CHAPTER V

From the end of the dark basement passage she heard the sound of someone shovelling coal.

"Is that you, Bessie?" she called with a tremor in her voice, for even in the daytime the gloom had perils for her. "Bessie, is it you?"

Round the cellar door a capped head appeared and vanished.

"Of course it's me. Who else gets the coals--or does anything else in this 'ouse?"

Theresa ignored the implication, but she felt it sorely, and at the same time she pitied Bessie. Justice forced her to the admission that she had scanty help, and the sight of her now holding a dripping candle in one hand, and in the other a shovel into which she heaped the coal with a felt-shod foot, gave her a blurred impression to which thus early she could put no name, of physical energy ill-controlled. Bessie, in the bowels of the earth, struggling ineffectually, wasting time because with one hand she must hold that tallow candle which gave off such an offensive smell; grumbling, but toiling doggedly, with all the labour of the day looming up before her like a great ash-heap which she must remove unaided--there was little here of the dignity of labour; it was chaotic, dark, grimy. Theresa felt herself bewildered by the endlessness and the dirt of it. There was no danger to enliven it, no beauty to make it noble; the house did not catch fire, though chimneys smoked and food was burnt. No, there was nothing glorious in Bessie's life. And Theresa's own was to be so brilliant! Poor Bessie, it was not all her fault.

Theresa moved from one foot to the other, and said: "Is mother awake?"

"Yes, but she's breakfasting in bed. 'Asn't slept, so she says. 'Eart bad."

"I wish she didn't have such a bad heart," said Theresa, looking Bessie fairly in the eyes. The reality of her mother's complaint was not very present with her, and Bessie had not tried to hide a like incredulity which may have had its influence with the child, but Theresa was loyal to her mother. If she wanted to have a weak heart she must be supported in her desire, against all the sneers of the kitchen, though Bessie was Theresa's friend.

"So can I, I can tell you. Out of the way, Miss Terry dear." She carried a large scuttle to the kitchen. Theresa followed.

"I think I'd better go and wake Grace, don't you?"

"She won't get up unless. Such laziness! And you'll have to have your breakfasts in the kitchen; I can't be carrying them all up and down the house."

"Oh no! And we like it here. Bessie, is everybody's kitchen as dark as ours?"

"I should think not. You should see Alice's at Mrs. Bendall's. It's on the ground floor and as light! But these old-fashioned 'ouses 'ave no 'earts. Pit ponies, that's what they make me think of."

"I suppose you could get a better place if you wanted to, couldn't you?"

"Now you mind your own business, Miss Theresa, and wake Miss Grace. I'll have your breakfasts ready in five minutes. And don't wake your mother. P'raps she's gone off again."

Theresa dragged the bedclothes from a plump and smiling Grace, and put them beyond her reach. "Get up," she said. "This is a nice day. Father's coming home. If he travelled in the night he'll be here at ten, and if he didn't he won't be here till tea. I hope he'll come at ten. I think he will. Oh, do get up. If I were a fairy I'd turn you into that girl with the fat legs."

"You silly!"

"I saw her yesterday, and she'd got a longer skirt on, but it didn't hide them. I can't bear to see her; I think she must be so unhappy. What would you do if you had legs like that?"

"Dance and dance and dance," said Grace, jumping up in the bed and making the springs creak.

"But you couldn't."

"Yes I could. I could dance if I hadn't any legs at all."

"That's stupid. And don't make such a noise. Mother's in bed."

"Then why did you leave the door open and talk so loud?"

"I didn't talk loud. I've got a little voice. I can never hear myself singing at prayers in school, though I try till I get that horrid aching in my ears. So I don't bother very much now, and I just move my mouth. I tried in the glass, and it looks the same. Oh, I wish we'd had breakfast, and it was ten o'clock. I think I'll go and have it."

In the kitchen Bessie was moving from table to cupboard in that dark groping way of hers.

"I've been more than five minutes," said Theresa.

"Well, I couldn't get the fire to burn. What a grate! Here, Miss Terry, finish laying for me while I stir the porridge. And your father will be back hungry, I daresay, and your mother wanting her tray! That's her bell. Just run up and see what she wants."

Theresa met her mother on the landing going to the bath. Her fair waving hair was piled confusedly on the top of her head; she wore a long blue dressing-gown, which was the colour of her eyes, and over her shoulder she had flung a towel. Theresa thought she looked very lovely, and she clasped her hands in her quick movement of joy.

