CHAPTER XVIII

On the evening of the next day, James Rutherford was not at supper. Theresa had been warned of his peculiarities, and she readily obeyed a hint that she should go early to bed; but she went reluctantly, for she grudged missing any new experience, and she lay, reading by candlelight, while the voices of her father and Clara rose, and died away, and rose again.

She had taken the book from Alexander's shelves. It was the Keats her father had given him. She saw their two names and the date, and for an instant she held it close. The feel of it produced a vision of her childhood as in a pictured show. She saw herself standing by her father before the breakfast-room fire, listening to that tale of how he was lost among the mountains. That was the day on which they had become part of her life, and when, indissolubly united to them, she had first heard of Alexander. Black-haired boy with the solemn face, clattering about the yard among the geese, he had been stamped on her eager brain, never to be removed. She would keep that old memory, lovingly, for her childhood's sake, and she could feel tender towards the book which she carried into bed, without doing violence to her cherished independence.

The pages of the book were well-worn, and the cover had suffered. No doubt it had been with him on many a walk among the hills, on days when the rain had run off his hair into his mouth and eyes and neck, and soaked into his pockets, or when the sun's warmth had curled the leaves while he read. Had he taken it to Oxford? Quickly she began to read. Questions in ancient history she could allow, but these more modern ones were unforgivable.

She read until she heard James Rutherford come home. There were sounds outside, then her father's step on the stairs and the closing of his door, and Clara's voice ringing clear through a mournful muttering; more steps on the stairs, the brushing of bodies against the wall, another door opened and shut, and then peace. She blew out the light.

When she woke it was to find the book held in her body's curve.

Downstairs there was a note for Edward Webb. "You won't be surprised that we have gone out--probably for the whole day," Clara wrote. "There's plenty of food in the larder, and Mrs. Spencer will come and help if you send for her."

"It will be rather nice to be alone," said Theresa. "Who's Mrs. Spencer? We don't want her, do we?"

"No. It's Easter Sunday. She will be going to church. She is a carter's wife, down by the inn."

"What a man to be married to! Mr. Rutherford, I mean."

Edward Webb would not discuss his host. He helped to prepare breakfast.

"After handling pens and typewriters for three years," said Theresa, as she cut the bacon, "it's a relief to turn to the homelier arts. Put that in the pan, please."

He hesitated. "It looks remarkably greasy."

"Prod it with a fork, then. You're dreadfully civilised. Here's another piece. Do you think you can cook it while I set the table?"

"I'll try," he said.

"Don't let it stick."

"How," he said politely, "is one to prevent it?"

"Oh, you silly! Perhaps I'd better do it, if I can trust you not to break the china. Now, think of what you're doing."

"I'll do my best, ma'am." He delighted in her tyranny and in her company. "Theresa," he said, with a cup hanging on each forefinger, "I'd like to end my days up here with you. We could rent a little cottage--there's one close to the church. It--it might be dull for you, but--there's your writing. You'd have time for that, at last."

"You forget," she said in hurried interruption, for his ambitions for her always smote her, "you forget that I shall be caring for my widower." But that unwise allusion brought the red to her cheeks, and she turned quickly to stir the porridge.

* * * * *

It was a morning of clear blue and green, with a high wind to blow the larches and lash the waters of the streams that were swollen with the melted snow. The shadows of passing clouds made transient blotches on the shining emerald of the hills. The tolling of the one church bell came now loud, now low, at the fancy of the wind.

"It's Easter Sunday," Edward Webb said again. "Theresa, there's a beautiful little church, ten miles away, across the hills. I went there once to service in the afternoon, and I think I'll go again. Will you come with me?"

"I'd rather not. I don't like churches. I think I'll just go and sit beside the stream, and have a little adventure of my own. You'd better take your lunch in your pocket."

"And you'll wrap up warmly, Theresa. And mind you have enough to eat. And don't sit too long, and don't wander away too far. A mist might come on. Be careful."

"I believe you'd like to lock me in a cupboard! Don't you wish you had a little pouch for me, like a kangaroo?"

"Yes, I do," he said, blinking earnestly.

"Well, I expect I shall stay beside the water. There are pools, and creeks, and waterfalls, and rapids, and dreadful, silent little woods. I shall be able to frighten myself finely."

"And Abraham will keep guard over the house and you. I shan't be back till dark. You won't mind?"

"No, I shall feel quite courageous. And, do you know, I've never been really alone in my life. There have always been houses, and tramcars, and policemen, and no chance of being brave! If tramps come, what do you say to them?"

"Ask Abraham. He'll bark at them, but I think few pass this way. There's no high-road. Good-bye, my dear."

