"I did it," she whispered. "She isn't going to die, is she?"
"We do not know. We do not know."
"I did it," she repeated.
He patted her shoulder. "Hush. Don't think about yourself. See if Grace wants you."
Slowly she went upstairs. She could not have analyzed her pain, it had too many parts, but perhaps the sharpest of them was her sense of slight. She confessed, tacitly asked forgiveness, and he bade her not think about herself! Her next thought was not formed, but it lived in her, telling her that he should have shown gratitude for the killing of her pride. She drove the nails into her palms. He had thought nothing of the confession which, to her, had pulsed with more than repentance, which had been quick with drama. He was blind or callous, and the hot colour of shame ran up her face, but faded as she reached her mother's door.
She turned the handle softly, and stepped over the threshold into a dim, hushed room, full of the mystery of sickness. Grace was at the washstand, moving crockery and bottles without noise, a conscious control of the situation plain in her bearing and in the air of the room which had been miraculously converted into tidiness.
With her back to the door and close to the head of the bed, Theresa peeped at her mother, who lay with closed eyes, then glanced admiringly at Grace, who was not afraid of acting nurse, who could lower her voice naturally and divine needs before they were felt. Theresa envied her: she was so quiet, so sure and kind—so lovely! She watched her as she bent over her mother, and the easy curve of her body was so fresh and perfect that the clothes seemed to fall away, leaving her pristine and unencumbered. Theresa's soul ached at such beauty and with desire for it. She felt awkward, useless, in the way. She could not help her mother, for all her cleverness; indeed, she had driven her to this bed over which Grace, whom she sometimes despised for her flirtations and frivolity, could lean with such tenderness and skill. There was something fine in Grace, and she felt herself shrivelling. Doubts swept her. Where were the capacities in which she had believed? Oh, but she would be great! She must begin at once. She could not be wasted. She felt the strength of her energy leaping in her, and her feet scraped the shabbily stained boards on which she stood.
Grace raised a hand that commanded silence, and tiptoed to the door.
"She's asleep, I think. Is he coming? Soon?"
Theresa nodded. They whispered on the landing. "Is she going to die?"