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.