* * * * *

She thought that was the most wonderful morning of her life. It was the kind of weather she loved best, with a piercing quality of both wind and sun, and everything glowing, swaying, rustling, creaking. She was gloriously alone, and as she followed the stream and forced its passage, jumping from stone to stone, and feeling water oozing through her shoes, her years fell from her. She was childlike in her acceptance of the hour, nor did she look in upon herself and say, "See how like a child I am!" She was enthralled by the gilded water and the little ferns and mosses growing between the stones, and by the sober presence of the hills that stood far off and looked down with friendly faces. It was only when she passed under the brooding silence of a wood that she remembered her womanhood, and remembered it with fear. Among clustered trees she was not the mistress of her fate: there were influences at work on her, malicious eyes peering, hands ready to tease or bind her, and she hurried from them to the open, where there was nothing between her and heaven.

It was as she returned across the fields that she saw a man leaving the house. He stood for an instant just outside the door, gave a quick glance up and down the lane, and hurried up the valley. She began to run. The man turned sharply to his left, making for a grassy track that skirted the larch wood. She followed, realizing the sterling value of policemen. He went fast, with long, easy strides, and as she noticed the manner of his walking, she was sure this was no common thief. He was a free man by the look of him, fearing nobody. His head, his back--she crushed down a cry, and as, with her eyes still on that back, she would have swung round to retrace her way, she stumbled against a stone, and it was he who turned.

She had not fallen, but her hand was at her throat, her attitude was one of fear, and he ran down the slope. He saw a pale and slightly freckled face under a crown of heavy, burnished hair. He knew the face very well, but it had grown thinner, he perceived, and the photographs did not show the golden freckles, nor the colour of her hair. She was a little breathless, but her lips were tightly closed, and he was acutely aware of the physical control she exercised: there was no sound, the hand at her throat hardly rose or fell. Her eyes, wide at first, narrowed a little, and her lips quivered into a smile.

"I thought you were a thief--so I ran." She made as if she would wave him onwards. "I will pretend I haven't seen you."

He looked beyond her. "I ought to have gone out by the back."

"Yes, you were very careless." But as she spoke she knew why he had chosen the dangerous and longer way. She, too, had rejoiced in the great blue wall that barred the kitchen passage, but rather than explain her understanding, she endured the cool distance of the stare that told her plainly she was alien and unwelcome. But, as she looked at him, returning his gaze with one of frank, unguarded interest, she decided that she did not mind his rudeness, that, indeed, she rather liked the unconsciousness of it, and, without warning, she laughed aloud, and checked against her sides the friendly impulse of her hands.

He condescended to smile, too, under his drawn brows.

"Well--good-bye," she said.

"Good-bye."

Neither moved: each looked over the other's shoulder; Theresa, upwards at the swell of green hills against the sky, and Alexander down at the quiet valley and his home, with Abraham sitting before the kitchen door.

"Where are the others?"

"All gone for walks."

"Don't you walk?" She saw the red sparks in his eyes, and his face mobile for the next emotion. This one was a gently disguised scorn, and again she was unmoved.

"I'd rather run."

"If you're alone, won't you come back to Janet's?"

"No, thank you."

"She would like to see you."

"And I should like to see her. I've known about her for so long; but--it's good to be alone, isn't it? This is the first day I've ever had like this. I'm greedy of it. But if I could just go and speak to her and come back again, that would be best of all."

"You can do what you like at Janet's," he said. "I'm staying there."

To that she made no answer, but her mind was busy, adding this last statement to Janet's refusal to see visitors. She smiled, and through her thought there ran a pleasant sense of liking for Alexander's company. His face was almost what she had expected, but his effect on her was not. She had forgotten her old enmity and all the lurking, half-seen fears that caused it, and she walked easily by his side and knew no embarrassment at their silence.

"We've got photographs of you in our kitchen," he said suddenly; "but how did you know me?"

"Well, I guessed. No I didn't!" She stood still to think. "Oh--I knew."

"You're like your pictures."

"You see," she was explaining her recognition of him--"I've heard about you since I was ten years old. Did Father ever tell you about me?"

He gave a shout of laughter.

"Oh!" she said, "was it as bad as that? No wonder you wouldn't stay in the house with us."

His face became grave. "I had work to do."

She looked at him with a like solemnity, showing him a face which might have been reverential but for the dancing light in the eyes, and for the lips, held back as in a leash. He lifted his head with a jerk, and stared before him until they were at the crest of the slope, and Theresa paused to see the valley.

