CHAPTER XXVI

An immense and palpable calm surrounded her as she undressed, and when she stretched herself between the sheets she fell at once into an untroubled sleep. For a little while the firelight licked the walls, danced on the chair where her clothes were tumbled and leapt to the ceiling to look down on her in the bed, lying pale and flaccid with her cheek on Alexander's letter. Then the fire's heart called back the flames, and they were gathered into a red and tranquil glow which faded, while the dropping coals slowly ticked out their life. But that noise had ceased and the room was entirely dark when Theresa woke and sat up.

She thought there was someone in the room, but she was not afraid. She listened, leaning on her hands.

"What is it?" she whispered.

The room was quiet, but its stillness was heavy as with a presence. She looked behind her; only the wall was there.

"What is it?" she repeated.

There was something she had to do, and even while she strove to discover it she had slipped from bed and pattered across the floor. She ran with a swift sureness down the stairs and through the hall. The locks and bolts of the front-door yielded to her fever, and then the night air smote her and the cold of the steps shocked her feet.

"What am I doing?" she asked.

What little wind there was moaned stealthily among the elms, and on the house-wall the ivy-leaves scratched each other. The lawn stretched before her like water of an unimagined blackness.

"I must have been asleep," she murmured, looking at the night for confirmation, but its waiting patience made her no answer. She thought all the trees had faces that looked kindly on her. She was not afraid of the night, yet it was imminent and sorrowful with doom. Something was going to happen.

"I had to do something," she said in a strange voice, and closed the door. Her fingers were weak now, and slow. Her strength had gone and she was very cold. She stood shivering in the hall, trying to solve this mystery. Had she been warned in some way? Was the house on fire? She sniffed earnestly. There were no signs anywhere of danger or disturbance, and she turned to climb the stairs. Half-way up she began to run. Where was her letter? She had forgotten her letter. Someone had stolen it, and, stealing it, had waked her. But she found it, crumpled, in the bed.

"I don't understand," she said, and lay long awake, conquering the cold of her body and the puzzle of her mind.

When the morning came through the windows, she was lying deep in the bed, as though she were rooted to it and she was conscious of a fatigue she had not known before. It was her habit to spring from bed with the first opening of her eyes, but this morning she had to be reminded of coming battle before she could be roused, and then the adventurous spirit that welcomed any new experience, and would have dreadful ones rather than none, took command over her tired frame.

She had an enigmatical smile for Morton at the breakfast table, and afterwards, when he would have smoked a pipe before the fire, she was imperative.

"Come into the garden quickly," she said.

"He would like to read the newspaper first, dear. He always likes to read the paper and have a pipe."

She clapped her hands together. "He must come into the garden with me."

He glanced at her feet. "Put your shoes on first, darling."

"And you would like my woolly shawl."

"My slippers are thick, and I don't want a shawl, or anything, thank you. I'm burning. Are you coming, Basil? Can't you see--can't you see that you must come?"

She ran out before him and on to the lawn, and the wind caught her hair and buffeted her so that she had to lean against it to find rest. She watched his slow approach, and as soon as he was close to her she said clearly, loudly, because of the wind: "I can't marry you."

"What?" He took her by the arm and stooped. "What did you say?"

She freed herself. "I can't marry you."

He heard. "Can we get out of the wind?" he said.

She made a gesture that told him to lead on, and she followed him to a dusty summer-house. The sudden quiet of the place was like a blow and there was a singing in her ears.

"It's dirty, I'm afraid."

"I don't want to sit down. Did you hear what I said, Basil?"

"You don't want to sit down?"

"No. I can't marry you."

He saw no ring on her hand. "Why?" he breathed. He was shocked into the use of his imagination. "Is it--it isn't Vincent?"

"Vincent?" She had to frown before she could remember him. "Oh no, no, no!"

"Why?" he asked again, and his voice seemed to hold back the word as it was uttered.

"I don't know. I'm very fond of you." She smiled with a touch of drollery. "I think I love you, as one loves some people, but not--one's lover. I thought I did, except when I heard voices."

He frowned, uncertain of her sanity. He shook his head.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Theresa. What have I done?"

"Nothing. But I've known secretly all the time--nearly all the time--that in saying I would marry you I fell below myself. Not"--she smiled again--"because I think you are unworthy, but just because you are not--the man for me. I made you into him for a little while, but truth is stronger than my will. It's possible that a very good man may do one more harm than a very bad one. But I'm not thinking of my safety. It's just my necessity, and I don't know what is going to follow. I can't explain. There are no words, for, you see, it's something that belongs to the wordless things. I ought to have found out before. I might have, if I had been quite honest."

The word had a memory for him. "Was this what you came to say last night?"

"No."

"What was it?"

"I can't tell you now."

"I think I have a right to know."

"You had last night; not now."

He showed her a terrible, drawn face. "Theresa, forgive me for last night. Let us begin again. We are so different--but I want to learn from you. Let us begin again."

"We can't." She twisted her hands together, and shook them with the faint shaking of her body.

"A little thing like that--Theresa, I love you."

"I know." She stood silent, with head bowed, but she lifted it with a thought. "You've never wanted the best of me, Basil. And--I can't give it to you. There's a dam, somewhere. And I've never been true to you. Ah, you see, you don't understand. Isn't that proof enough? I thought I loved you, but all my life I've been playing parts, half consciously. There has only been one day--only one--when I did not think about myself."

"When was that?" It was the first time she had seen him curious.

She smiled waveringly, as though she would soon cry.

