The Project Gutenberg EBook of Thyrza, by George Gissing

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Title: Thyrza

Author: George Gissing

Posting Date: July 12, 2009 [EBook #4302]
Release Date: July, 2003
First Posted: January 3, 2002

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THYRZA ***




Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.









THYRZA


by

GEORGE GISSING




CONTENTS

       I  AMONG THE HILLS
      II  THE IDEALIST
     III  A CORNER OF LAMBETH
      IV  THYRZA SINGS
       V  A LAND OF TWILIGHT
      VI  DISINHERITED
     VII  THE WORK IN PROGRESS
    VIII  A CLASP OF HANDS
      IX  A GOLDEN PROSPECT
       X  TEMPTING FORTUNE
      XI  A MAN WITH A FUTURE
     XII  LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
    XIII  THYRZA SINGS AGAIN
     XIV  MISTS
      XV  A SECOND VISIT TO WALNUT TREE WALK
     XVI  SEA MUSIC
    XVII  ADRIFT
   XVIII  DRAWING NEARER
     XIX  A SONG WITHOUT WORDS
      XX  RAPIDS
     XXI  MISCHIEF AFOOT
    XXII  GOOD-BYE
   XXIII  CONFESSION
    XXIV  THE END OF THE DREAM
     XXV  A BIRD OF THE AIR
    XXVI  IDEALIST AND HIS FRIEND
   XXVII  FOUND
  XXVIII  HOPE SURPRISED
    XXIX  TOGETHER AGAIN
     XXX  MOVEMENTS
    XXXI  AN OLD MAN'S REST
   XXXII  TOTTY'S LUCK
  XXXIII  THE HEART AND ITS SECRET
   XXXIV  A LOAN ON SECURITY
    XXXV  THREE LETTERS
   XXXVI  THYRZA WAITS
  XXXVII  A FRIENDLY OFFICE
 XXXVIII  THE TRUTH
   XXXIX  HER RETURN
      XL  HER REWARD
     XLI  THE LIVING




CHAPTER I

AMONG THE HILLS


There were three at the breakfast-table--Mr. Newthorpe, his daughter
Annabel, and their visitor (Annabel's Cousin), Miss Paula Tyrrell. It
was a small, low, soberly-furnished room, the walls covered with
carelessly-hung etchings and water-colours, and with photographs which
were doubtless mementoes of travel; dwarf bookcases held overflowings
from the library; volumes in disorder, clearly more for use than
ornament. The casements were open to let in the air of a July morning.
Between the thickets of the garden the eye caught glimpses of
sun-smitten lake and sheer hillside; for the house stood on the shore
of Ullswater.

Of the three breakfasting, Miss Tyrrell was certainly the one whose
presence would least allow itself to be overlooked. Her appetite was
hearty, but it scarcely interfered with the free flow of her airy talk,
which was independent of remark or reply from her companions. Though it
was not apparent in her demeanour, this young lady was suffering under
a Calamity; her second 'season' had been ruined at its very culmination
by a ludicrous _contretemps_ in the shape of an attack of measles. Just
when she flattered herself that she had never looked so lovely, an
instrument of destiny embraced her in the shape of an affectionate
child, and lo! she was a fright. Her constitution had soon thrown off
the evil thing, but Mrs. Tyrrell decreed her banishment for a time to
the remote dwelling of her literary uncle. Once more Paula was lovely,
and yet one could scarcely say that the worst was over, seeing that she
was constrained to pass summer days within view of Helvellyn when she
might have been in Piccadilly.

Mr. Newthorpe seldom interrupted his niece's monologue, but his eye
often rested upon her, seemingly in good-natured speculation, and he
bent his head acquiescingly when she put in a quick 'Don't you think
so?' after a running series of comments on some matter which smacked
exceedingly of the town. He was not more than five-and-forty, yet had
thin, grizzled hair, and a sallow face with lines of trouble deeply
scored upon it. His costume was very careless--indeed, all but
slovenly--and his attitude in the chair showed, if not weakness of
body, at all events physical indolence.

Some word that fell from Paula prompted him to ask:

'I wonder where Egremont is?'

