am I not proving it? I'm thrusting myself into a very uncomfortable -place because of you. If you are not very nice I shan't be able to -endure it. Mrs. Morton tells me you all dine regularly with each other -once a month! This is a dreadful welding of opposites! But love--love is -supposed to be a strong cement." - -"And I love you more than ever, Theresa, more every day." He kissed her -with a violence that hurt her lips. They parted painfully, and she -looked up at him with a tiny crease between her brows, before she thrust -her face into his coat, burrowing there, holding fearfully to his arm. - -"Keep me," she said. "Keep me." - -He had no words tender enough for her. The appeal swelled his love to a -flood too full for turbulence, and he stroked her hair, drew her to his -knee and rocked her there, so that she felt secure and was comforted -like a child. - -"But can you keep me?" she said, sitting up with a jerk. "Do you think -you can?" - -"I mean to." - -"But you won't if you lock me outside yourself. I don't feel that you -have quite opened your doors." She hesitated, and spoke. "Basil, I -sometimes think there's an enemy of yours after me, and I'm hammering -for you to let me in, and you're not quick enough." - -He laughed. "Who is this enemy?" - -"Ah, do you think I dare turn round and face him? Open your doors, open -your doors?" - -"They're wide," he said, and spread his arms. - -"But it's rather a narrow wideness," she said, as she put her head on -his shoulder. "One might easily miss it in a hurry." - -They were quiet for a little while, then Theresa spoke dreamily. "I wish -they wouldn't sound the dinner-gong. I never want to move again. Didn't -I dress quickly? It was to get back to you. Basil, I like you in this -mood." - -"I'm not in a mood, dear. I'm always like this when you will let me be." - -"No," she said positively, "you are different. You were an indulgent -potentate. Now you are a friend. You can't deceive me." - -"I don't want to deceive you, but it is you who have changed." - -"Oh, I hope not!" she said heartily. - -He laughed: she was teaching him to do that, and the friendly sound -mingled with the loud summons of the gong. - -She screwed up her eyes in merriment. "I really believe you are -beginning to appreciate me," she said, and hand in hand they went across -the hall. - -"I am going to show Theresa the plans of the estate, Mother," he said, -during the progress of the stately meal. - -"Certainly, dear. You will like that, Theresa." - -"I am not at all sure that I shall," she said clearly. - -"Then don't worry her, Basil, if she doesn't want to see them." - -"But I do! And if I didn't I would!" - -"Well, don't get tired, dear. I'm afraid it will make your back ache." - -"Oh, my back! That was suppled long ago, by a typewriter." - -"Poor little Theresa," Mrs. Morton murmured, for the servants had left -the room. - -Theresa cracked a nut as though it had been the lady's head. She cast a -hot glance at Morton, who was delicately peeling an apple. He looked -softly at her. In his eyes there was the tenderness of a pity more -understanding and deeper than his mother's: it was pity for all the -laborious, independent women in a hard world. - -The lift of Theresa's head was a signal that Mrs. Morton was growing to -fear. - -"You needn't be sorry for me. You're sorry and half ashamed. Why? Why? -Why?" She held in her voice, and spoke with a breaking strain in it. -"And I resent being pitied. Why, as soon as I knew anything, I was -trying to decide what I should be when I grew up." - -Mrs. Morton was propitiatory. "It was very sweet and brave of you, my -dear." - -"No, it was just as natural as eating. And if I were the wife of -Croesus, my daughters should have professions." - -She had a vision of those daughters: they were bright and eager, and -they were her own, and for a moment the sight of them matured her -impulsive and intolerant youth. She warmed to them: she felt a spreading -as of wings, a softening of all her being, and her hands and lips were -quieted and strong. - -She laughed as water laughs, trickling through the moss. She smiled from -one end of the table to the other. "I'm sorry I get so vehement," she -said. "I can't help it. I hope I wasn't rude." - -An apology from Theresa was almost more alarming than a scolding. "No, -no, dear, I quite understand," Mrs. Morton said in haste, while Basil -smiled slowly, a little stiffly, conquering uneasiness with love. - -In the smoking-room, Theresa sat down emphatically and spoke with great -decision. - -"I'm horrid to your mother," she said. - -"You are not very nice." - -"She raises the devil in me!" - -"Theresa!" - -"It's true. I wanted to throw the wine-glasses about, I wanted to dance -on the table. She always makes me feel like that. What am I to do? How -are we to live peaceably together?" - -"My mother never quarrels with anyone." - -"If she only would! Doesn't she worry you?" - -"Not at all." - -"Not when she tells you what you think?" - -"Why should I mind that?" - -"Oh, I can't explain! I'm afraid you're rather like her!" She looked up -at a portrait on the wall. "I like your father. He knows just how I -feel, and he would have liked me. Are you angry with me?" - -He passed a hand across his eyes. "No, dear." - -"Are you ashamed?" - -"No, darling." - -"What is it, then?" - -"I love you." - -"Does it hurt so much?" she whispered softly. - -"Sometimes." - -"Oh, dear. Would you like to do without me?" - -"Theresa! Theresa!" - -"Basil," she said, "if you'll love me very much, I'll try to cultivate -patience, though I look upon it as a sin. And I hate the intrusion of -qualities that will make me different. That's not self-satisfaction--it's -love of an old friend!" - -He returned to his old thought. "Theresa, what have you been doing with -yourself all these years? You talk like a child." - -"I've been making up stories. That doesn't give you time to grow up. -Does it matter? Shall I try to grow?" She looked at him with serious -eyes, but there was a betraying twist to her lips. "My one anxiety is to -oblige." - -He made a gesture of deprecation, bewilderment and love, and she jumped -up with an energy that spurned her foolishness. - -"Let's get to work," she said. "Where are the plans?" - -She was deft, alert and quick. He told her how his money was invested, -and she nodded. On paper he showed her the extent of his land, pointed -out the farms, told her of the tenants and what rent they paid, the -fields and what crops they bore, he talked of woods and forestry, and -she listened, making no comments, biding her time. - -"You are wonderful, Theresa," he said. "You understand everything." - -"Don't say that," she said gravely. "Why shouldn't I? Will you take me -to see all these places and these people, especially the people? I want -to talk to them." - -He hesitated. "You will be discreet, won't you, darling? Don't -misunderstand me----" - -She waved him into silence. "Do you think I don't know how to talk to -people?" She straightened her back. "I was Mr. Smith's secretary for two -years." - -It puzzled him that she should still think this her greatest claim to -honour. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - - -That was the beginning of their happy time. Morton taught Theresa to -ride and, mounted on a steady grey animal while he bestrode one more -mettlesome, she went with him into every corner of his land, and began -to understand his pride of possession. He was a good landlord, and there -was nothing he did not oversee, little of which she could complain, and -she said so frankly; but she startled him with a question as they rode -out one morning, waving farewell to a Mrs. Morton who was beginning to -find herself neglected by young people unnaturally busy over cottages -and plans. - -"Basil, were you going to give me a wedding present?" - -"Of course." - -"Then may I choose it?" - -"I wanted to give you a surprise." - -"No, no, let me choose." - -"Tell me, then." - -"I don't want diamonds, or pearls, or gold. I want lead--I think it's -lead. Perhaps it's iron. Yes, I think it is. I want you to take water -into those old cottages on the peppermint land." - -"Where do you mean, dear?" - -"I mean the land Mrs. Morton bought, not the hereditary domain! Wasn't -it bought with peppermint, and sticks of bright pink rock, and yards of -liquorice? I like to think of ragged little children putting their dirty -faces against dirty window panes, and gloating over masses of your -grandfather's sweets. Don't you?" - -"I'm afraid I have often wished he had made money, if he had to make it, -in a different way." - -"That's because you have more false pride than imagination. Why, he has -made a fairy feast for children! Think of the dark winter streets, wet, -perhaps, and the lamps just lighted and bright reflections in the -pavements, and children staring at pyramids of sweetness. It's -lovely--magical, like being a perpetual Father Christmas. So when I call -it the peppermint land, I do not sneer, and you'll lay on the water, -won't you?" - -"There's a well quite near, darling." - -"It's across a field." - -"A small field." - -"Quite big enough." - -"Theresa, you know I treat my tenants like human beings, but you want to -pamper them." - -"No I don't. I know it's the tendency, but I don't. Oh, my good soul, if -you had ever done any housework, you would know the value of water! Have -you ever done any? Have you ever so much as washed up a dish? No; I -thought not. I have. And I've scrubbed floors--don't shudder; it's good -exercise--and I've cooked; but I have not had several children to look -after at the same time, and that's what many of these women have to do. -I know it's pastoral and patriarchal to go to the well, but it's not so -pleasant to come back with two heavy pails. And it has to be done a good -many times a day if there's to be cleanliness. I'm not a stickler for -too much cleaning, but I saw a woman the other day carrying pails when -she wasn't fit to lift a weight. She rested four times between the well -and the house. I reached her in time to prevent her going on a second -journey. It was when you were seeing about those young trees." - -"The larches?" - -"Yes." She frowned. She had avoided naming them, and now he stabbed her -with their remembered scent. - -"Did you--what did you say to her?" - -"I told her she wasn't to do it. No; I didn't complain about the -landlord! But she wanted the water for washing, so I fetched it myself." - -"Theresa!" - -"There, you see! And I'm a strong young woman. Imagine--oh, try to -imagine me in her position!" - -"I'll do it." - -She leaned to touch his hand. "Thank you. You only need to see things. -'The bride presented the bridegroom with a pair of spectacles, and the -bridegroom's gift to the bride was a ton of iron piping!'" She shook her -reins. "Shall we gallop? I wish this old omnibus were a bit friskier. He -gives me nothing to do. Can't I be promoted to something else?" - -"I have been seeing about a splendid chestnut," he said slyly, "but that -was to be part of your wedding-present." - -"Ah well, it's better to be a ministering angel than a fiery horsewoman, -and the rushing of the water in those pipes will be sweeter to me than -the sound of clattering hoofs. A-ha! Oh, do give this old beast a good -knock with your whip!" - -She was happy. Mrs. Morton continued to ruffle the smoothness of life, -but she could do no more, and she was allowed few opportunities of -attempting it, for on most evenings she sat alone in the drawing-room, -and in the daytime Basil and Theresa were far afield. This was not the -daughter-in-law she had desired. Where were the afternoon calls, the -drives with Theresa by her side and Basil opposite, the pleasant hours -after dinner, with a little music, a little talk, a little work? Theresa -could not even play the piano, her hands were idle, and Mrs. Morton was -really glad when she did not talk, for she feared what she might say; -but the sound of her voice coming across the wide hall when the -smoking-room door was open, her sharp exclamations and her laughter gave -the elder woman a new sense of isolation. In some subtle way the house -seemed to be no longer hers. Theresa, who had been the stranger, had -taken a possession stronger than that of keys and command, and whereas -the girl had once stood out glaringly against the sober, peaceful -background of the house, it had now become but an appendage of herself. -The quick thud of her feet as she ran down the stairs, her manner of -opening doors, the whistling call with which she summoned Basil--these, -by the vividness of her strength, had overcome the old stillness, the -old ordered atmosphere. - -And, indeed, the place had become a home to Theresa. Her irritability -was soothed by Morton's loyal companionship. They were friends as well -as lovers; she was breaking down his fences, and she loved power. She -knew she was changing his attitude in a hundred little ways. She was -moulding him to the kind of man with whom it was possible to live, and -daily she liked him better. But she had another cause for happiness. She -was still making up her stories, and as she wandered about the house she -was accompanied by little illusive figures with sunny heads. They went -before her in the passages, they ran up and down the stairs and -scampered across the broad polished floors, and for her, too, the -silence and decorum of the house were banished. And the garden was -inhabited. There were more voices than those of the rooks among the elms -and she saw happy people by the lakeside. She saw herself among them, -dabbling with the water, racing across the lawn or climbing trees, and -she surprised herself with the positive belief that this life was far -better than one of fame. She felt that through her means some joyous -spirit of childhood had burst its bonds and broken into these separate -fragments which were to be her children, and the thought brightened her -eyes and her voice. It solaced her for the tiny disappointments that -pricked, but were too small to have a name, almost too small to be felt. - -She waved her hand towards an upper window, one afternoon as they rode -down the drive, and he looked sharply at the house and then at her. "To -whom are you waving?" he asked. - -"To someone you could not see, my good grammarian," she said, and hoped -a little fearfully for further questions. - -He turned in the saddle and looked back, and for the sake of the strong, -easy twist of his body she forgave his lack of curiosity as he said: -"Fancies again?" - -And she said: "Yes; fancies." - -He was content to remain ignorant of them, as he had often been before. -He had no desire to enter into that very real part of her existence, and -she blocked out her disappointment with a quick word of another nature. - -"I like you best in your riding things." She was never tired of summing -up the things she liked in him. - -He smiled and let his eyes run over her trim, green figure, the thick -plaits of hair under the little hat. She nodded. - -"I know what you are thinking. You are congratulating yourself that I'm -quite presentable, in spite of my intolerable past." - -"Will you never stop teasing me about that? As if I'm not as proud of it -as you are!" - -"Then I have taught you how to be." - -"I'm willing to acknowledge my teacher. But I wasn't thinking that. You -look so fair and free--like the breath of the morning." - -"Oh ho! Aren't we being nice to each other? And who is having fancies -now? Basil"--she could never let a wound fester in her--"Basil, I wish -you'd want me to tell you everything." - -"But I do. What is it you want to say?" - -She controlled the petulance of her lips. "Would you like me to have -secrets?" - -"I can't imagine your having them." - -Under her gauntlets the muscles of her hands were tightened. The promise -of possession had very slightly changed his attitude towards her, and -she resented his security. She was not willing that he should have no -doubts, even had there been no cause for them. She wanted the old -uncertainty, the old waiting on her moods. He grew more loving, more -demonstrative, but he was less her servant, and she stretched against -the bonds; but if he were so little eager to know the utmost of her, so -impervious to jealousy or to hints, then she could in honesty keep her -cherished silence. She changed the subject. They were happiest when -their talk was clear of personalities. Discussions about tenants, the -wisdom of giving help there or refusing it here, and information from -Morton about crops and the raising of cattle, drew them into a closer -comradeship. But to-day Theresa's questions were half-hearted, and had -Morton been less enthusiastic he would have noticed that she did not -listen. - -The day was of a new-washed clearness, but it seemed to her that someone -had smudged it with a dirty hand; and in her breast was the vague -longing that was like a hole there, while the clamorous voices, stilled -for a little while, were taking deep breaths as if they would test their -powers. - -She blamed herself, she blamed her restlessness, but she looked -frowningly at Morton, and while she owned her fault she could put the -burden of some of it on his back. It seemed to Theresa that he loved the -surface of her and would not look into the depths, that a principle of -his life was to avoid looking into depths; and as she had been eager to -know the evil of the world and the turmoil and the stain of it, and -below that the great serenity, so she longed for a like capacity to see -into his soul, to show him all, or nearly all, of hers. He baulked her -constantly, and the more successfully, by his very ignorance of her -need. Other barriers she had broken down, but here she failed. - -She put an abrupt question as they rode home. - -"Had you ever been in love before you saw me?" - -"Never until I saw you, and now--for always." - -He took for granted her own singleness of affection. He was benign, -smiling a little, and content. Little flushes of colour came and went in -her cheeks. She straightened herself, and then drooped in the saddle. - -"You are tired," he said tenderly. - -"No." And with a jerk she added: "I am cross." - -That, too, he accepted without question. There was no doubt that he was -very patient. He watched her as he rode close to assure her of his care, -and when he helped her to dismount he held her for an instant, in spite -of the groom; but, making no response, she hurried to her room and to -her secret treasure there. - -She was unpleasant all that evening and very much ashamed of herself, -but she could not shake the blackness from her, though she tried. She -heard in Morton's voice a distressing likeness to his mother's, and the -way he handled his knife and fork seemed to her sufficient excuse for -murder. At table she felt like a naughty schoolgirl, and she went early -to bed; but as she sat beside her fire the remembrance of Basil -standing, puzzled, in the hall as she went up the stairs, smote her with -the shame she would have felt if she had hurt a child. She was not fit -to have children--she, who had no self-control. She was capricious, -vain, exacting. She asked more than she was willing to give, yet she was -willing to give more than Basil asked. She knew she was endangered by -his complaisance, and she wanted to be loyal. She would be loyal. She -stared at the fire through mist and strands of hair, and slowly the mist -gathered itself into drops that fell with a little crack on her silken -petticoat. She was cold, though the flames were bright. She was not -conscious of the room. All round her there was a dark loneliness like -nothing she had ever seen or tasted. It was not the lonely terror of the -sea, nor the great cleansing solitude of the mountains, but something -formless, perilous. Now, everything was obscure, but she had a fear that -if she could not save herself she would emerge into a clearness that -would be terrible and enduring--a prison from which she could never -escape, whose walls were formed of what was ignoble in herself. - -How long she sat there she could not tell. Now she did not cry, and -thought had left her; yet, in some dim way, she had made her resolution, -and news of it was carried to her mind. - -She combed out her hair steadily and plaited it; she put on her lavender -dressing-gown, and the shoes that matched it, and she bathed her face. -It was white, and seemed to have fallen thinner in that hour, for she -had touched a deeper tragedy than her mother's death. She must be -honest, but such an honesty tore the heart from her. - -She unlocked the little box where she kept no other thing than -Alexander's letter. She took it out and held it fast between her palms, -but she did not read it. She raised the upper hand, and laid her cheek -in its place. - -"I ought not to have kept you," she said, and gave a little moan. "But -it's not because you're a man, Alexander; it's because you are a spirit. -You and Father are the only ones I've known. Must I resign you to keep -the other things? You see, Alexander, I do want the other things--a -home, and love, and--other things. But oh, there's no need to tell you, -for you know--you know." - -She opened her door softly. The landing lights were out, no light came -from the hall, but as she followed the staircase curve she saw a golden -streak under the door of the smoking-room. A little nearer, and she -smelt tobacco. She entered, and saw Morton deep in a leather-covered -chair. He sprang to his feet. - -She appeared to him like a sprite. She was pale and small, she seemed to -be overweighted by her hair, and the movements of her dressing-gown -revealed white ankles and white arms. The tender little hollow of her -neck was plain to him, and though he had seen it that very night it had -seemed a more modest thing than this between the close folds of her -gown. - -She shut the door. "Basil. I want to talk to you." - -"Not now, dear." He put the cigar on the mantelpiece, and held his hands -behind his back. "You must go to bed now. It's after twelve. Haven't you -been to sleep?" - -"No; I've been thinking." She looked at him with wide, strained eyes. He -had never seen her so simple and so frail. "There's something I must -tell you." - -"Is it so very important?" - -Her voice quivered. "You may not think so." - -"Can't it wait? Darling, you mustn't sit here with me at this hour of -night with all the house asleep." - -"For me, there's no one in the house but you, and you are awake." She -put out her left hand, but dropped it when he did not take it. She went -on, with the hand at her throat. "There's a great gap in my life I've -never told you of. I don't feel honest. I want to tell you everything -to-night, and go on clear." - -"Are you sure you're not asleep now, Theresa darling?" He drew nearer, -and she leaned against him. - -"Basil, help me." - -He held her off. "Not now. You must go back. You are over-tired, dear. -You've not been well all day." - -"It's my soul that's sick," she said. - -"It will be better in the morning. Hush! Did you hear something?" He -opened the door and listened. "Mother sleeps so lightly. Go back, -Theresa. Good-night, darling--good-night. Why, your eyes are heavy with -sleep." - -"No," she said, and she had the look of someone starved--"no, that's -with crying." - -He seized her hand and drew her limp figure to him. "Why, my sweet--why? -Because we didn't have a happy day? Darling, I'll think no more of it. -And you shall tell me everything in the morning. Only go now. You -mustn't wander about like this at night." - -She was leaning against the door. Her lips twitched with an emotion -which was no longer one of distress. - -"What are you afraid of?" she said. - -He hesitated. "Your--good name," he answered. - -She lifted her hands and dropped them, and for a moment he thought -something terrible was going to happen, for her eyes closed sharply, and -in her pale face her opened mouth was like a blot. - -"Oh!" she cried. "Oh! oh! oh!" She laughed weakly, uncontrollably. She -dropped into a chair, while the tears rolled down her cheeks and her -body was shaken with her mirth. - -He stared at her stonily and turned away to look into the fire. The -sound of her laughter shocked him, for it had entirely gone beyond her -keeping, but gradually it grew quieter and he thought he heard in it the -break of sobs. He looked at her. She was leaning her head on her hand -and crying softly, but as he turned she smiled and began to shake again. - -"Why don't you laugh, too?" she said. "You are so funny." - -"I can see nothing to laugh at. Go to bed at once. You are overwrought." - -"I am in the best of health," she said. "Oh dear, I wish I could stop -laughing! But I'll go to bed." - -"And you'll talk to me in the morning?" - -"Yes, I'll talk to you in the morning." That was an answer he had not -expected, and he would have kissed her, but she turned her face aside. -He noticed that she had a little roll of paper in her right hand. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - - -An immense and palpable calm surrounded her as she undressed, and when -she stretched herself between the sheets she fell at once into an -untroubled sleep. For a little while the firelight licked the walls, -danced on the chair where her clothes were tumbled and leapt to the -ceiling to look down on her in the bed, lying pale and flaccid with her -cheek on Alexander's letter. Then the fire's heart called back the -flames, and they were gathered into a red and tranquil glow which faded, -while the dropping coals slowly ticked out their life. But that noise -had ceased and the room was entirely dark when Theresa woke and sat up. - -She thought there was someone in the room, but she was not afraid. She -listened, leaning on her hands. - -"What is it?" she whispered. - -The room was quiet, but its stillness was heavy as with a presence. She -looked behind her; only the wall was there. - -"What is it?" she repeated. - -There was something she had to do, and even while she strove to discover -it she had slipped from bed and pattered across the floor. She ran with -a swift sureness down the stairs and through the hall. The locks and -bolts of the front-door yielded to her fever, and then the night air -smote her and the cold of the steps shocked her feet. - -"What am I doing?" she asked. - -What little wind there was moaned stealthily among the elms, and on the -house-wall the ivy-leaves scratched each other. The lawn stretched -before her like water of an unimagined blackness. - -"I must have been asleep," she murmured, looking at the night for -confirmation, but its waiting patience made her no answer. She thought -all the trees had faces that looked kindly on her. She was not afraid of -the night, yet it was imminent and sorrowful with doom. Something was -going to happen. - -"I had to do something," she said in a strange voice, and closed the -door. Her fingers were weak now, and slow. Her strength had gone and she -was very cold. She stood shivering in the hall, trying to solve this -mystery. Had she been warned in some way? Was the house on fire? She -sniffed earnestly. There were no signs anywhere of danger or -disturbance, and she turned to climb the stairs. Half-way up she began -to run. Where was her letter? She had forgotten her letter. Someone had -stolen it, and, stealing it, had waked her. But she found it, crumpled, -in the bed. - -"I don't understand," she said, and lay long awake, conquering the cold -of her body and the puzzle of her mind. - -When the morning came through the windows, she was lying deep in the -bed, as though she were rooted to it and she was conscious of a fatigue -she had not known before. It was her habit to spring from bed with the -first opening of her eyes, but this morning she had to be reminded of -coming battle before she could be roused, and then the adventurous -spirit that welcomed any new experience, and would have dreadful ones -rather than none, took command over her tired frame. - -She had an enigmatical smile for Morton at the breakfast table, and -afterwards, when he would have smoked a pipe before the fire, she was -imperative. - -"Come into the garden quickly," she said. - -"He would like to read the newspaper first, dear. He always likes to -read the paper and have a pipe." - -She clapped her hands together. "He must come into the garden with me." - -He glanced at her feet. "Put your shoes on first, darling." - -"And you would like my woolly shawl." - -"My slippers are thick, and I don't want a shawl, or anything, thank -you. I'm burning. Are you coming, Basil? Can't you see--can't you see -that you must come?" - -She ran out before him and on to the lawn, and the wind caught her hair -and buffeted her so that she had to lean against it to find rest. She -watched his slow approach, and as soon as he was close to her she said -clearly, loudly, because of the wind: "I can't marry you." - -"What?" He took her by the arm and stooped. "What did you say?" - -She freed herself. "I can't marry you." - -He heard. "Can we get out of the wind?" he said. - -She made a gesture that told him to lead on, and she followed him to a -dusty summer-house. The sudden quiet of the place was like a blow and -there was a singing in her ears. - -"It's dirty, I'm afraid." - -"I don't want to sit down. Did you hear what I said, Basil?" - -"You don't want to sit down?" - -"No. I can't marry you." - -He saw no ring on her hand. "Why?" he breathed. He was shocked into the -use of his imagination. "Is it--it isn't Vincent?" - -"Vincent?" She had to frown before she could remember him. "Oh no, no, -no!" - -"Why?" he asked again, and his voice seemed to hold back the word as it -was uttered. - -"I don't know. I'm very fond of you." She smiled with a touch of -drollery. "I think I love you, as one loves some people, but not--one's -lover. I thought I did, except when I heard voices." - -He frowned, uncertain of her sanity. He shook his head. - -"I don't know what you're talking about, Theresa. What have I done?" - -"Nothing. But I've known secretly all the time--nearly all the -time--that in saying I would marry you I fell below myself. Not"--she -smiled again--"because I think you are unworthy, but just because you -are not--the man for me. I made you into him for a little while, but -truth is stronger than my will. It's possible that a very good man may -do one more harm than a very bad one. But I'm not thinking of my safety. -It's just my necessity, and I don't know what is going to follow. I -can't explain. There are no words, for, you see, it's something that -belongs to the wordless things. I ought to have found out before. I -might have, if I had been quite honest." - -The word had a memory for him. "Was this what you came to say last -night?" - -"No." - -"What was it?" - -"I can't tell you now." - -"I think I have a right to know." - -"You had last night; not now." - -He showed her a terrible, drawn face. "Theresa, forgive me for last -night. Let us begin again. We are so different--but I want to learn from -you. Let us begin again." - -"We can't." She twisted her hands together, and shook them with the -faint shaking of her body. - -"A little thing like that--Theresa, I love you." - -"I know." She stood silent, with head bowed, but she lifted it with a -thought. "You've never wanted the best of me, Basil. And--I can't give -it to you. There's a dam, somewhere. And I've never been true to you. -Ah, you see, you don't understand. Isn't that proof enough? I thought I -loved you, but all my life I've been playing parts, half consciously. -There has only been one day--only one--when I did not think about -myself." - -"When was that?" It was the first time she had seen him curious. - -She smiled waveringly, as though she would soon cry. - -"It was before I met you. Will you let me finish? I want to tell you. -It's not your fault. It's something in myself. Don't think I'm blaming -you. You've never seen me, Basil. You've seen a woman who likes being -spoilt, who likes being loved, who knows how to get what she wants, and -yet contrives to do it with a kind of fiendish decency, for I haven't a -blatant fashion of alluring. And you've seen the other woman who likes -power. Perhaps it is the same woman on her more intellectual side. Yes, -power! When I look back, I see that it is a distorted kind of power I've -wanted. And to know one's self loved is to have power. You see how I was -tempted, yet I did not know that I was falling. Now I know--and there's -an end to it. I have to ask your pardon for making you the victim, and -to--to thank you for all your sweetness--too much sweetness." - -She was like a bit of smiling steel, he thought--a sword, sorry to have -to wound, yet bound to do it. He had no hope of mastering her, though he -saw pity dragged from her heart into her eyes. He was haggard. She had -been right to call him victim. - -"But why after last night?" he asked. - -"It had to be some time, hadn't it? Before marriage, or after it." - -"But why last night? There's something you're not telling me." - -"Haven't I said enough?" - -"You needn't be afraid of hurting. I shall be glad of it." - -She nodded comprehension. "I had a fight last night. I had to give you -all my confidences or none, and I wanted to keep you because I like you, -and because I'd entangled you with some of my dearest thoughts. But it -was hard to tell you what I was going to tell you, and then you wouldn't -listen, and you made me laugh, and I saw--oh, clearly--that you would -never have understood, and I felt--oh, must I tell you?--I felt I'd -saved something very precious from destruction. And so there was an -end." - -He was sitting on the dusty, wooden bench, staring before him. - -"If only there weren't any people," she said for him. He started. "It's -hateful for you, dear. All those good friends of yours, looking so -sorrowful and being so curious. Oh, I am sorry! You can tell them -anything you like about me, and nothing will be bad enough." - -"Please don't, Theresa." - -She began to count the cobwebs hanging from the roof. - -"Why don't you have this place kept clean?" - -"I do, in the summer." - -Over and over again she counted them. She made calculations of the -height of the walls, the length and breadth of the floor, while the -sight of Morton sitting there, inert and miserable, roused her to an -irritated, helpless pity. - -"Do you think I could go home this morning, please?" she asked softly. - -"I'll see about it." - -"You won't want to tell Mrs. Morton, will you? I'll do it." - -"Be kind to her, Theresa." - -"My dear, she'll thank God for an escape." - -"Ah, don't----" - -"No. Good-bye." - -He stood up. He seemed very tall and broken, resting one hand heavily on -the little rustic table. - -"Basil," she said thoughtfully, "did you come into my room last night?" - -"Your room? Your bedroom?" - -"Yes, long after I had left you?" - -"No dear. Of course not! Why?" - -"I had a queer feeling that someone was in the room." - -He stumbled over his words. "I--I dreamt of you last night." - -Her mouth drooped; he saw the quiver of her nostril. "Oh--don't dream of -me any more," she said. "Good-bye." - -"Good-bye, Theresa." - -"May I kiss you? Stoop down. Lower, lower. How tall you are!" She kissed -him on each cheek. "I always liked that little hollow place," she said, -and left him with the sound of her sobbing breath for company. - - * * * * * - -George and Edward Webb, eating their hybrid meal at seven o'clock, were -startled by the entrance of Theresa. Above her coat collar and below the -veil banded across her forehead, her eyes were luminous and -black-rimmed. - -Edward Webb sprang up and, forgetting the restricting presence of his -brother, exclaimed anxiously: "My dear, my dearest! what is the matter?" - -"Nothing, dear. It's nice to see you." - -"You look ill, Theresa." - -"I've had a journey, and the train jolted so." - -"Where's Basil?" - -"In his home, I hope." She became flippant for the benefit of Uncle -George. "I'd better tell you. I have resigned the situation. Do you -think I can have some of your tea?" - -"H'm, and now, I suppose, you'll be wanting another?" - -"Will you find me one, Uncle George? If not, I've no doubt Mr. Smith -will take me back." - -Edward Webb still held Theresa's hand. "I think," he said with dignity, -"we need not discuss the matter until Theresa has had some tea. You're -cold, my dear." - -"Desperately," she said. - -He seated her by the fire, and brought her tea, and ordered Bessie to -bring hot toast. - -"Lots of it, please, Bessie," said Theresa. - -"And more coal, and perhaps we'd better have Miss Grace." - -"No, not Miss Grace until to-morrow." - -"But, my dear, I'm afraid you're going to be ill. You're shivering." - -"It's just a cold. I want to be alone with you to-night." - -"Well, I'm going to finish my tea, anyhow," said Uncle George. - -She nodded at him, laughing. He nodded back, in his grim way. This was -how they always told each other of their friendship. - -"And there was a time when I didn't like you!" she exclaimed -involuntarily. - -He ducked his head again. "I'm quite aware of that, my girl." - -He went to his harmonium, and Bessie, with a thousand fancies in her -romantic heart, retired to wash up the dishes. - -"Now tell me," said Edward Webb. - -"It was only because I didn't love him enough," she said, and burst into -a foolish weakness of tears. - -He was pacing behind her chair, and she heard him muttering: "Thank God! -thank God! Are you crying, Theresa? You mustn't do that, my dear. You've -come home. I've got you back again. You must be happy." He patted her -clumsily on the shoulder, and she dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. -"It's good to have you back. We've missed you. Even George admitted -that." - -"Don't tell me such things," she said. "They've been the ruin of me. And -you must let me be miserable for a little while! It's all I can do for -Basil. I think I'll go to bed." - -"Not yet. I told Bessie to light the fire." - -"But what extravagance!" - -"You don't come home every day," he said, and he spoke as though she had -come on a far journey. - -Afterwards, when she lay warm and comforted in bed, he came to see her. -He made up the fire, he altered the opening of the window by an inch, he -felt the heat of the hot-water bottle, and hovered on the threshold to -find more to do. - -"I wish I had a thermometer," he murmured. - -"I'm glad I broke it. I refuse to have my temperature taken. I'm much -too sleepy. Good-night, dear. I'm so comfortable." - -"Good-night, my child," he said, and crept down the stairs in a great -happiness of hope. