"I have been seeing about a splendid chestnut," he said slyly, "but that was to be part of your wedding-present."
"Ah well, it's better to be a ministering angel than a fiery horsewoman, and the rushing of the water in those pipes will be sweeter to me than the sound of clattering hoofs. A-ha! Oh, do give this old beast a good knock with your whip!"
She was happy. Mrs. Morton continued to ruffle the smoothness of life, but she could do no more, and she was allowed few opportunities of attempting it, for on most evenings she sat alone in the drawing-room, and in the daytime Basil and Theresa were far afield. This was not the daughter-in-law she had desired. Where were the afternoon calls, the drives with Theresa by her side and Basil opposite, the pleasant hours after dinner, with a little music, a little talk, a little work? Theresa could not even play the piano, her hands were idle, and Mrs. Morton was really glad when she did not talk, for she feared what she might say; but the sound of her voice coming across the wide hall when the smoking-room door was open, her sharp exclamations and her laughter gave the elder woman a new sense of isolation. In some subtle way the house seemed to be no longer hers. Theresa, who had been the stranger, had taken a possession stronger than that of keys and command, and whereas the girl had once stood out glaringly against the sober, peaceful background of the house, it had now become but an appendage of herself. The quick thud of her feet as she ran down the stairs, her manner of opening doors, the whistling call with which she summoned Basil—these, by the vividness of her strength, had overcome the old stillness, the old ordered atmosphere.
And, indeed, the place had become a home to Theresa. Her irritability was soothed by Morton's loyal companionship. They were friends as well as lovers; she was breaking down his fences, and she loved power. She knew she was changing his attitude in a hundred little ways. She was moulding him to the kind of man with whom it was possible to live, and daily she liked him better. But she had another cause for happiness. She was still making up her stories, and as she wandered about the house she was accompanied by little illusive figures with sunny heads. They went before her in the passages, they ran up and down the stairs and scampered across the broad polished floors, and for her, too, the silence and decorum of the house were banished. And the garden was inhabited. There were more voices than those of the rooks among the elms and she saw happy people by the lakeside. She saw herself among them, dabbling with the water, racing across the lawn or climbing trees, and she surprised herself with the positive belief that this life was far better than one of fame. She felt that through her means some joyous spirit of childhood had burst its bonds and broken into these separate fragments which were to be her children, and the thought brightened her eyes and her voice. It solaced her for the tiny disappointments that pricked, but were too small to have a name, almost too small to be felt.
She waved her hand towards an upper window, one afternoon as they rode down the drive, and he looked sharply at the house and then at her. "To whom are you waving?" he asked.
"To someone you could not see, my good grammarian," she said, and hoped a little fearfully for further questions.
He turned in the saddle and looked back, and for the sake of the strong, easy twist of his body she forgave his lack of curiosity as he said: "Fancies again?"
And she said: "Yes; fancies."
He was content to remain ignorant of them, as he had often been before. He had no desire to enter into that very real part of her existence, and she blocked out her disappointment with a quick word of another nature.
"I like you best in your riding things." She was never tired of summing up the things she liked in him.