CHAPTER VII

Edward Webb did not deny himself another pilgrimage to the mountains. Tenderly and silently, without disdain or ruthlessness, he put aside Nancy's prejudices. He knew something which was denied to her; he knew that the mountains gave him strength--the strength he so much needed to supplement his own; perhaps, though he hardly thought it, to counteract her weakness. There were days when he felt the desperation of fear: his children and his wife must be fed and clothed and housed if they were to live, and it was only he who could make that possible. He must work yet harder, he must make himself more valuable, he must be braver. He would gather endurance and courage from that vast storehouse where they were garnered, and if he hurt Nancy she would learn some day that it had been to save her.

When he was away he would tell her very simply of his intentions. "To-morrow I go to the farm. I am looking forward to the silence of the hills. They bring me nearer to you and all lovely things." Did she smile happily as she read, or had her lips the bitterer downward twist? He never asked aloud, for on that subject there was silence between them when they met, and it was Theresa's greedy ears that absorbed the tale of his experiences. "Tell me about that boy," and "Tell me about the mountains," were her two demands; but she was a willing listener to all, and Nancy, hearing fragments of their talk, would purse her lips. Yet, in letters, she, too, would be more open. "I'm glad you are going, dear." And then the little thrust, "Be happy there, and forget your worries and your poor useless Nancy." He would sigh over that, grimace over it painfully, and then settle his features with determination. There was Theresa: she must not be wasted. He saw her bright, like a star, and never a day passed but what she seemed more glowing, more necessary to give light to a world which, at times, was very dark. She shone for him, but she must shine for others: she must not be hidden behind the clouds of poverty that threatened. "On, on," he would murmur to himself as he stepped into that shop where, from behind the counters the young women laughed at him; and "On, on," he urged himself again, when his enthusiasm about his wares was failing him. It was hard to be eloquent about hooks and eyes, safety-pins, patent contrivances for the support of skirts, collar-bones and buttons, but there were times when he was served by his very depreciation of the goods, when his nervous "But no, of course, you would have no sale for things like these" persuaded his customer that some deep meaning underlay the words, so that he bought quietly, with covert eagerness. But Edward Webb only heard doubt in the tones of his own voice. "I was not born to be a pedlar!" he cried silently to the heavens. "I have no glibness. It is a gift. I cheapen the things in my very praise of them--but Theresa, Theresa!" That had become his battle-cry.

But it was good to strip himself of what might be called his uniform, don a grey suit and a soft hat, and, carrying a walking-stick, take the train to the little station by the shore. There followed a long walk for a tired man, but he was sure of a welcome at the end of it and, all the way, he had the company of the hills.

On a Friday evening in July, a little less than a year, and for the fourth time, since he had first seen the place, he tapped at Clara's door. She opened to him, and he saw anxiety in her face.

"Oh, come in," she said, and led him to the kitchen. "Jim's away, but Alexander'll be home soon. I wondered if you'd come, and your room's ready."

"You don't look well."

"I've a headache."

"I'm sorry Rutherford's away. Perhaps you'd rather I went back to-night."

"Of course not. I'm glad to see you, and so will Alexander be. And you do him good. He has no friends but you and Janet."

"I'm fond of him," Edward Webb said simply.

Moving in the sure strength that gave meaning to everything she did, she set the table for tea, then stood in the doorway and looked out and up towards the Spiked Crags, shading her eyes.

She turned to him for an instant. "I shan't be long. Will you mind the kettle for me? Tell Alec I've only gone a little way."

A few minutes later he heard Alexander's nailed boots in the passage, saw him enter quickly and look round the room, like a man who takes note of circumstances for the sake of safety.

"Oh, you're there!" They shook hands. "I've been wishing for you," said Alexander.

"Your mother has gone out for a little while. I was to tell you she was not going far."

Alexander leaned against the mantelpiece, and his face was dark with anger. "She'll kill herself, tearing about the place, worrying her life out over him," he said in his monotonous tones. "And I'd as soon see him killed as a rat. Mr. Webb, I hate that man, my father."

"My boy!"

"I do. He's spoilt my life for me. We hate each other, but he hated me first."

"There's more life before than behind you."

"Perhaps, but I'll never be a boy again. I'll never have been young at all. I can't remember anything of him but his scowling face and his drinking fits."

"There are worse men."

"Who do less harm. I believe that."

"Your mother cares for him."

