"I'm not asleep," he said, and his voice seemed very small and far away.
"But you've been asleep," said Clara.
"Have I? I—I beg your pardon. It was rude of me, but the fire and the comfort and—and last night——"
"Sleep again if you want to," she said. Her voice had the note women use to tired children, and he understood that he must seem as helpless to her as he sat there, half asleep, in the chair that was so much bigger than himself.
"No, oh no; I would rather not. I—I have never thanked you properly, nor have I explained anything about myself. You don't know who I am. I have been taken on trust—entirely on trust. You must believe me grateful. My name——"
"Alexander saw that in your books, Mr. Webb. You haven't left them in the wet, Alec?"
"No; he returned them, thank you, quite dry again. I must own that I was anxious about them in the night. It's strange how little things like that can worry one. Not that I think it a small thing to care for books, but in the face of—of danger it became trivial."
"You were in danger?"
"Less than I thought. I could see nothing. I had not been in such a position before, and I am afraid I am a nervous man, more easily alarmed than one should be. Perhaps, with a little more determination——" He stopped and stared into the fire. The dancing flames of it reminded him of Theresa's hair. He went on with difficulty. "I am a traveller. I mean, a commercial traveller." He seemed to expect reproof.
Clara encouraged him. "Yes?"
"I thought I would spend my Saturday and Sunday among the hills, and here I am, but at this time last night I thought I should never see home again."
"There are people who would miss you, I expect."
"Yes; my wife, two little girls." His face brightened. "It was Theresa, the younger, who really sent me on this expedition. She wanted an adventure, she told me, and so I had to get it for her."
"How old is she?" This was from Alexander.
"Ten. Ten."
"Oh!" That was a stupid age, he thought.
"Grace is twelve. Dear me! I ought to send a letter. Is it too late for the post?"
"There's not another till Monday morning."
"Ah, then it will be best to send one to-morrow from the station. Thank you. We live at Radstowe—a long way, you see."
"Radstowe? That's a port, isn't it?" Alexander asked.
"Yes, rather an unsatisfactory port, but it makes a beautiful city. I live there for two weeks in each month, and travel for the other two, and every other month I come this way."
"Then," said Alexander, "you can come and stay with us again."
"Yes; we shall expect you."
"You are very kind. You—you could not have treated me better if you had known me all your lives. I find it—a little strange."
He thought of Monday, and dreaded meeting cold faces and hard, staring eyes. There was a certain shop he never entered without a tremor, because there was a girl there whom he had once seen winking at another as he passed between the counters. She was a tall girl, with a high colour and a great deal of hair. She made a joke of him—they all did, no doubt—and as he approached the portals of that shop he had to take a deep, sustaining breath before he could brave the merciless glances and tolerantly twisted lips of the young women there. He knew how he looked, how nervousness showed up all his disadvantages, and added to them. He had seen himself in the great mirrors of the place—a small man, bowed before his time, with thin hair growing grey, and anxious eyebrows. They would naturally think him a funny little man, yet Nancy, who had a sense of humour, did not laugh at him. He felt a new richness of gratitude towards her. Ah! she was loyal, and it was a wonderful thing to love, to be loved.
Clara was speaking. "We have to help each other, up here; there are so few of us. There's no doctor to run to, no chemist, no nurse to be had, not even a general shop—that's three miles off. We nurse each other, use each other's medicines, send each other's children scurrying on errands, and we go to each other's doors and say, 'Can I have two ounces of tea, please? and mother will let you have it back when the cart comes round.' They're shy folks, close-tongued, but they're willing. It's just a habit."
"I wish it were a common one. We are afraid to help; afraid of intruding. There are barriers everywhere. It makes our friends more precious to us, perhaps."
"It's all for the best, anyway," said Clara. "Let's have supper."
The wind had lessened; it came no longer with bursts of anger, but, as though craving pardon for its fury, it wailed and moaned about the house. For once Clara forgot her optimism.
"I cannot bear the wind like this," she said, when the meal was done, the dishes washed, and they sat by the fire again. She had laid aside her work and sat in a low chair, clasping and unclasping her hands. They were large, firm hands, and Edward Webb guessed that when they were not busy they were generally still. "It's like people who can't find their way."
"Janet says it's sins coming back on us."
"Janet's full of tales."
"She is that," said Alexander with satisfaction.
"Alec, let's have the door shut. I feel as if something will get through before we know it."
"That's worse than Janet," he said, as he kicked away the large stone which had held back the door.
At ten o'clock he was bidden to bed.
"I'll go if you do."
"No, I shall stay up."
"Then I will."
"You mustn't, Alec."
"But you're frightened of the wind. I'll not leave you."
"No, no." She shook her head. "It doesn't do, Alec; you know that."
"You'll let me stay with you, please," Edward Webb said timidly.
"You cannot let him do it, mother!" There was almost anguish in Alexander's voice.
"He must go to bed, too. Why, I've sat here alone on many a winter night."
"But I am not sleepy," Edward protested solemnly.
"Oh, very well, very well. You shall stay for a little while—only a little while. You promise to go when I tell you? Good-night, Alec."
"I shall read in bed," he said sullenly.
"Don't set yourself alight, then."
"Oh, mother——" She always said that to him.
The kitchen was filled with a brooding silence when he had gone; it hung heavily about the man and woman who tried to talk as though they had no thought beyond the words which came so slowly until Edward Webb gave way to his wish to talk about his children. Experience and Nancy's promptings had taught him that no subject brought people to yawns more quickly and, indeed, it was too sacred to be dragged before indifference, but he felt hopeful of Clara for the warmth and breadth of motherliness were plain in her. Moreover, it was necessary that something should be said, and she was silent. He could hear the rubbing of her hands against each other.
"May I tell you about my little girls?" he said.
"Will you?" Her smile was not the perfunctory one which had disheartened him sometimes. "I should like to have had a daughter," she added.
His shyness fell from him as he talked. He told her of Grace's beauty and her skill in dancing, he told her of Theresa's cleverness.
"Is she pretty, too?"
"No. No, I suppose you wouldn't call her pretty, but it doesn't seem to matter. Why, I hadn't