"Oh," she said, "are you better?" and tiptoed to be kissed.

"So this is a kissing morning, is it?" said Nancy, with her little tilting smile.

Theresa nodded. "When you look like that! Did you want anything?"

"Only to tell Bessie I'll have breakfast with Father when he comes. It wouldn't do to be in bed when he arrived. We won't tell him I wasn't well, Terry, or he'll never want to go away again."

"He doesn't anyhow," she said. "But I won't tell."

"Mother's up," she shouted to Bessie as she went jumping down the stairs. "Let's have breakfast. Oh, Grace, you have been quick. You can't have done your hair properly."

"I did, then."

"Brushed your teeth?"

"Miss Terry, you're very uppish this morning. Just mind your own business, and eat what's put before you. If you were as perticler as Miss Grace----"

"Oh, Bessie, the porridge is burnt! Oh, how hateful!"

"It's not very bad," said Grace soothingly. "If you think of something nice you'll hardly taste it."

"D'you think I'm going to eat it? I hate the stuff anyway; nasty, drab-coloured mess! It makes me think of what pigs have to eat."

"Miss Theresa, for shame! If your mother would get me a new saucepan, a double one--but I think you're likely to have burnt porridge every morning. _I_ haven't time to stand over the pot stirring."

"And it smells! Take it away--take it away! And I'm hungry. And the tablecloth's so dirty."

"It's Saturday."

"And why don't we have flowers always, and pretty silvery things like Mrs. Emery has?"

"Oh, be quiet, you little grumbler."

"Here's a crust for you, Terry, a nice burnt one, the kind you like."

"You're spoiling her, Miss Grace. I'd let her starve. Which side did you get out of your bed this morning?"

"Oh, Bessie, don't. I hate that saying. And I got out on the right side, too. I went to the docks. I like them. I saw a boat go through--a beauty."

"You'll fall into the water one of these days."

Theresa leaned her elbows on the table and nursed her chin.

"What do you think," she asked, "would happen if I did? It's dirty water. I should go splash and get a mouthful. It might make me sick. And then?"

Gently waving her teacup, Bessie elaborated. "They'd fish you out--with a 'ook."

"Dead?"

"I should think so. Or p'raps garsping. Your hair'd be black and plastered, and there'd be little bits of things clinging to you."

Theresa clapped her hands. "Oh, you are good at it!"

But Grace cried: "No, no. It's horrid. Be quiet. It's much worse than the porridge. You're spoiling the bread and butter now!"

"We'll wait till we're alone, Bessie," Theresa said with a confidential nod.

When she had helped Grace to make the beds--the one piece of discipline on which their mother insisted--Theresa went into the little-used drawing-room to watch for her father. It was a dreary room in which a fire was seldom lighted except on Christmas Day, and even in summer-time it smelt of cold. The chairs were what Theresa called "rheumatic" on account of the twisted nature of their legs, and the clock, which stood on the mantelpiece and was never wound, presented a supercilious face to anyone who entered. On the walls there were a few faded watercolour sketches which might have been of anywhere, and a chiffonier, filled with odds and ends, stood opposite the fireplace. An empty photograph-frame on a wicker table was emblematic of the place. When Theresa went there she always propped open the door, because she said the room made her feel so lonely, and this though, as Bessie pointed out, there was a portrait of a maternal grandparent on either side of the hearth.

She opened the window wide and leaned out until she was in danger of falling into the area, but finding she could not see far enough down the street, she ran out at the front door and on to the mossy old pavement. It seemed a long time before she saw her father turn the corner of Chesterfield Row, and wave his hand to her.

She ran to meet him. "Hullo, hullo!"

"Well, autumn leaf?" He bent to kiss her, and with a hand on his shoulder she whispered: "Did you get it? You know what!"

"Yes," he said, "I did. A very good one."

"Tell me!"

"Oh, not yet. We must keep it till after tea."

"I don't think I can wait."

"We'll have the fire lighted, but not the gas."

"Oh, is it that kind?"

"It is indeed."

"How lovely. But I'm glad I sleep with Grace."

"But I shan't tell it at all if I hear you've been bad-tempered."

"I think that's rather mean," she said. "We didn't make that arrangement. Don't you think it's rather mean yourself?"