"You think that proves him good. It just proves nothing. And I wish she didn't. If she hadn't watched over him, he might have killed himself long ago. And now he's tired of getting quietly drunk, and he's gone off, and the devil knows where he's gone to. I believe he's mad, but I'll not be his gaoler. I'll neither look for him, nor be glad when he comes back; if I saw him walking straight for death, I'd not touch his coat-tails to keep him back."

"Be quiet!" Edward Webb put up his hand, and there was command in his voice. "Tell me what's happened, and don't stain your mouth with talk like that."

"I'll stain it with no lies, and can you not see that I must speak? Do I talk to my mother like this? I just hold my tongue, but you're the only friend I've got, and if you'll not let me talk to you I'll just have to murder him. I've got to do something. Drunkenness, what's that? It's little enough with some men; I'm not blaming him for that. It's the black selfishness of the beast that angers me. Anger! It isn't anger; it's something hard and hot that's been growing in me since ever I can mind, when he didn't answer my questions and left my mother alone. I've seen her cry. And I've seen him blubbering over her, sorry for himself, not for her! Well, he went off two days ago. A kind of fever took him. He said he couldn't stay, and when she tried to stop him he shook her off. He said, "I'm my father's son"; he kept saying it--"I'm my father's son. He came and went like the wind." And my mother says my grandfather used to wander off when the drinking fits came over him, and no one knew where he went nor when he would come back. So now she's still more to bear. I hope _I'm_ not _my_ father's son. For two nights I don't believe she's slept--she's listening for him. I'm glad you've come. She wouldn't let me stay away from school; she said it would be better if he came back and didn't find me here; so I went. It's important for me to get that scholarship, you see, but if he's playing these tricks all this next year, well, I'll just have to practise forgetting, when I'm working."

"If you learn to do that, you'll have a valuable possession. Is there anything we can do?"

"I'll not stir a foot."

"To help your mother, I meant."

"That's the best way of helping her."

"We must let her decide that, I think."

Leaning his forehead on the hands that held the mantelshelf, Alexander went on, heedless of all but the desire to speak his black and clustering thoughts. "She knows I hate him. She likes me less for it."

"I don't believe it. She has a wide heart, a great and simple understanding."

"But she likes him best."

"She should."

"I'm not jealous, I don't care, but I tell you I've been robbed of something all my life. I've missed something, and that man's the thief. He's my father, my father, and what has he done for me all these days?"

"No one can tell you that."

"Ah, but I know. It's just nothing."

His listener rose and moved to and fro in agitation.

"You've no right to say that. How can you tell? How can anybody tell? You touch me very nearly. I am a parent. I think--I seem to myself to have done much, very much, given constant thought for my children, yet to Theresa how do I appear? Careless of her, perhaps, selfish, obtuse. I do not know. There's a chasm opened before one--a chasm of ignorance and doubt. One treads so falsely, takes the wrong path, and to her the way to help her may be so plain. Human beings, all of us, yet we speak strange tongues. The Tower of Babel with us still--still. It may be that you misunderstand your father's language, Alexander."

"He never speaks."

"Ah, don't be wilful. Under that ill-temper I believe he suffers."

"But why should I pity him? It's his fault."

"That's why you should pity him. That's the worst suffering."

Alexander shook his head. "I can't feel anything for him but hate. I hate the things he's touched; I hate to think I'm of his flesh."

"That's wickedness."

"Maybe. I feel all black inside. I'm burnt up like a cinder." He went to the door. "She's coming back. I'll make the tea."

"Is she alone?"

"Why, yes. He'll be miles away."

The three found little to talk about that evening. Clara sat sewing, with her ears at stretch; Alexander had a book; and Edward Webb marvelled at the change in him a year had made. Last September he was a moody boy; this month he was a still more moody youth. The bones of his face had grown in prominence; the lines of the jaw and chin were fine and hard, boding trouble for those who brooked him; and the lips, still wanting in maturity, had settled themselves in rather sullen curves. Trouble stirred at the man's heart. He liked this boy: if he had had a son, he thought, he would have chosen such a one: the brow promised brains, the flare of his nostrils was sensitive and proud, and passion brooded in his eyes. There was power in the face, but there was danger too, until his reason should learn to control his will; and before that day came there might come another, bringing tragedy. He moved uneasily. The room to him was like a cup holding a poisonous draught which must be spilled before it could work harm. He cleared his throat, loudly, startlingly, as though to warn a would-be drinker; the two looked up, and Alexander, in that quick hunter's way of his, glanced round the room.

"Nothing," said Edward Webb--"nothing."

"It's time we went to bed," said Alexander. Last year he had been sent there.