Annabel, who had been sunk in thought, looked up with a smile. She was
about to say something, but her cousin replied rapidly:

'Oh, Mr. Egremont is in London--at least, he was a month ago.'

'Not much of a guarantee that he is there now,' Mr. Newthorpe rejoined.

'I'll drop him a line and see,' said Paula. 'I meant to do so
yesterday, but forgot. I'll write and tell him to send me a full
account of himself. Isn't it too bad that people don't write to me?
Everybody forgets you when you're out of town in the season. Now you'll
see I shan't have a single letter again this morning; it is the
cruellest thing!'

'But you had a letter yesterday, Paula,' Annabel remarked.

'A letter? Oh, from mamma; that doesn't count. A letter isn't a letter
unless you feel anxious to see what's in it. I know exactly all that
mamma will say, from beginning to end, before I open the envelope. Not
a scrap of news, and with her opportunities, too! But I can count on
Mr. Egremont for at least four sides--well, three.'

'But surely he is not a source of news?' said her uncle with surprise.

'Why not? He can be very jolly when he likes, and I know he'll write a
nice letter if I ask him to. You can't think how much he's improved
just lately. He was down at the Ditchleys' when we were there in
February; he and I had ever such a time one day when the others were
out hunting. Mamma won't let me hunt; isn't it too bad of her? He
didn't speak a single serious word all the morning, and just think how
dry he used to be! Of course he can be dry enough still when he gets
with people like Mrs. Adams and Clara Carr, but I hope to break him of
the habit entirely.'

She glanced at Annabel, and laughed merrily before raising her cup to
her lips. Mr. Newthorpe just cast a rapid eye over his daughter's face;
Annabel wore a look of quiet amusement.

'Has he been here since then?' Paula inquired, tapping a second egg.
'We lost sight of him for two or three months, and of course he always
makes a mystery of his wanderings.'

'We saw him last in October,' her uncle answered, 'when he had just
returned from America.'

'He said he was going to Australia next. By-the-by, what's his address?
Something, Russell Street. Don't you know?'

'No idea,' he replied, smiling.

'Never mind. I'll send the letter to Mrs. Ormonde; she always knows
where he is, and I believe she's the only one that does.'

When the meal came to an end Mr. Newthorpe went, as usual, to his
study. Miss Tyrrell, also as usual, prepared for three hours of
letter-writing. Annabel, after a brief Consultation with Mrs. Martin,
the housekeeper, would ordinarily have sat down to study in the morning
room. She laid open a book on the table, but then lingered between that
and the windows. At length she took a volume of a lighter kind--in both
senses--and, finding her garden hat in the hall, went forth.

She was something less than twenty, and bore herself with grace
perchance a little too sober for her years. Her head was wont to droop
thoughtfully, and her step measured itself to the grave music of a mind
which knew the influence of mountain solitude. But her health was
complete; she could row for long stretches, and on occasion fatigued
her father in rambles over moor and fell. Face and figure were matched
in mature beauty; she had dark hair, braided above the forehead on each
side, and large dark eyes which regarded you with a pure intelligence,
disconcerting if your word uttered less than sincerity.

When her mother died Annabel was sixteen. Three months after that event
Mr. Newthorpe left London for his country house, which neither he nor
his daughter had since quitted. He had views of his own on the subject
of London life as it affects young ladies. By nature a student, he had
wedded a woman who became something not far removed from a fashionable
beauty. It was a passionate attachment on both sides at first, and to
the end he loved his wife with the love which can deny nothing. The
consequence was that the years of his prime were wasted, and the
intellectual promise of his youth found no fulfilment. Another year and
Annabel would have entered the social mill; she had beauty enough to
achieve distinction, and the means of the family were ample to enshrine
her. But she never 'came out.' No one would at first believe that Mr.
Newthorpe's retreat was final; no one save a close friend or two who
understood what his life had been, and how he dreaded for his daughter
the temptations which had warped her mother's womanhood. 'In any case,'
wrote Mrs. Tyrrell, his sister-in-law, when a year and a half had gone
by, 'you will of course let me have Annabel shortly. I pray you to
remember that she is turned seventeen. You surely won't deprive her of
every pleasure and every advantage?' And the recluse made answer: 'If
bolts and shackles were needful I would use them mercilessly rather
than allow my girl to enter your Middlesex pandemonium. Happily, the
fetters of her reason suffice. She is growing into a woman, and by the
blessing of the gods her soul shall be blown through and through with
the free air of heaven whilst yet the elements in her are blending to
their final shape.' Mrs. Tyrrell raised her eyebrows, and shook her
head, and talked sadly of 'poor Annabel,' who was buried alive.