"Well," he said thoughtfully, "perhaps it is. It ought to have been in the bargain."

"I haven't been very bad, anyway. It's been such nice weather for one thing."

"You find that makes a difference?" he asked gravely.

"Oh yes. Don't you? Come on. You're rather slow. Mother's going to have breakfast with you. Shall I carry your bag? I can, really. Well, let me help. I'm strong, you know."

On the doorstep Nancy met him, and turned her soft cheek to his mouth. "Tired, dear?" she asked in her sweet, high voice.

"Very tired."

"Get Father's slippers, Terry."

"I've lost another customer, and if this goes on--thank you, Theresa." He sat on the stairs, and unlaced his boots.

"Go and tell Bessie, dear. She heard you, Ned."

His anxious face took on a greyer shade. "Did she? How careless of me! Perhaps she did not understand. But indeed, Nancy, I am worried, and I cannot blame myself for this. A pure misfortune which might have happened to anyone."

"You shall tell me when you have had breakfast, dear. You must not get disheartened. If only you were a little more conceited, Ned!"

The breakfast-room in the basement was the most cheerful in the house. The kitchen was frankly underground, but the breakfast-room benefited from the sloping ground at the back, and its French windows opened on the garden. Here were the piano, Nancy's work-basket and novels, and the dolls which Grace had not yet discarded. The room had a pleasant air of use, and this morning a clean cloth was spread in honour of the master's breakfast, and Grace, inspired by Theresa's complaint, had arranged a spray of autumn-hued creeper on the table.

Theresa was drumming her fingers on the window. She could see smoke rising from the docks, but at this lower level she could not see the ships. She turned as her father entered.

"Was that the adventure," she asked him quietly, "losing that man?"

"No--oh no, my dear."

"Did you find him again?"

"I didn't really lose him, Theresa. It's just a business expression."

"Oh!" She sighed. "I wish it was tea-time."

"What's going to happen then?" asked Nancy, lifting the tea-cosy.

"Ah," said Theresa.

"I know," said Grace. "Father's going to tell you what happened to him on the mountain."

"Oh yes, Terry, of course--the great adventure!"

Theresa's face had grown very red. Her lips trembled a little. "You didn't tell them, did you?" she asked.

"Yes, Theresa, I told Mother about it in a letter."

"And Mother told me--for a secret."

She tried to steady her lips. "But it was _our_ secret. Oh, why did you tell them? Oh, you've spoilt it all!" The corners of her mouth had dropped to their utmost limits, tears were flowing and sobs coming fast, and, angered by her own weakness, she stamped her foot, shaking her little body violently. "Oh, how horrid of you! W-why did you tell them? I don't want to hear about it now. I hate it, I hate it; I hate you all! Treating me like a baby!" She turned to Grace. "You nasty thing!" she cried, and smacked her face.

"Theresa!"

"I don't care--I don't care!" Clenching her hands and setting her teeth, her face as flaming as her hair, she lifted a foot and made a vicious thrust at her sister, but Grace, giggling through her alarm, managed to dodge the blow. Both her own failure and Grace's good-nature increased Theresa's passion.

"You pig!" she cried. "You coward! I wish I had a knife! When we go to bed I'll kill you! O-oh!" With a long wail, she opened a window and rushed down the garden slope.

Grace took a seat on a low stool, and waited for the interesting conversation which must follow, but Nancy was leaning back in her chair.

"What is it, Nancy?" Edward Webb, clasping his table napkin with both hands, had run round the table.

"Nothing much. I'm not very well. And Theresa's temper----"

"You are not going to faint, are you, dear?"

"I'll give you warning," Nancy said, twinkling up at him. "No, I'm better. Grace, go and see what Theresa's doing."

"She's crying," said Grace. "She always does. And then she makes up stories about herself, she told me she did, and after that she comes and does something nice to you. If she's got any money I expect she'll buy me some sweets."

"I think we had better leave her alone. I blame myself, Nancy. I ought to have warned you, but I had not realized what store she was setting on keeping the secret to ourselves. I did not even know it was to be a secret, but I am afraid I've hurt her feelings."

"Evidently," said Nancy dryly.

"Terry," said Grace in her low, husky voice, "always wants things to herself. She won't share anything of mine, and when I have girls to tea she just sits and stares at them. She says she wants a friend of her very own."

