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.