He cast a glance at her. She wore a short skirt of some dull purple stuff, and a woollen garment of the same colour that fitted loosely, yet defined her slimly rounded shape. He thought that among the gold and copper of her hair he saw a bronze glide into a glinting purple, and it came into his mind that she was like the heather. Her feet, shod soberly in brown, were planted firmly, but her body, like that mountain plant, gave to the wind, and thereafter she and the flower he loved best were for ever one to him.

She knew he looked at her and she looked back at him, now with a different smile--how many had she?--frank and friendly.

"I do like being here," she said, and clasped her restless hands behind her back.

"That's Janet's house among the larches," he said.

The dogs greeted them, and then Janet's tall figure slipped through the trees.

Shyness took hold of Theresa, and when she sat in the dark kitchen she was conscious again of the mystery of woods. The larches were close to the window, scratching the panes, and the room was full of shadows.

Janet did not try to talk, but, having seated Theresa by the fire, she took her stool on the other side of the hearth and scrutinized her keenly, while Alexander leaned in the door-way, reading. Theresa could think of nothing to say, and decided that if these two were content with silence there was no need for her to break it; so she looked into the fire, at Janet's face and the plates on the dresser, at the fire again, at Alexander and the lean hands holding his book.

She had been free and happy outside with him, and now she was uneasy, fettered.

"I think I'll go back," she said.

Alexander closed his book. "But you're going to stay to dinner. Isn't she, Janet?"

"Of course." She looked at Theresa in her brooding, unsmiling way. "I like to have you here. Your father's a friend of mine."

"Did he ever tell you that dream of Janet's?" Alexander asked.

"The one about the birds? Oh yes, he told me that." She smiled. "I think he tells me everything."

"I'll see about the dinner."

Slightly frowning, Theresa looked at Alexander. "Must I stay?"

"I thought, if you would, I'd take you afterwards to a place I know. Will you come? It's a fine place."

"I'd like to come," she said.

Janet fetched food from the larder while Laura, the little maid, with her arms bare beyond the elbow, laid the table and cast casual remarks at Alexander in a pretty monotone. She herself was pretty, but Alexander, reading again, hardly looked at her. He murmured his assents and "no's" and interjections into the book, while she told him how someone in the village had driven into town, and the white horse had fallen and cut its knees, and it was a good horse and a new one. "So they'll have to bide home till its knees are mended, and that's awkward for them with their coal and all to fetch."

"Ye-es," said Alexander. "It'll be hard work fetching the coal by hand."

"They'll never do that!" she exclaimed, and laughed as she saw the queer raising of his brows.

Theresa was unreasonably angered by these pleasantries. She wanted to tell Alexander he was not funny at all, that she could be much funnier herself; but he had returned to his reading with so little apparent satisfaction in his mild joke that she forgave him. Moreover, she liked the way his head rose from his neck, and the line of his chin; he had a manner of touching books that pleased her, and on small likes and dislikes Theresa could hang a serious mood.

A little later, with the dogs leaping round them, they set out together by the front door of the house, and Theresa turned among the larches to wave farewell to Janet, who stood looking after them with her strange passivity.

But to-day, below the quiet of her face, she was feeling all the tragedy of her lost youth and her empty arms. These she folded across her breast and pressed heavily against her heart to still the pain, and, in the trouble of a mother who has had no lover but her son, she saw the shadows drop back into their places as the two figures passed through and on. And she stood there, rigid, with the hurt smile on her lips, until the dogs came back and lay down at her feet, with lolling tongues.

* * * * *

Alexander led Theresa to a broad green path which they could see curving far before them.

"Have we to walk on this all the way?" she asked.

"You need not. It's quickest in the end."

"But it's simply crying out for our obedience! Don't let us obey. Take me the long short cut."

"Well, if you like walking on the sides of your feet----"

"Better than walking in other people's footsteps."

"I like to tread where other men have been," he said quietly. "It links me to them."

"Links? Chains! I want to be free."

Amused, he looked down at her. "But you can't be, you know."

"But I am!"

"You'll find someone tugging at the other end one day."

Turning her palms up and down, she showed him her unshackled wrists. "There's nothing there."

"Well, lead on, then. Straight for the gap."