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - - -Very late, on a dark and moonless night in March, when the larches were -stiff and silent under the frost that bound the hills, and the air was -of an imprisoned stillness, Janet, sewing by lamplight, heard a dog's -bark cut through the quiet, and then hurried footsteps that were Alec's. - -Her fingers lost their steadiness for an instant, but as he opened the -door she peered round the lamp and said sharply: "So you're here at -last! You've not touched my doorstep for four weeks, and now you come at -this time of night and expect a welcome! What made you think I would be -up?" - -"I didn't think," he said. "I just came." - -He was within the circle of the lamplight, and she looked at him. He was -frost-powdered from head to foot, from ruffled hair to heavy boots, and -his eyes were dull in a face the whiter for the tan it had to conquer. -She went on with her sewing: - -"Where have you been?" she said. - -"God knows." - -"That'll be why I didn't go to bed," she said quietly. - -"I've been walking since dark, nearly." He moved away into the gloom, -and there he went back and forth, across the kitchen's width, with a -restlessness like his father's. - -"And I've had the devil for company." - -"Well, you're here now," she said. The years had slipped away from her, -and Alexander was the gloomy, passionate boy again, come to her for -comfort, and she had a tremulous sensation of delight. - -"Ay, but the devil's here, too." - -"Had you not better tell me?" she said. - -His language, also, was that of his youth. "Janet, d'you mind when I -wanted to kill him? D'you mind me telling you to wish him over a cliff -side? Well, you've got to pay for all your evil, and I'm paying for mine -this day." His boots on the stone floor marked the hurry of his -thoughts. "It comes back on you when you think you've strangled it. I -hated him, I would have laughed to see him dead, and then I learnt a -thing here and there, and I wouldn't hate him any more. Well, I couldn't -hate him. He seemed too poor a thing. He'd just got to be cared for like -a child. And things went well with me for a bit, and there's no doubt -but what I was pleased with the state of my soul. It's a pity man was -ever taught the name of it," he cried violently. - -She sewed on. There was no sound but the rasp of her needle through the -coarse stuff, for Alexander was standing still. - -"I thought I'd killed him this afternoon," he said, and moved on again. -He spoke through the noise of his walking. "I cannot get it off my -mind," he said, "that there've been men hanged for less than I did -to-day. It's something beyond me that's saved my neck. It was as good as -murder. I know how men feel when they've killed. I'll never get my hands -clean of it. And while I've been tramping over these white hills that -should have spurned me, I've felt like a man hunted, with that grisly -death behind him. And I didn't know the rage was in me. I thought it -died ten years ago, but it came back like a flood, and blinded me, and -felled him. God! I'm nothing but a savage. I that thought myself walking -a little above the earth! Well," he said grimly, "I'm learning yet!" - -"If you'll tell me----," she began. "But wait a bit. We'll have some -broth. D'you know it's twelve o'clock? And you've school in the -morning." - -He frowned heavily and pushed his fingers through his hair. - -"It smells good, and I'm hungry," he said. - -They sat by the fire, each with a bowl of soup, and Janet watched him as -he drank. There were lines in his face that had not come there in a day. - -"These four weeks," she said, "I've waited for you every night. That's -what women spend their time in doing. Your mother for James, and me for -you. And you come running to us when you want us. And neither she nor I -would have it different! But for all that, I'm not going to have you -getting like your father, my man, running about the hills at night, and -tumbling into a woman's lap!" - -He flushed, and tried to cover shame with emphasis. "You'll have my -blood to change, then. It's black, Janet--black." - -"And that's like him, too! I'm this, and I'm that, and I'll never be -anything else! Black blood! His isn't black--it's white! He's just a -coward. He's never finished running away from himself, and crying out he -cannot help it, and getting behind your mother's skirts. And all she -should have done was to have skelped him well." - -"I'm willing to take my skelping, if you'll cure me." - -She laughed with a kind of girlishness that startled him. - -"I've frightened you--that's enough. You're not much more like your -father than I am, but when you've done wrong you've got to stand on the -wrong and climb up." - -"I'm trying to," he said. "If I talk like this to you it's because it's -you, and there's only you that wants to hear. Only you and one other I'd -tell it to." - -Another listener might have heard her take a breath. - -"Who's that?" she asked. - -He faced her, troubled but unflinching. "You've seen her," he said, and -his utterance of the words was like a song in praise of her. - -"Yes," she said quietly, and covered her hands with her work. - -He lay deeper in his chair, and watched the fire. His hands were thrust -into his pockets, and his chin was dropped; his face had the lost look -of one who has forgotten his bodily existence. He had forgotten Janet, -but she, looking on him with a kind of hatred, loved every curve and -line of him with a pure jealousy of passion. This was the son she had -never had, yet felt she must have borne. She looked back, and believed -she had held him naked to her breast. Yet it was with a sharp cruelty -that she spoke. "Well, can you not get her?" - -"No," he said, "not unless I stole her." - -"You'd never be called thief. Could you not do it?" she tempted him, -taking pleasure in her own pain. - -"She's not a piece of goods," he said, and fell into a silence; but the -muscles of his cheek were twitching, and at the sight of that her heart -ached with a sickness of pity for him. She was all compassionate mother -now, and she would have rent the world to get Theresa for him. - -She broke the stillness with a laugh he did not like to hear. - -"There's me," she said. "I'd get her for you." And her voice was -venturesome, half afraid, ashamed of its own shame. - -She saw the quick red leap to his eyes. - -"Leave her alone!" he cried in anger. All the influences of his youth -were strong on him. "But you'd never move her," he said, and his faith -and his scorn stung her to a pang she hid from him. - -"Eh, would I not?" she answered coolly. "This'll be why you've not been -here, then?" - -"I think it's why I nearly killed my father. It's easy blaming myself -for nearly doing murder, but I see now that all these days I've been -feeling murder towards that man she's going to marry. D'you know I've -not seen the sky for weeks? I've been walking through a visible -blackness. It's the truth I'm telling," he said simply. "And then to-day -I came home, and found him drunk or mad, raving against my mother -because she'd had a letter from old Webb, and one she'd read to him, as -innocent and clean as Webb himself. And she stands there, smiling at -him, stroking his hand, talking to him, as if he had a fever. If she'd -had half a dozen children it would have been better for them both. -Janet, it's pure self-indulgence in her, or was, and now it's just a -habit. She's mothered him, and mothered him, because she has an endless -power of giving, and he's gulped it all down, and will go on doing it -till the end." - -"But you didn't knock him down for that?" - -"No; it was when he took Theresa's picture, and threw it on the fire, -and said bad things about her. I saved it first, and then he went. I -know he didn't mean it, I know he'd never think it--he's not that kind -of beast--but he said it. And he was on the floor before I knew it, -white, and with blood trickling. And I think my mother hated me that -minute." - -"She'll be wondering where you are." - -"No; she'll be thinking of nothing in the world but him. She might have -cared for half a dozen of us, but one seems to have been worse than -useless!" - -"That's because you gave help, instead of asking it." - -He bent his lips into a wry smile. "But I feel I've been cheated, all -the same. And I'm a nasty, evil-tempered brute, but I've had the grace -to thank God for delivering Theresa from my hands." - -"And the day may come when she reproaches Him for it. Is the lass blind -or daft?" - -"Now, Janet!" - -"It's time you went to bed." - -"I'm going. I think I'll have to tell old Webb he mustn't come here. I -was going to stay with him this Easter, but--well, I've changed my mind! -I'll have to let him know I can't leave home, and tell him not to come -here. I hardly think it's safe for him. Heaven knows what he'll do next. -Good-night." - -"Good-night, Alec." - -"I don't know what I'd do without you," he said awkwardly. - -She waited until she could hear his footsteps no longer, and then she -put out the light. In a little while the window-pane emerged from the -darkness, square and grey, and on it the austere larches were chiselled -blackly. She rocked herself in her seat. She saw Alexander's face, lined -by a fierce craving and repression, and pitifully overlaid with -patience. He seemed to have looked bitter disappointment in the eyes, -and made a comrade of it. His own eyes were dulled that had been so -bright. She saw the painful twitching of his cheeks, and how his hands, -which he had thought were hidden, clenched themselves in his pockets. -She felt a masterful indignation against Theresa, who could love another -than this man, and a yearning over Alexander like a mother's over a -hungry child whom she is powerless to help. But Janet was not powerless. - -She sat immobile, and she had first a strange ecstasy of physical -lightness, as though her mind had soared easily beyond her body, and was -rejoicing in the freedom, and looked distantly on the numb husk it had -left, and then, with a leap, it was back in its place again, grinding at -all the memories it had stored, bringing them from the corners where she -had covered them in the dark, forcing them into the light. And she saw -them. They were put into her hands, and she turned them over and over, -knowing them again, and the power she had resisted in her clean youth -swooped on her like an evil, moulting bird, and under its spread and -meagre wings she sat, rocking now in pitilessness, in place of pity, -dead to everything but the one thing she meant to do. - -The fire dropped in the grate, the flames that had illumined her clasped -hands and played fitfully on the moving body lost their power to leap, -and the coals were grey, when a dog outside howled at the night. - -That sound of an inexpressible woe, challenging the peaceful hour of -sleep, wrenched Janet from the dark place of her wandering. She started, -crossed herself, and murmured words she did not understand. She stood -up, shivering, and stretched out her hands. She passed them across her -eyes. - -"God keep my soul from sin!" she said aloud. - -She went to the door, and let the frosty cold clean her of evil. - -"He mustn't get her that way," she muttered as she lit her candle. "I -was lost--lost. God guard me!" And again, unknowingly, she made the sign -on breast and brow, for this was what her ancestors had done. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - - -For the first time since her school days Theresa had to stay in bed. - -"You need not think I'm overcome with grief," she said, when Grace -peeped round the door. "And don't whisper, and don't be tenderly -tactful. I'm in bed of an aching body, not a broken heart." - -"And a sharp tongue, I should think. Let me look at it. Oh, that's all -right." - -"No, it isn't. I don't believe you know anything about it. It's that -colour because I've been eating those pink lozenges that Uncle George -keeps in his waistcoat pocket. There are knives sticking into me -everywhere." - -Grace seated herself on the bed, and eyed her with the judicial air -befitting one who is a mother. "You've taken cold," she said soothingly. - -"I have indeed. I'm surrounded by hot-water bottles, and I can't get -warm. It seems to be a mistake to stand on the doorstep in one's -nightgown." - -"What on earth did you do that for?" - -"I'm trying to find out. I don't know whether I was asleep or awake, but -there I was. I must have been awake, for I can remember running down the -stairs. I had to do it." - -With a little crease between her brows Grace said easily: "You must have -been over-tired." - -"That's a comfortable solution. We'll leave it at that. Would you mind -tucking the clothes into my back? No, don't touch my pillows. How nice -you look! Like a pretty apple. Can you stay with me?" - -"No, dear; I'm going to a lesson. Would you like Baby?" - -"I don't think I feel equal to a baby. Come and see me on your way back. -How's Phil?" - -Grace's cheeks could still flush at the sound of his name. - -"I think he is going to leave the theatre. He has so many pupils now, -and it's torture to him to play the same trash night after night. We -shall manage quite well, and he wants more time for composing." - -"Oh, poor me! I shall have to hear the writhings of his genius all of -every night. Tell him to come and see me. That will keep him quiet for a -little while. Will you pull down the blind, and tell Bessie I'm going to -sleep? She comes in every five minutes with something on a plate, and it -grows a little monotonous." - -"If you're not better to-night, I shall send for the doctor." - -"Then I shall be better. I'm glad I'm at home again." - -"So am I. I didn't like him, Terry." - -"I like him very much." - -"I mean, I didn't like him for you, and I feel--I feel as if you've -escaped out of an ogre's castle!" - -"Ah, if he had been more ogreish, I might have stayed for the fun of it. -Let's thank God he is just a man." - -The ministrations of an adoring family speedily cured Theresa without a -doctor's help, and a few days after her return Neville appeared as -emissary of Simon Smith. - -"We want you to come back," he said. - -"I don't think Mrs. Morton would consider it etiquette. Of course I'll -come, Jack. When?" - -He stroked his chin. "Well, we haven't given the present good person -notice yet. She got the post through sheer force of character, for we -both hated her at sight. There'll be a difficulty in turning her out. -The old gentleman is afraid to do it, and I tell him it's not my -business. It will come to writing her a note and enclosing a cheque -during the Easter holidays." - -"What's the matter with her?" - -"Oh, she's horrid. I let her have the office to herself. The old -gentleman is certainly a sportsman. He just gave a nod when I carried my -things into his room. Ah well, trouble has drawn us more closely -together!" - -"Does she do her work properly?" - -"I don't know! Oh yes, I suppose she does, in a mechanical kind of way. -We don't let her go outside the house. You know, you have a spark of -genius, Theresa, and you've spoilt us." - -"Anybody could do what I did, if they used my methods." - -"I don't believe it; but what are they?" - -She shook her head. "I'm trying to forget them." - -"Then you'll be no further use to us." - -"Yes, I shall. I'm not so limited as that. Jack, why do you love your -work?" - -"I don't know. I can't help loving it." - -"For its own sake?" - -"I imagine so." - -"That's what I'm going to do." - -"Didn't you?" - -"No." - -"Why, then?" - -"Chiefly for mine, but not altogether--not nearly altogether. I am not -made of stone, but I have eyes that are turned inwards. A mental -squint!" - -"It never showed." - -She laughed. "Oh, I'm an expert in my profession, but I'm very sick of -it, so don't say nice things to me. Don't help me to think about -myself." - -He raised his brows in a comical dubiety. "This sounds a little morbid." - -"And I want to think it's the beginning of health." She turned quietly -to stand by the window, and as she looked out on the street, where -spring was coming, he found a new dignity in her pose, one born of some -dignity of the mind, and her thinness, the manner in which her hand hung -by her side, something in the lift of her head, impressed him with a -sense of pathos hitherto alien to his thoughts of her. Yet, when she -faced him, she was vivid again, and sparkling. He noticed how the words -seemed to come upon her lips before she spoke them. - -"You'll tell me when you have evicted the lady?" - -"Yes," he said mournfully. "It's quite likely she'll refuse to go -quietly. We may have to invent a rich relative who dies and leaves her -with a competency." - -"A little courage would be cheaper." - -"But that's what we haven't got." - -"You begin to make me wonder if your compliments are more than sops." - -"Compliments in their relation to you are barred as topics of -conversation. Good-bye. Oh, I was to ask you if you would like any -salary in advance." - -"No, thank you. I'm a thrifty soul. I must have quite ten shillings." - -"But, I say, Theresa----" - -"My good man, you've no idea how long ten shillings can be made to last. -I can assure you that my stockings are no rivals to your socks, and I -don't have a new tie every week. I'm not going to have any money I -haven't earned." - -"Bless the child! It will be quite a month, you know, before we get rid -of the Gorgon." - -"I don't mind. I want a rest. I'm tired, Jack." - -He drew a step nearer, and looked kindly down at her. - -"Theresa, I'm rather worried about you. Have you some disease lurking?" - -"No; but I've been in such a hurry all my life, and done so little. I -have a weary spirit. I wish I could go riding on the clouds for a week -of these March winds. I should look down and see the earth so small, -and people of my size not visible at all, and the heavens so infinite." - -"But if you know all that----" - -"Knowing is not enough," she said. "That's one of the easy things, I -find. It's feeling I have to cultivate." - -He nodded curtly. "You're quite right. I do believe you're growing up. -Good-bye, my dear." - -The weariness she confessed to was in her face, the taste of humiliation -was in her mouth, but hope was in her heart, like a low sound of -singing. She would not listen to it frankly, but it murmured there like -the noise of constant water, hardly acknowledged, yet filling life with -meaning. It sang through her dreams at night and mingled with the -talking of the dark lake's water, for she was restored to her place -under the mountain, and now, while she waited, she had no doubt of whose -footfall she expected, whose hand she wished to grasp, and, when the -morning came, flashing truth on her receptive mind, she had to own her -need of Alexander. But, indeed, she was glad to own it. She had gone -past a state in which pride could be greater than her love and, as if to -make amends for her disloyalty, she acclaimed him. It was not love she -tried to disavow, but hope, and even there she failed. - -He was coming at Easter, and Easter was not far off, yet she looked for -a letter. If he knew the truth--and when had her father kept it from -him?--he would surely write; but she did not hear from him, and the -tiredness in her face overcame the secret joy. With a little twist of -bitterness about her lips, she looked back at her girlhood and saw a -fiercely independent Theresa stretching out hands to a future made -glorious only by her own powers, subject only to her own genius, and -here was Theresa, grown a woman, wearing out her strength with longing, -conscious that her whole life had been bound by human beings, that she -had no genius but that of drawing people to her and giving them of -herself. There was to be no widespread fame for her, but there might be -happiness and growth; and Alexander was the soil in which she knew her -roots could deepen, he was the sun and the rain, yet he denied her -everything. Oh, why did he not write? she cried within herself. Since -the coming of that one letter he had sent her, filled with the breath of -the hills and his own being, she had believed in Alexander's love; yet -he was silent, though he must know her to be free. Did he scorn her -fickleness, or had he changed? She tortured herself with questions, then -cast them from her and stilled herself, glad to give love without -reward. - -"You are not grieving, not regretting?" her father asked her one night. - -It was a few days before Easter, the time which was to bring Alexander, -yet the marks of trouble were fretted under her eyes and hollowed in the -shadowy places of her cheeks, for hope and despair and dread were -battling for her heart. - -"Yes, I'm regretting many things. No, I don't want Basil back, but I -want my--my wholeness back. I had no right to give him anything, poor -soul! and I feel there are little bits of me strewed everywhere." She -laughed. "It's not that I set so high a value on those little bits, but -it doesn't seem quite fair on a possible other person!" - -Without the usual hesitation of his emotions, he asked a direct -question, looking her in the eyes. "Would you like some other person?" -He seemed to hold his breath until he heard. - -She coloured, but looked smiling back at him. "Of course I should. A -satisfactory one. I'm human--and I want the human gifts. Look--I'm -twenty-five, and I have done none of the things you wanted me to do. -Have I? Have I?" - -"My dear, you have been nearly all the world to me." - -"But you wanted me to be more, and so did I. And I find I'm just an -ordinary person, and I want--I want--oh, I may as well say it--I want -love. To have it and to give it. I have been feeding on myself all -these years, and I am so weary of the taste of me. It's as though I had -grown old since New Year's Day. I wonder if I'm any wiser. I feel to-day -as if you couldn't teach me anything, but to-morrow--oh, to-morrow, I -may be young and brave again! It's strange," she went on thoughtfully, -"I have had a very humdrum life, and yet I feel that I have lived -through great adventures. It's quite an effort to convince myself of -their unreality. I have been loved, and I have loved; I have had -children, and seen them die. I've heard men shouting as they fight, and -giving grunting, gasping breaths under the shriek of steel, and I have -gone on long voyages and seen far countries. I know how they smell. Why -is it? Why is it?" - -He made no answer, and they both gazed in the fire, and, defying the -habits of youth and age, it was Theresa who saw the scrolls of the past, -and Edward Webb who looked towards the future. - -"I want you to promise me something," he said at last. - -"What is it?" - -"You'll marry no one whom you do not love with your best self; you will -try not to be the servant of your imagination. Teach