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.