She went before him. To her the walk was a revelation of her capacity for happiness and when she went to bed that night, she could look back on the day and marvel at the ease with which she had talked about herself, what she wished to do, what she feared she would never do, telling him all without a thought of making any effect, impelled by her conviction of his sympathy, and her own need to speak. Only now, in the quiet of the bedroom, did she speculate on Alexander's judgment of her. She had walked with him for hours, she had been careless of his opinion because she trusted it, because she had so completely and immediately accepted him as friend that another conception of the relationship had seemed impossible, and she saw now that her feeling for him had been too sure and swift for any reflex action. She was less likely to pose to him even than to herself, and, pondering on that remarkable fact, she sat on the bed and drew off her stockings. After all her years of introspection and enjoyment of an audience, this new condition neared the miraculous, and it grew in significance as she sat, slowly unfastening her clothes. Why, it had all been as simple as picking a flower and putting it in her dress, but that Alexander was hardly comparable to a flower. What was he like? A hill, she thought, mirroring the clouds and growing light again with their passing.

She told no one of her meeting with him, and she did not see him again.

To Alexander the memory of that day was a tempting and detested scourge. He was twenty-seven, and the two women who were his friends had held him in their laps. Young women were strangers even to his thoughts, and at Theresa's invasion of his home he had left it, only to have her gold and purple thrust into his hands. And how tightly he had held them all that day! How he had watched her going before him, turning, now and then, to speak! The allurement of her poised body had been strong for him: she had come upon him out of the very earth, with the sun on her hair, and his unguarded senses had greeted her in spite of the dictates of his mind, and, powerful against all warnings, he felt the stirring of the life that had been so long asleep.

But it was when they rested in the promised place that he felt the kinship of her spirit, and did his best not to acknowledge it, and yielded before the vision of her enraptured face. He had taken her to a tower of grey rocks, whence she could look forth as from a window on fold after fold of hills: blue and purple they were, green and grey, colours so intermixed and blended that the eye could hardly part them, and as she gazed out on these serene and solid waves of earth and the deep troughs dividing them, or looked straight below her at the narrow valley streaked with the cotton threads that were streams, up at the sky and the bird that hung there, and down to the ferns in the crannies of the rocks, he knew she loved the hills with a passion younger than his own, but as strong. He knew it through his heart and mind, and in the same instant, he was jealous that she should love them, and that they should be loved by her.

Separated from her by a few yards, he sat on a rock, smoking his pipe and saying nothing, nor did she show any wish to speak. Sometimes he turned to look at her, and always he saw his own emotions on her face. She sat very still, leaning a little forward: the fingers of her clasped hands were interlaced, except when she brushed aside the ruffled hair that strayed into her eyes: her cheeks were pale, but about her there was a subdued light like that in the sky long after the sun has dropped away.

Presently she rose and wandered off, and, in fear lest she should be lost, he followed and found her lying at full length, propping her chin with her hands and digging little graves for her toes. Smiling, but looking at him with solemn eyes, she released one hand and patted the ground beside her in invitation, and thus they lay until her shiver warned him that the air was cold.

"We must go," he said, and remembering the softness of his voice, he was tormented.

She sprang up, and the long silence was broken. They walked home side by side, and she had talked and drawn talk from him until he was telling her the thoughts he hardly knew were his, and now found were his best possessions. With perfect confidence in her interest, he told her the great and little things about his work, and she did not fail him. It was her mind he sought and she gave it gladly; he knew there were no barriers raised against him, and his own were all thrown down.

They had clasped hands in farewell, and she had thanked him for her day, and suddenly her face had become as beautiful for him as her body. It was elfin in the gloaming and tremulous with life, and he saw the loveliness of her lips.

Long after she had left him he sat staring at the stream, shaking and half-afraid because of his fierce desire to touch her.

The water was dark and hardly discernible except where foam gathered and pale waterfalls were splashing, but it was Theresa that he saw. Now he would push her from him in anger, hating himself for his need, and a moment later twine his fingers among hers and draw her back, looking into her clear, unflinching eyes, telling her it was her companionship as well as her sweet frame he wanted, the mind that had sprung so swiftly to his meaning and never fallen short. And then again there would come a terrible distrust, born of his physical desire. How was he to clear himself of that and see an uncaged Theresa flown from the vivid body that might and might not be the expression of herself? Better perhaps to see neither bird nor gilded wires, to forget the singing she had started in his breast, and to go steadily on his chosen road. Why should he introduce strange new gods into his worship? Would they satisfy him? Would they not hinder him, and demand the offering up of sacrifices he could not give?

He cried aloud, and his voice fell in with the sound of the rushing water. "Oh, Theresa, you heather flower, I'll give you anything but my work, if you'll only be what your face says you are. But you can't be that. Can you? Can you? It would be like Heaven opened. Oh, fool--fool--fool!"

He stood up strongly, holding down his hands. "And I thought myself a stubborn man to beat! Well, and I'm not beaten yet."

Nevertheless, late that night he stole round the house and sat long on the horse-block, for it was just below her window.