it to serve you, -Theresa." - -"I'll promise that," she said. - -"And, Theresa, while--while we are speaking of serious things, I want to -tell you I made my will long ago, of course, and it is in the desk with -the rest of my papers. Those are all yours. There are your mother's -letters to me, mine to her, and all the letters you ever wrote to me, -and Grace's, too. You will find I have been very methodical; everything -is ticketed and dated; and there are all my poems, Theresa, with -Alexander's criticisms, and his letters. You can do what you like with -them." - -She put her hand on his knee, and he saw how thin she was. - -"Why are you telling me all this? I won't have you giving these -instructions. It's what Mother did. You are not ill, are you? Don't have -secrets from me. - -"I am not ill, my dear. I am very well and happy. But there is never any -knowing what may happen. The train might run off the lines when I go to -the farm on Easter Saturday." - -She took her hand away and held it. She would not let it shake. - -"But," she said--and in the effort to steady her voice, it came -loudly--"but what about Alexander?" - -"He cannot come. I heard last night--only last night. And I--I have -decided to go there instead." - -"Why can't he come?" she asked, and she seemed to hear the thudding drop -of her heart. - -"He cannot leave his mother. He is a good son." - -She was silent. Then, "I'm glad you're going," she said. "It will do you -good." - -"I have no doubt it will do me good." He gave a secret smile she did not -see. - -She waited for the request he had made so often, which she must refuse -again, but it did not come. Was he tired of asking for a companionship -she would not grant? Through the blackness of her disappointment she -looked at him, wondering how often she had given him pain, and, as if in -answer, he spoke, fidgeting with his hands. - -"You mustn't think because you have not done all we hoped, you mustn't -think yourself a failure. It is not given to many daughters to be what -you have been to me. I want you to remember that--try to remember that." - -"Do you think I could forget it?" she cried, in a voice that broke into -harshness. "You put all your own goodness into me, and call it mine!" - -She could not see for tears. She made a little fluttering movement with -her hands and dropped her head against his shoulder. He slipped his arm -about her waist, and so they sat, in an according silence. - -On the Thursday before Good Friday, George Webb packed a small black bag -and started off on a solitary holiday, and a few hours later -Chesterfield Row was animated by the departure in a cab of Grace and the -baby, Phil and the violin, sundry packages, and a puppy. - -"Heaven knows how we'll get there," Grace said cheerfully to Theresa, -from the depths of the musty cab. "We have to change three times, and -this wretched animal always wants to eat people's feet, but I dare not -leave him behind. He's as strong as a lion, and would be sure to kill -something. And I thought he would be a sort of plaything for Baby!" - -"I hope Phil's mother will appreciate him." - -"That entirely depends on her affection for her boots. What's Phil -doing? We shall lose the train." - -"Tearing his hair. He can't find something. It's his umbrella. It's -here, Phil, in the cab. What a family! And fancy troubling about an -umbrella!" - -"He never touches it except when he is going on a journey. Men----Oh, do -get in, Phil." - -"And don't tread on Grace's toes! Good-bye, good-bye!" - -Theresa went indoors, laughing. These people were so perennially young -and beautiful. - -Early on Saturday morning it was Edward Webb's turn to go. - -"Will you be very lonely with all of us gone?" he asked. - -"No. There's Bessie; and I shall read your poems. May I?" - -"Of course, my dear, of course. They are all yours. I hope you won't -think the less of me for them." - -"I can't think any more, dear, if they are the most marvellous ever -written. You are not eating any breakfast." - -"I have had some coffee." - -"I shan't let you go unless you eat a lot." - -"I'll try, my dear, but before a journey, and so early in the -morning----" - -"That's dyspepsia, worthy of Uncle George!" She took him by the chin and -turned his face to the light. "You don't look well. Didn't you sleep?" - -"Oh yes, yes." He ate hastily, guiltily, and she was not deceived, but -she did not know the reason for his sleeplessness, nor that he had sat -long by her bed that night, watching her quiet features and the shades -of dreams passing across her face. - -He held her in farewell as though he could not let her go; he said -good-bye, and kissed her on each cheek, and hurried into the street, but -only to come back again and look dumbly in her face, while she looked -into his. - -"You'll see the hills to-night," she said, "and hear all those sounds of -water, and the sheep crying, and the little lambs. Will you think of me? -I shall be thinking of you." - -"Will you, my child? Will you, Theresa? Ah! I'm glad of that." - -"I don't think you understand," she said, "how much I like you. And I -like the hills. When you see them, will you wave your hand to each one -and tell them you are doing it for me? And will you look at all the -other things and give them messages?" - -He nodded. His lips were twitching, and there was a long ridge of pain -across his brow. - -She brought back her thoughts to him. "Dear, do you think you ought to -go? You don't look well. Do you want to go?" - -"I always want to go, my child. It's only leaving you I do not like." - -"But you'll soon come back to me, and if you can wait just a minute -longer I'll get my hat and come to the station to take care of you." - -"No, Theresa--no, my darling," he said firmly. "I want to say good-bye -to you here, not in that dark station, where I cannot see you." - -She stood on the pavement with the spring wind ruffling her hair and the -spring sunshine delighting in its ruddy gold and, standing very straight -and proud, she waved her hand to him as his small bent figure turned the -corner. He was the message she sent to Alexander, and he carried no -lesser treasure than her heart. - -That night, when she and Bessie had supped together in the kitchen, -Theresa went upstairs to her father's room, and, sitting before his -desk, unlocked the drawers. She wanted Alexander's letters and finding -them, neatly arranged in order of their dates, she read them one by one. -The correspondence had not been heavy, but it had lasted for nearly -fifteen years, and time was swallowed as she sat there. - -Her hand was on the last letter when Bessie knocked at the door. - -"Miss Terry, it's half-past eleven. You ought to be in bed. I've locked -up and put out all the lights, so just drink this milk and go." - -"Yes, yes, Bessie, in a minute. How you do fuss!" - -"The master said I was to see to you." - -"I'm going to read this letter. Then I'll go." - -She read it twice, and looked up with so dazed and wild a look that -Bessie cried aloud in wonder. - -"What is it, Miss Theresa? Are you ill?" - -"No." Her hand went to her forehead. "I'm just thinking. Wait a bit. -There's rather a lot to think about. Don't talk to me." - -Memories and half-memories rushed and whirled about her. She saw her -father's pallid face and felt his kisses. She remembered his silences as -clearly as his words, and to all she fitted meanings, and fitted them -again. She was afraid, yet the very immensity of her suspicion was its -best derision, and so the wheels of her mind turned and clanked until -the room went round with them, and meanwhile she sat very still, resting -her head on her hands. - -"Is it all right, Miss Terry?" - -"Yes, all right, Bessie." - -"Then good-night, my dear." - -"Good-night." - -The door was closed; she heard Bessie tramp higher up the stairs, and -she rose stealthily to her feet. She was in that state of fear when to -breathe is to court danger, and noiselessly she turned and took the -time-table from its shelf. The leaping of her heart seemed to confuse -her sight, but soon she had made sense of the narrow print and turned -down the page. - -She locked the desk and put out the gas, and crossed the dark landing to -her dark room. Standing before her window, with the twinkling dock -lights to comfort her, she was able to believe herself fanciful and -absurd. Yet he had been told danger lay in wait for him among the hills, -and he had gone without asking for her company, and he had gone -strangely, and those letters she had read so eagerly seemed to have been -given to her with his dying breath. - -But she would not think it. She refused the horror of her thoughts, and, -jumping into bed, she forced herself to sleep. - -Easter morning came strong and sunny, with the sound of many bells that -scattered fear relentlessly in their pealing joy, yet they had not done -their ringing when the summons came. "Will you come at once?" it said, -and it bore Alexander's name. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - - -On that long journey she thought hardly at all of what lay before her. -She tried to feel anxiety, and could not. Her mind was occupied with -little things. She became interested in her fellow-travellers, and -talked to them; they told her their family histories as surely as they -looked at her, and sometimes, across their narratives, there dropped the -cloud of her distress. It lived in her consciousness, vague and -impenetrable, and she was aware of it as one is aware of thunder in the -air. She was amazed at her own callousness. Something dreadful had -happened; some horror was awaiting her among the quiet hills, but she -hardly feared it, and, having splashed a few rough and lurid pictures on -her brain, her imagination rested, and she was content to see how the -trees were budding and the flowers sprinkling the fields. - -But when she stood on the little windswept station and saw the sea, grey -and cold in the evening light, and heard the wind whistling through the -coarse grass growing on the sand, fear took her by the heart. For an -instant she stood stock still, then, straightening herself in -vindication of her courage, she approached the burly station-master. - -"Where can I get a trap?" she said. - -"I think that one outside will be for you." - -She recognized Janet's little cart and horse, and the youth lolling -against the wheel smiled sheepishly. - -"Get in, miss." - -"You drove me last time, didn't you?" He nodded, gave an inarticulate -assent, and shook the reins. - -The road was dim and the fields bordering it were like a darker sky -where the primroses were stars, and slowly the other stars came out, -while the cold green of the spring sky slipped, as at their bidding, -into a matchless, immeasurable blue. The trees, and the hedges, and the -houses lost their colours; all were but different shades of the dark -except when a whitewashed building challenged the night. The glow of -lighted lamps shone behind people's windows, dogs gave the travellers -greeting, and voices and the clinking of pots came through the opened -doors. The vision of a red-frocked child standing in a doorway flamed -like a beacon in Theresa's memory. - -And slowly they drew away from habitations: the road was no longer -enclosed by hedges; the land stretched black and free on either hand, -and with the turn of the road they were beside the lake. It glistened, -and its ripples stirred the reeds, and with every fiercer gust of wind -its shining surface was troubled. The precipice on its farther shore was -one great shadow streaked with the white of late-lying snow, and there -was the sound of many little streams draining the moorland and trickling -below the road to join the lake. The road, growing faint and thin, was -threatened afar off by the spreading shoulders of the hills. - -Theresa tightened her muscles until they ached. She had no lack of -feeling now, and a dumb exaltation at every breath of air she breathed -was tangled with her horror and her happiness. Her pulses refused to -keep time with the terrible slow sameness of the horse's pace and they -leapt until she thought her very frame was shaken. She may have -shuddered, or he may have felt her quiver, for the boy offered her -another rug. - -"Here, miss," he said in his soft voice. - -She thanked him. "We