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.