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.