are not very far from the lake's head, are we?" - -He was slow in answering, and his tones fell among the loose beating of -the hoofs. "About a half a mile." - -"It is a long way." - -The hills were closing on them. The air seemed darker, and she could -hear more water running to the lake--water wider and quicker than the -little streams which had kept them company. - -The cart rumbled across a little bridge, and left the lake, and, as they -went carefully along the rutted lane, Theresa could look into the fields -where lambs were sleeping. At their passing, a sheep cried out with a -loud and bitter melancholy, voicing a dumb, bewildered world, and it was -like waking from a long dream when the jolting ceased. The driver was -speaking to someone in the road; she could not distinguish the words, -and she sat passive, huddled in her coat and rugs, until the cart should -move on again. It seemed impossible that it should have stopped; her -body was still conscious of the movement, and she was swaying lightly. - -The boy's unwrapping of the rugs aroused her. She heard the unseen -person pass behind the cart, and saw a man's figure standing by the -wheel. - -"Is that you, Theresa?" - -"Yes." - -"I want you to get out here." - -"Yes." She took his hand and stepped stiffly to the ground. - -"Give me the bag, Jack. You can turn here, can't you? Good-night." - -They stood together near the churchyard yews, and the stars lighted -their faces. They did not speak. For Theresa, the world had fallen away, -and nothing remained but this patch of earth on which she and Alexander -stood. That isolation passed, the trees came back and the hills, and -while he was still looking at her, she touched him lightly on the -sleeve. - -"Tell me." - -"It's your father. My father--I told him not to come." - -"I know. I didn't know until last night. I read your letter. Please -will you tell me everything? I want to know at once if he is dead." - -"Yes, he's dead." - -"It's all right. I am not going to fall." - -"My father shot him. Then himself. I--he was mad. It is my fault; but I -didn't know how mad--and I warned him. They're both dead, two of them. I -saw my father fall. And yours spoke to me as I passed. He said: 'Send -for Theresa.'" - -"I think I'd like to hold your hand. Thank you. Are you sure he's dead?" - -"Quite sure. And he died happy. He was smiling. It seemed--it seemed as -if it were what he had been wanting. It may be that the dead are always -glad." - -"When was it?" - -"Last night. He was with my mother in the kitchen. I didn't know my -father had a pistol, but then, I ought to have known. We've lived with -it so long, it has seemed part of life. I didn't understand how bad he -was. Theresa, my father's murdered yours." - -"Yes, yes. Never mind." She held very tightly to his hand. "Never mind. -He wouldn't like you to be sad. Oh"--her voice quavered on the -stillness, and she dropped against him--"oh, Alexander, take care of me -for a little while." - -Her face was against the rough fabric of his sleeve. He loosed her hand -and put his arm about her, holding her steadily, and so they stood -beneath the yews. - -Each stirred at the same moment, and, without a word, walked on. At the -house end Alexander stopped and spoke quietly. - -"Janet is with my mother. She is afraid to leave her. You are to have my -room. Tread softly: she may be sleeping." - -In the little front-room supper was spread, and a fire was burning. -Alexander pushed her gently into a low wicker chair, and knelt to unlace -her boots, and when he took them off he rubbed her feet. - -"Was there no straw in the cart? I told him to have plenty. Let me push -you nearer to the fire." - -"Alexander, can't I go and see him?" - -"When you have had some food. Here's Mrs. Spencer with the coffee. No, -sit still. I'll serve you." - -But for the small homely sounds of cup against saucer and knife on -plate, Theresa sat, and Alexander moved between her and the table, in a -silence that held no discomfort. - -Suddenly she looked up, frowning. "I can't feel unhappy. I wish I could, -but I seem to have come into the very home of peace! Are you unhappy?" - -"It seems as if I've killed a friend," he said. - -"No, no, not you." The light fluttered from her face. "I think, if you -look back far enough, I did it." - -"You!" - -She turned to look into the fire, and from the stillness of the room she -could tell how fiercely he was thinking, and though she, too, had much -to think of, she found herself waiting on his thoughts. - -But when he spoke it was to say with a quickness that, made him rough: -"Would you like a message sent to Mr. Morton? I could send that lad -early in the morning." - -He saw the blank widening of her eyes. "No, thank you." The faculties of -her mind rushed together, and cleared themselves, and even while she was -thinking, "Shall I tell him?" she was saying calmly: "I am not going to -marry Mr. Morton." - -"Oh!" There was a certain foolishness in his tone. "I hadn't heard." The -silence was now busy and thick with thoughts. - -She went upstairs to make herself fit to look upon her dead, and, taking -her lighted candle, she entered the room where he was lying. She had no -fear of him. She went and turned back the sheet as though she only went -to rouse him in the morning, and the familiarity of his striped flannel -garment was like a mockery of death. How could he be dead when his thin -hands protruded from the wristbands she had mended? But he was dead, -for he neither opened his eyes nor smiled at her. She looked down, -waiting. - -"I'm here," she said aloud, but very low--"I'm here, Father." - -But he was not there to answer her. - -The lips which had smiled in dying had fallen stern, and the cheeks she -kissed were of a bitter cold. She sank to her knees and laid her hands -on his. - -"Well, we loved each other, didn't we?" she said, and her swollen tears -fell into the lips parted to speak to him. "We loved each other, didn't -we?" - -She knelt there, crying because he would not look at her, and, for the -first time, had no kind word. It seemed impossible that she should go on -living in a world without his voice, but she knew he had meant to -silence it so that he might give her something else. And she was not, in -truth, unhappy. She knew she was in the presence of a love infinitely -greater than any death, enduring when even the signs of death had -crumbled into dust and been gathered in to feed the eager body of earth, -and by that love she was ennobled beyond grief. - -She dried her tears, smoothed back the grey wisp of hair her breathing -had disturbed, and went to the chair where Alexander had neatly laid her -father's clothes. She thought there might be a letter for her there, but -she found only the book of Shakespeare's sonnets which she had given -him, and inside it the latest picture of herself and one of Nancy's -youth. - -She knelt by the widely opened window, and sensed the night. She thought -his spirit must be out there among the hills he loved; that he saw her -by the window, and could hear what she was telling him; knew what she -was thinking, and felt the swamping pain of her regrets. She stretched -her hands over the window-sill, forgetful of the figure on the bed, -appealing only to the departed spirit companioning the stars. - -"You need not have done it," she said, "if I hadn't been so proud. But -I didn't tell you. Did you think you would never manage for us to meet? -And all the time, all the time, I loved him. Oh, why did I not tell you? -Forgive me, dear, forgive me. I was unfaithful to him and cruel to you, -and now----But how could I reckon with anyone as good as you?" Her head -drooped and rested on the woodwork, and she looked down the long avenue -of people she had loved and hurt. She lifted her head and beat her hands -upon the sill. "But I did love you, and you knew it--at least, I never -failed in giving love." - -A low tap came on the door, and she opened it to Alexander. - -"Won't you come downstairs?" - -"Yes, I'm coming now." She kissed her father. "Say good-night to him." - -He, too, stooped and kissed him. "He was the first man that was ever -kind to me." - -Speaking seldom, they sat together in the parlour. They were both idle, -but Alexander smoked, and now and then they would lift their eyes from -the fire and look across the little space dividing them, and through the -smoke wreaths Alexander's eyes would soften at the sight of Theresa's -smiles. His memory was already stored with them. There was the frank one -for friendship, the slow one for thought; the little, twisted, mocking -one, the quick one that was an affirmation; and now this wavering one -that came with a pale flood of colour, and would not be stilled, and -stirred his heart as the lake water stirred the reeds. - -Looking at his watch, he bade her to bed at last, and she rose with a -strange pleasure in obedience. - -"You won't be afraid?" he asked. - -"No. Will you be very far away?" - -"At the end of the passage in what we call the store-room. They've put a -bed for me there. Theresa, you are not blaming me?" - -"How could I?" - -"Do you think he understood?" - -"I know he did," she said firmly. - -"Then why----" - -Again there came the questioning and again her words outran the answer. -"I'll tell you in the morning--in the sunlight, please." - -"You know?" She nodded. "In the morning, then. Good-night." - -He lighted her to her bedroom door but when she had shut it and heard -him go down the stairs she wished the house were not quite so still, and -with the wish she heard a low, shuddering moan, and then another. That -was Clara Rutherford crying for her dead. - -She undressed with fumbling, nervous fingers, and, stealing into bed, -she covered her ears to shut out the dreadful quiet punctuated by that -sound, yet she sat up again, compelled to listen while, with a regular -insistence, the moaning invaded the night. A little later there came a -stealthy, bumping sound along the passage, and she was ready to leap out -and bolt her door, when Alexander's voice came low and clear. - -"It's me, Theresa. I'm sleeping just outside your door." - -"Oh, is it you?" she cried. - -"You won't be lonely now?" - -"Oh no, I won't be lonely." - -"You must go to sleep." - -But she did not try to do that. She lay awake for the joy of being near -him. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - - -Theresa had slept at last, but she had waked often out of dreadful -dreams and lain in a sweat of terror in spite of Alexander's nearness, -and so her mind had passed to picturing the manner of her father's -death. She saw it as a confusion of noise, and smoke, and fallen bodies; -she heard his last three piteous words, and felt strength fading from -her as it must have dropped from him, and the stern beauty of death was -lost in the welter she made of it. - -She rose more wearied than she had gone to bed and had a white and -hollow face for Janet and Alexander when she descended to the kitchen. -She had gone down with no thought about herself, but when she looked at -Alexander a trembling shyness took her. - -Through the kitchen door the sun came strongly, and the smell of the -larches was blown in. She hardly knew what she did as she stepped across -the threshold and held her palms upwards to the clean air; whether she -went for cleansing from the night or for refuge from Alexander, she did -not know nor did she question; she knew only that for the first time, -and in the house where her father and his were lying dead, Alexander's -presence shook her like a wind. But she had always loved the wind and -she had courage, and her shadowed eyes were steady when she sat opposite -to him at table, with a sunbeam shining on his head and hers, joining -them as by a bar. - -They hardly spoke, and when the meal was over and Theresa had done what -household tasks she could, she went out to the horse-block and sat -there. Behind her there were violets growing in the little garden, and -they sent their sweetness up to her for comfort, and around were the -hills, assuring her of life's loveliness and truth. - -The world was coloured with brilliant greens and blues, veiled by the -passing winds; the earth smelt of dampness and of growth; every tree and -bush was budding, and the streams were roaring with the energy