"I'll truly try to help." The quivering of her voice was involuntary, but the sound pleased her.
"I know." There was a silence in which Theresa began an immortal poem. Very quickly it must be written to bring fame and money to this stricken house.
"We can't afford another servant, and your mother will need much care."
Theresa's hands worked together under the table.
"Grace is earning money, she must not be taken from her work."
"But there's Uncle George coming," she said in quiet desperation.
"But my salary is halved. We are very poor!"
She sat in a blackness which had become peopled by selfish desires that warred with unselfish ones. She saw them as opposing hosts, she heard the clash of armour and weapons, steel against steel, and she bowed her head in fear of blows, felt herself running from the horrid dangers of the fray. What a coward, to escape when the issue of battle lay in her own strength! More than sinners she hated cowards, and suddenly the tumult ended.
"I'm sixteen—more," she said aloud. "I'll leave school. I'll work at home. Anyhow, I'm not the kind that gets much good from lessons."
A faint murmur from Edward Webb resolved itself into the words: "There's your future, your career. It ought not to be sacrificed, my child."