"It was before I met you. Will you let me finish? I want to tell you. It's not your fault. It's something in myself. Don't think I'm blaming you. You've never seen me, Basil. You've seen a woman who likes being spoilt, who likes being loved, who knows how to get what she wants, and yet contrives to do it with a kind of fiendish decency, for I haven't a blatant fashion of alluring. And you've seen the other woman who likes power. Perhaps it is the same woman on her more intellectual side. Yes, power! When I look back, I see that it is a distorted kind of power I've wanted. And to know one's self loved is to have power. You see how I was tempted, yet I did not know that I was falling. Now I know--and there's an end to it. I have to ask your pardon for making you the victim, and to--to thank you for all your sweetness--too much sweetness."

She was like a bit of smiling steel, he thought--a sword, sorry to have to wound, yet bound to do it. He had no hope of mastering her, though he saw pity dragged from her heart into her eyes. He was haggard. She had been right to call him victim.

"But why after last night?" he asked.

"It had to be some time, hadn't it? Before marriage, or after it."

"But why last night? There's something you're not telling me."

"Haven't I said enough?"

"You needn't be afraid of hurting. I shall be glad of it."

She nodded comprehension. "I had a fight last night. I had to give you all my confidences or none, and I wanted to keep you because I like you, and because I'd entangled you with some of my dearest thoughts. But it was hard to tell you what I was going to tell you, and then you wouldn't listen, and you made me laugh, and I saw--oh, clearly--that you would never have understood, and I felt--oh, must I tell you?--I felt I'd saved something very precious from destruction. And so there was an end."

He was sitting on the dusty, wooden bench, staring before him.

"If only there weren't any people," she said for him. He started. "It's hateful for you, dear. All those good friends of yours, looking so sorrowful and being so curious. Oh, I am sorry! You can tell them anything you like about me, and nothing will be bad enough."

"Please don't, Theresa."

She began to count the cobwebs hanging from the roof.

"Why don't you have this place kept clean?"

"I do, in the summer."

Over and over again she counted them. She made calculations of the height of the walls, the length and breadth of the floor, while the sight of Morton sitting there, inert and miserable, roused her to an irritated, helpless pity.

"Do you think I could go home this morning, please?" she asked softly.

"I'll see about it."

"You won't want to tell Mrs. Morton, will you? I'll do it."

"Be kind to her, Theresa."

"My dear, she'll thank God for an escape."

"Ah, don't----"

"No. Good-bye."

He stood up. He seemed very tall and broken, resting one hand heavily on the little rustic table.

"Basil," she said thoughtfully, "did you come into my room last night?"

"Your room? Your bedroom?"

"Yes, long after I had left you?"

"No dear. Of course not! Why?"

"I had a queer feeling that someone was in the room."

He stumbled over his words. "I--I dreamt of you last night."

Her mouth drooped; he saw the quiver of her nostril. "Oh--don't dream of me any more," she said. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Theresa."

"May I kiss you? Stoop down. Lower, lower. How tall you are!" She kissed him on each cheek. "I always liked that little hollow place," she said, and left him with the sound of her sobbing breath for company.

* * * * *

George and Edward Webb, eating their hybrid meal at seven o'clock, were startled by the entrance of Theresa. Above her coat collar and below the veil banded across her forehead, her eyes were luminous and black-rimmed.

Edward Webb sprang up and, forgetting the restricting presence of his brother, exclaimed anxiously: "My dear, my dearest! what is the matter?"

"Nothing, dear. It's nice to see you."

"You look ill, Theresa."

"I've had a journey, and the train jolted so."

"Where's Basil?"

"In his home, I hope." She became flippant for the benefit of Uncle George. "I'd better tell you. I have resigned the situation. Do you think I can have some of your tea?"

"H'm, and now, I suppose, you'll be wanting another?"

"Will you find me one, Uncle George? If not, I've no doubt Mr. Smith will take me back."

Edward Webb still held Theresa's hand. "I think," he said with dignity, "we need not discuss the matter until Theresa has had some tea. You're cold, my dear."

"Desperately," she said.

He seated her by the fire, and brought her tea, and ordered Bessie to bring hot toast.

"Lots of it, please, Bessie," said Theresa.

"And more coal, and perhaps we'd better have Miss Grace."

"No, not Miss Grace until to-morrow."

"But, my dear, I'm afraid you're going to be ill. You're shivering."

"It's just a cold. I want to be alone with you to-night."

"Well, I'm going to finish my tea, anyhow," said Uncle George.

She nodded at him, laughing. He nodded back, in his grim way. This was how they always told each other of their friendship.

"And there was a time when I didn't like you!" she exclaimed involuntarily.

He ducked his head again. "I'm quite aware of that, my girl."

He went to his harmonium, and Bessie, with a thousand fancies in her romantic heart, retired to wash up the dishes.

"Now tell me," said Edward Webb.

"It was only because I didn't love him enough," she said, and burst into a foolish weakness of tears.

He was pacing behind her chair, and she heard him muttering: "Thank God! thank God! Are you crying, Theresa? You mustn't do that, my dear. You've come home. I've got you back again. You must be happy." He patted her clumsily on the shoulder, and she dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. "It's good to have you back. We've missed you. Even George admitted that."

"Don't tell me such things," she said. "They've been the ruin of me. And you must let me be miserable for a little while! It's all I can do for Basil. I think I'll go to bed."

"Not yet. I told Bessie to light the fire."

"But what extravagance!"

"You don't come home every day," he said, and he spoke as though she had come on a far journey.

Afterwards, when she lay warm and comforted in bed, he came to see her. He made up the fire, he altered the opening of the window by an inch, he felt the heat of the hot-water bottle, and hovered on the threshold to find more to do.

"I wish I had a thermometer," he murmured.

"I'm glad I broke it. I refuse to have my temperature taken. I'm much too sleepy. Good-night, dear. I'm so comfortable."

"Good-night, my child," he said, and crept down the stairs in a great happiness of hope.