"Yes, yes. It's half-past ten."

"You'll go, mother?"

"Yes, I'll go. We'll leave the door unlocked and Jock at the stair-foot. He'll let no stranger past."

"A dog's a grand thing," said Alexander.

They laughed, and bade each other good-night.

Once more Edward Webb lay long awake, listening, as he knew the others did, for the noise of a hurried step outside. "Poor man! poor woman! poor boy!" he murmured, and then his thoughts hung hoveringly over the fact of his own parenthood. What had he done? Worse still, what had he left undone? The wind rose with a gathering swell of sound; rain fell and pattered on the window, pattering, pattering, until it seemed like voices. He fell asleep, but in a little while he wakened. Someone was moving about downstairs. Very quietly he went to the head of the stairs.

"Who's there?" he called.

Clara answered him. "It's only me."

"What are you doing?"

"Just making up the fire. It's such a stormy night--and cold."

* * * * *

The morning was very fair. The world had the washed look it needs in mid-July, and there were still raindrops sparkling in the sun.

"I think he'll come back to-day," Clara said to Alexander. "Will you take Mr. Webb for a walk--a long walk? You'd better not be here, either of you."

"You're not afraid?"

"Afraid! I'm only afraid when you're there, Alexander."

"You needn't blame me."

"I don't," she said.

After breakfast Alexander and Edward Webb set off together.

"Will you have a bathe?" the boy asked when they reached the Broad Beck pool.

"I should like it."

"Can you swim?"

"Yes--well, I can keep up."

"All right, then. Look how deep it is. Last summer it was shallower by four feet."

He stripped and dived, and Edward Webb, not to be outdone, followed him with a splash.

"Ah!" He came up bubbling. "How Theresa would like this. It's cold, distinctly cold, but it does one good, braces one. But I think I'll just get out on this rock for a while."

Alexander, lying on his back and kicking the water gently with his heels, appeared to address the sky. "I thought you had two girls."

"So I have. Oh, I see your point." He slipped into the water again, made three strokes, and found he could touch bottom. "It's shallower here."

"No," said Alexander; "I really thought she might have died, or something."

"I'm very fond of her. Alexander, this water's very cold. I think we ought not to stay too long. But I admit that Theresa does seem more akin to me. I hope I have not let Grace know it. You were right to reproach me."

"I didn't mean to--at least, I hope I didn't mean to."

"You must not think I do not care for Grace, but Theresa--well, Theresa has all the gifts I wanted when I was young. Have you a towel?"

"What were those? No, no towel; the shirt does. What were those gifts?" he was obliged to ask again.

"You haven't seen her. If you saw her, you would understand. I'll bring a picture of her next time I come. I wish you'd get out, my boy; it's very cold."

"I'm used to it. All the year round I bathe here."

"But, besides, she's clever. She'll make a name."

"How?"

Clad now in shirt and trousers, Edward Webb approached the pool, and perhaps he thought the silver birches bowed their heads to hear.

"She's going to write." There was a gentle rustling among the trees, but Alexander, showing no more than his wet face and hair, opened his mouth and said nothing for a space. Then, "Was that what you wanted to do?" he asked, and paddled to shore.

"Yes, yes, it was my ambition. But I had no time. It was a struggle to live, and I married. Only lately----"

"You've been doing it?"

He bowed his head. "I have told no one else," he said, and seemed to wonder at himself.

"Not Theresa?"

"No, no. You see, Theresa is very young. But she shows signs. I have seen little poems."

"Is it prose you write?"

"No. I'm--I'm afraid not. I cannot think that I ought to do it. It's self-indulgence, I believe, but if I have given the palest spark to Theresa, if she----"

"It was you who gave me Keats," Alexander said. "Have you had anything printed?"

"I haven't tried. What does it matter? It's the doing of it, you see. I've never found Theresa care for anything that was not good--strange in a child, I think. Significant. She has unerring taste, if I am any judge."

"I wonder, would you let me see your things? I've never seen anything but printed stuff. I'd like to see it fresh from a man."

Edward Webb flushed deeply. "I should be very grateful for your criticism."

"I couldn't give that."

"To oblige me, please. I--I haven't had the benefit of your education. I had to leave school early, and I know but little of the classics. I thought once of pursuing them, but there is so little energy when one's work is done--exhausting, uncongenial work. I know no scholars; in fact, I know few men, and those I meet are--are like myself. I want to give Theresa more than I had."

"Yes. Shall we be going on? Across the stream. There's a little bridge farther down."