"Poor little girl," said Nancy softly.

"I think she likes it," said Grace serenely. "She's funny. Shall I tell you what she told me a little while ago? It isn't a secret."

"Not even one of Theresa's secrets?"

"Well, if it is," said Grace acutely, "it's the kind she'd like you to know. I heard her crying in bed, and I asked her what was the matter. She wouldn't tell me for a long time, and then she said she wished she knew about her real father and mother. She says she knows you found her on a doorstep or something like that. She kept saying, 'I'm a little waif! Oh, Daddy! oh, Mummy!'"

"You ought to have told us before," said her father seriously. "She may have suffered more than we shall ever know."

"Oh, I don't think she minded really, because when she stopped crying she told me the whole story. It was all a make up, and she forgot she was pretending it was real because she went on to when she was eighteen, and--oh, I forget what she did then, but I know she rode to hounds and had a silvery laugh."

Across Edward Webb's worried face a complaisant look was stealing; his eyes had brightened. He met Nancy's laughing glance and answered it, but there was more than amusement in his: there was pride.

"You see," he said to her when Grace had left the room, "she's not an ordinary child."

"I wish her temper were ordinary. It's dreadful, Edward. She threw a plate at Bessie yesterday; I don't know why."

"Surely you ought to have found out, dear, and done something to correct her."

"I went to bed," said Nancy simply.

"You'll have to see a doctor."

"My dear, we simply can't afford it. Besides, I know what to do."

"I don't really need that new suit, Nancy."

"My dear shabby little old man, don't be absurd. I saw Mrs. Emery about Grace. She is willing to apprentice her at once."

"It's too soon. The child is only twelve."

"Nearly thirteen. Of course, it's too soon, but what are we to do?"

"I don't know--I don't know. I do not like to give my daughter so poor an education."

"She's a dunce, anyhow. We must think about it. Mrs. Emery says she will only charge a nominal fee, as she has such a high opinion of her dancing, and finds her such a help already."

"That's a relief. I thought--I was afraid I might have to apply to George for a loan. I should not like to do that."

"He came here yesterday," Nancy said reluctantly, "and hinted again. I wish he'd marry someone."

"My dear, it may come to asking him to live here. It would be a great help, and--I hope I am not pessimistic, but I foresee misfortune. It must be faced--I am a failure, Nancy. My commissions are getting smaller every year. They are bound to remove me soon. I could not blame them. They may give me a clerkship at a paltry income. And there is Theresa's education."

"And Grace's stockings!" said Nancy. "But oh, Edward, George is dreadful! I might do without a servant."

"That's impossible." He spoke with a rare decision. "We must do our best, Nancy."

"I know I'm a bad manager. I'm not economical, but I do try. I suppose I ought to be thankful that the children's appetites are enormous, and that Theresa's energy wears her clothes into rags. And the poor child loathes wearing Grace's outgrown frocks. I dye them and disguise them when I can, but she thinks everybody knows. She doesn't even have clothes of her own!"

"If we can only hold out until she is grown up. She is not an ordinary child."

"Of course she isn't! You knew she wasn't ordinary when she was an hour old. What was it you said--the moulding of her forehead? You made up your mind to it before she was born! And I love you for it--at present."

"What do you mean?"

"Only that some day I may want to hear you sing my praises instead of hers. I suppose"--she gave her twisted smile--"one could become jealous of a daughter."

"You jealous!"

She looked at him with humorous discernment. "Why not?" And without waiting for an answer she went on: "Do you know what I wish for both the children? You'll think it's treachery."

"Tell me."

"Marriage."

He made her a little bow. "May I take that as a compliment. It's perhaps the happiest wish for them, the happiest work, but I can't have Theresa wasted. She must have her chance."

"Don't you think she'll make it if she deserves it?"

"Ah, my dear, that's not quite fair. We must do all we can."

"Then I think we'd better try to cure her temper."

"I'm afraid," he confessed--"I'm afraid I like it in her. It's abnormal, you see."

"Oh, Edward, Edward, isn't that rather like catching at straws?"

"Certainly not," he said, with a little indignation. And then, somewhat shamefacedly, he added: "The fact is, I can't dislike anything in her." He looked through the window, and his brow was wrinkled. "Do you think," he asked half timidly, "that she is suffering?"

"I hope so," Nancy said.