of -spring; the impulse of all living things was leaping towards the sun; -the voices of wind, and water, and singing trees, and of the sheep -bleating on the hills, were praising life and the life-giver, while -upstairs her father's hands had stiffened in the fold of death. She -tried to teach herself that he was dead, but to that lesson she was dull -and deaf. She felt him near her in every brushing of the wind and every -scratching sound of the rose branches on the porch, so that she could -only shake her head and say he lived. - -She looked up at the sound of footsteps, and saw Alexander in the lane. - -"Will you come with me a little way," he said, "while it's still early? -Soon there will be people I'll have to see, and things to do. We'll both -be wanted, but now, while the world's so fresh and empty, can we be -together?" - -She slipped from the horse-block and stood beside him. - -"Which way?" she said. - -"To the Broad Beck, but not under the trees. I want the sun." - -They followed the grassy track and struck across the new green of the -bracken to the stream that rioted among the rocks, teasing itself into -foam, lashing itself into waterfalls, or lying in still pools. By one of -these, on a broad slab of stone, Theresa and Alexander halted. The sun -struck on the water and on them; it gilded the purple of Theresa's gown -until it was illuminated like a missal; it found the lurking red in -Alexander's hair, it turned hers to flame, and to each one it showed the -suffering of the other. - -"Theresa," he said, "the sun is shining. You said you would tell me in -the sunshine, but if you cannot I will wait." - -"No, I must tell you, because I said so, and because you must not blame -yourself." She held her hands behind her back, twisting them there, and -she looked up at him, frowning a little, with a rare appeal in her -unflinching eyes. - -"He always wanted us to meet," she said. "I believe he did this so that -we might meet." - -"And we had met." - -"But then, I did not tell him." - -"Why did you not?" - -"Because I knew how much he wanted it. Can you not see? Oh, why must I -always speak the truth to you? But I do not care. It is the truth, and -you must make what you can of it." She was flushed with the colour of -pride, and pride had stilled her hands. "And even now I have not told -you all the truth. There is no need to tell you this, but I choose to do -so. It was not only because I saw what it was he wanted; it was because -I could not speak of that one day we had together, when I knew what it -was to have a friend and to forget myself. I wanted to keep that secret, -like a treasure, and it is a secret that has killed him. And these are -things I think I might have been forgiven for not telling you, but I -tell you because that day made you my friend. And there should be no--no -falseness between us." - -He laughed, and caught suddenly at her hand, and let it go. - -"I love the truth of you," he said. "Theresa, let me tell you now. There -shall be no shadows between you and me, unless you put them there. The -day on which you called me friend made me your lover. Theresa, can you -love me back? I am not satisfied with serving. I will not say I am. I -want all I have ever seen, or heard, or dreamt of you, and all I do not -know, all you may grow to be. Last night, when I was lying outside your -door, listening for the sound of you, I did not think about my mother; I -did not think about my father or yours. I remembered how you had put -your head against my arm, under the yews, and how you had smiled at me -in the firelight, and I could not sleep for hoping, and I thought you -must have heard me crying out to you; that perhaps the door would open, -and I should see you, like a moonbeam, and you'd put your hand in mine. -But the door kept shut----" - -"Oh," she said on a long, low note, "do you think I did not want to open -it? Were you awake, too? Oh, Alexander, we've wasted half a night! We -shall never make it up. Here are my hands now." She put them shaking -into his, then snatched them from him. "No," she said, and knelt beside -the water. "Look, I'm washing them in water from the hills because I -once lent them to someone else. I only lent them, Alexander, but I -wasn't true. Oh, do you think they're clean?" She held them up, -glistening with drops. - -"I cannot see unless you give them to me." - -With one swift movement she was on her feet and he had her hands. - -"These are all the diamonds you'll ever get from me," he said. - -She laughed, throwing back her head. "You know you wouldn't give them to -me if you could." - -"I should, I should. I'd give you all that man could give you." - -"Ah! don't," she said soberly. "That's a silly kind of jealousy, but I -like it." - -"And I am jealous. Do you think I'll ever forgive him for having touched -you, and put a ring on your finger, and set you on a horse, and promised -himself to give you all the beauty he could buy? Do you think I don't -want to outdo him a hundred times in those as in all other ways?" - -"I did not think you were so simple," she said, smiling. "Oh, Alexander, -I want to cry. I needed you. I needed someone strong to lift me up and -understand those crying voices in me, and you have given me yourself! -Oh, will you let me cry?" - -He was smiling at her in a way she had not seen before, teasingly and -with possession. "We'll have to get a place to sit comfortably in -first," he said, so that they laughed together. - -"Let us sit on this stone," she said. "I promise not to cry, because -I've laughed instead, and the water seems to be making noises for me. -Let me have your hand. Isn't it wonderful? There's no need to talk, but -I want to do it. And there's nothing to explain. It's like being born -and knowing all about it--coming into the world grown up. I don't like -looking back into the dark." - -She laid his hand against her eyes; he felt the twitching of her -eyelids, and when she showed her face, he saw it puzzled, reminiscent. - -"Alexander, something happened the night before I told Basil I wouldn't -marry him. Were you thinking of me?" - -He spoke in his queer, toneless voice. "Did I ever stop?" - -She gave the laugh that no one else had heard, and clasped her hands -round his. "Oh, but you are the man I wanted! I mean, thinking very -specially. It was the tenth of March." - -"What happened?" - -"Someone woke me and drove me down the stairs into the night. Alexander, -was it you?" - -"It wasn't me. Would I have meddled? Do you remember how you said you -must be free?" - -"And you said I never could be, and it's true!" - -"And was that all?" - -"Yes, I went back to bed, but there _was_ someone. What is it?" She felt -how he had stiffened. "Your hand's not loving me. What is it?" - -"It's Janet, the witch--the witch! It was that night I told her, and she -threatened me with her tricks. Theresa, was it then you knew you didn't -love that man? Could you not learn it for yourself?" - -"I did, I did." He saw the swift lines of her throat as she raised her -head. He knew how she would look when she was angered. - -"I had your letter for a pillow. Before I slept I knew I couldn't marry -him. I was only waiting to tell him in the morning, and I was yours that -night. It happened--that strange thing happened, after I knew--after! -How dare you think I didn't choose to do it!" - -For a long time he looked at her. He had forgotten nothing of her face. - -"It's not easy to believe you're all you are," he told her slowly. - -She laughed again on her low note of joy. - -"You always say the perfect thing. Here are my hands again. Oh, you poor -soul, you can't be half as happy as I am, for you have never been -engaged to someone you did not love. Or have you?" - -"No. I wish you would not talk about that man. Theresa, I've got a bad, -black temper. I ought not to let you marry me." - -"And I have a bright blazing one. There will be thunder and lightning -among these hills. Do you think I am afraid of your tempers?" Her lips -and her eyelids drooped, her grasp tightened, and she drew closer to -him. He felt her body tremble. "I'm afraid of nothing but your love," -she said; and at the words he crushed her to him so that she felt the -hard and hurried beating of his heart and the fury of his kisses on her -hair. - -"Oh, my heather flower," he said--"my heather flower!" - -And the water babbled by, and a bird hung with spread wings like a -canopy above them, and the sheep cried to their young, and the wind blew -a strand of Theresa's hair across Alexander's face--a strand of -quivering gold, smelling of sun, and wind, and earth. - -He took a deep strong breath, and put her from him. "We must go back," -he said. - -She looked quickly in his face "You are not thinking we should not feel -like this?" - -"No, my heart, no." - -"Because it's what he wanted us to feel. Oh, he knew. How could he know -so well? I am not ashamed of being happy, though he's dead. And this -day, and the sunshine, and all the beauty of the hills, are much more my -father than the one that's--that's lying on the bed. I'm sorry for your -sadness, but, except that, I haven't any of my own. Oh yes, I feel as if -I have just been born, and the world is new, too, and life is beginning -for you and me, and we are going to do things! But, Alexander, it isn't -only mothers who die in bearing children." She checked a sob, dropping -her head to her knees, and, looking past her, Alexander watched the -shadows on the hills. - -"To-morrow Grace will come, and Uncle George. They wouldn't understand -if we looked happy, would they? Nobody would understand that death could -be so beautiful." She rose and stood beside him. "Alexander, why don't -you speak to me?" - -He gave her the quick look she had loved to remember through the years. -"Theresa, do you see what he has done? He's joined us with a seal we -dare not break." - -"Why should we want to break it?" she asked on a breath. - -"Because we're frail and stupid, my beloved. Yes, you with your temper -and your pride, and me with the evil in me like a weed. We've got to be -more finely faithful than other folks. Do you think he had not seen -that? He had a poet's soul. Common kindnesses and loyalty will not be -memorial enough for him. We can give him nothing but the highest. Ah! -you mustn't think I wouldn't want to give it to you, that you don't -shine for me until I feel it's sacrilege to touch you, but though we may -live all our lives in more worship of each other than we dream of yet, -there'll be other things, Theresa. Hard work, and trouble, and -weariness, and poverty, and they may breed anger, and hard words, and -that unfaithfulness of the mind that's worse than any fleshly one. All -these might come, even to lovers such as you and me; but what would _he_ -think? If we feel him in the wind and among the hills where you and I -are to live and work together, we'll live and work so that he need never -suffer for us. That's what he's done for us, Theresa. He might have -joined us in some other way, but not so surely, not so fast." - -Her eyes were filled with awe and wonder for the man who had done this -thing and the one who understood. "I had a dream of waiting for you -among the hills," she said, "and now it has come true; but do you -remember that dream of Janet's--the one about the birds, the little ones -that grew to eagles? We've got to make that one come true as well. Oh, -Alexander, shall we ever do it?" - -He shook his head as he bent to kiss her. "No, most dear," he said. - -She gave that laugh which was of happiness. Their glances met and rested -in each other, and there was no shadow lying between their souls, and so -they entered again into the house where Life had clothed itself in the -quiet garments of Death. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Yonder, by Emily Hilda Young - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YONDER *** - -***** This file should be named 42536.txt or 42536.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/5/3/42536/ - -Produced by Clare Graham & Laura McDonald at -http://www.girlebooks.com, Marc D'Hooghe at -http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made -available by the Hathi Trust) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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