They crossed and, emerging from the birch-wood, were on the flank of the Blue Hill. A narrow path led them upwards and soon they looked down on the level valley, its few houses, the church among its yews and the winding river, fringed by trees, flowing into the wide lake. And far off there shone a thin line which was the sea. But the path wound round the hill, so that they must turn their backs on these things and face a steep ascent, with another stream rushing down the hollow at their right. Without speaking, they toiled on, Alexander walking as one born to the hills, Edward Webb panting with an attempt at noiselessness. He turned once with a forced smile, for the going was hard.

"My wind," he said, "not so good as yours."

"Let's sit down," said Alexander.

Fifty feet below them the torrent dashed itself into foam in its narrow trough, splashed the rowan trees that overhung it and threatened their brave roots with the reckless water which, white with froth, showed in its smoother places, a brilliance of blue that shamed the sky.

"To live here always!" Edward Webb exclaimed.

But Alexander said nothing more than, "We'll follow the stream when you're rested."

"I'm ready."

They went on, slowly mounting a steep and slippery tongue of land that lay between the white teeth of the torrent and a sister stream. The man's breath came sharply, but he plodded upward.

"The muscles of my legs are feeling it," he confessed. "Not that I want to stop. It does me good. It is more delightful than I can say. Ah!" He sank to a stone as he reached level ground again. "Ah!" He could find no more words, for across a wide stone-strewn space there rose a cliff of black and riven rock. In its grandeur and aloofness it looked immutable, yet the rents in its great sides, this rocky hollow which was the pit into which it flung the fragments time had stolen from it, were proof that even it must suffer change. But it suffered bravely, stoically, lifting a proud and peaceful face to the sky, and now, about its summit, a little filmy cloud had wreathed itself.

Looking at it, Alexander wore an expression between pride of possession and youthful reserve; he lay on his stomach, nibbling a heather stalk, and frowning that he might not smile. This was his mountain, all the mountains were his, and he would have led hither no one whom he could not trust; but Edward Webb's long-drawn sighs, the restless movements of a pleasure that looked and was not able to express itself, and then the settled quiet of his drinking gaze, assured him that he had made no mistake. This man understood that he was in the presence of the mighty. Alexander gave a small, satisfied nod of the head. It was almost a year since he had first seen Edward Webb, and it was Edward Webb who had given him Keats; yet for these ten months he had waited, watching, before he would bring his friend to the holy places. And now he was content: he had not offended his mountain, he had brought it another worshipper.

There was no sound heard in that solitary place but the brawling of the two waters, the occasional cry of a sheep, and the rattle of the stones it dislodged as it picked its way about the scree: than that and the rushing water there was no other movement, except when a rare bird, poised against the blue, flapped strongly, surely, with its powerful wings. With every minute the quiet that was a quality of the mountain gathered and increased. Quietness and courage and endurance--these were the messages heard by Edward Webb, sent to him by that gaunt and perfect example fronting him. These, and something more, for the majestic rock reared against the sky spoke of more than human attributes, craved and approached the Divine.

"It lifts me; I seem to be afloat," he said, careless of the boy, or confident in him. "I wish----"

"No, no!" Alexander looked up. "Don't say it! She wouldn't like it; I know she wouldn't. I won't have her like it."

On Edward Webb's face surprise was chased by pain. "How did you read my thoughts?" he said. "Have I been talking of her so much? Ah, I have bored you. I must learn to hold my peace, but it's seldom I speak freely--seldom."

"You haven't bored me," Alexander said gruffly.

"And you're wrong about Theresa."

"I may be, but I just know I don't want her to see this. I'd rather have her hating it than liking it. It's only for the few, this is."

"I had hoped to bring her here," the other said sadly.

"Oh, well, I needn't come with you," Alexander said.

* * * * *

It was growing dark when they returned, and on the doorstep they found Clara waiting for them.

"He's come back," she said. "He's gone to bed."

"Where has he been?"

"I haven't asked him. What does it matter? He's back again. Edward, I'm wondering if you'd go to Janet's for the night. I asked her if she'd have you. You wouldn't mind? You see, to-morrow--he mightn't like it. I told him you'd been here last night, and he took for granted you'd gone back to-day. And--he's not quite himself."

"Mother, you cannot----"

"Don't be silly, Alec. He understands."

"Of course, of course. I'll go. If there were a train----"

"There's not. Janet will be glad to have you--she said so--and she likes men about. I've put your things together." She thrust a parcel into his hands. "Alec will take you. Will you need a lantern? No? Good-night, then--good-night."