She walked down to a familiar spot by the lake, where a rustic bench
was set under shadowing leafage; in front two skiffs were moored on the
strand. The sky was billowy with slow-travelling shapes of whiteness; a
warm wind broke murmuring wavelets along the pebbly margin. The
opposite slopes glassed themselves in the deep dark water--Swarth Fell,
Hallin Fell, Place Fell--one after the other; above the southern bend
of the lake rose noble summits, softly touched with mist which the sun
was fast dispelling. The sweetness of summer was in the air. So quiet
was it that every wing-rustle in the brake, every whisper of leaf to
leaf, made a distinct small voice; a sheep-dog barking over at Howtown
seemed close at hand.

This morning Annabel had no inclination to read, yet her face was not
expressive of the calm reflection which was her habit. She opened the
book upon her lap and glanced down a page or two, but without interest.
At length external things were wholly lost to her, and she gazed across
the water with continuance of solemn vision. Her face was almost
austere in this mood which had come upon her.

Someone was descending the path which led from the high road; it was a
step too heavy for Paula's, too rapid to be Mr. Newthorpe's. Annabel
turned her head and saw a young man, perhaps of seven-and-twenty,
dressed in a light walking-suit, with a small wallet hanging from his
shoulder and a stick in his hand. At sight of her he took off his cap
and approached her bare-headed.

'I saw from a quarter of a mile away,' he said, 'that someone was
sitting here, and I came down on the chance that it might be you.'

She rose with a very slight show of surprise, and returned his greeting
with calm friendliness.

'We were speaking of you at breakfast. My cousin couldn't tell us for
certain whether you were in England, though she knew you were in London
a month ago.'

'Miss Tyrrell is with you?' he asked, as if it were very unexpected.

'But didn't you know? She has been ill, and they sent her to us to
recruit.'

'Ah! I have been in Jersey for a month; I have heard nothing.'

'You were able to tear yourself from London in mid-season?'

'But when was I a devotee of the Season, Miss Newthorpe?'

'We hear you progress in civilisation.'

'Well, I hope so. I've had a month of steady reading, and feel better
for it. I took a big chest of books to Jersey. But I hope Miss Tyrrell
is better?'

'Quite herself again. Shall we walk up to the house?'

'I have broken in upon your reading.'

She exhibited the volume; it was Buskin's 'Sesame and Lilies.'

'Ah! you got it; and like it?'

'On the whole.'

'That is disappointing.'

Annabel was silent, then spoke of another matter as they walked up from
the lake.

This Mr. Egremont had not the look of a man who finds his joy in the
life of Society. His clean-shaven face was rather bony, and its lines
expressed independence of character. His forehead was broad, his eyes
glanced quickly and searchingly, or widened themselves into an absent
gazing which revealed the imaginative temperament. His habitual cast of
countenance was meditative, with a tendency to sadness. In talk he
readily became vivacious; his short sentences, delivered with a very
clear and conciliating enunciation, seemed to indicate energy. It was a
peculiarity that he very rarely smiled, or perhaps I should say that he
had the faculty of smiling only with his eyes. At such moments his look
was very winning, very frank in its appeal to sympathy, and compelled
one to like him. Yet, at another time, his aspect could be shrewdly
critical; it was so when Annabel fell short of enthusiasm in speaking
of the book he had recommended to her when last at Ullswater. Probably
he was not without his share of scepticism. For all that, it was the
visage of an idealist.

Annabel led him into the house and to the study door, at which she
knocked; then she stood aside for him to enter before her. Mr.
Newthorpe was writing; he looked up absently, but light gathered in his
eyes as he recognised the visitor.

'So here you are! We talked of you this morning. How have you come?'

'On foot from Pooley Bridge.'

They clasped hands, then Egremont looked behind him; but Annabel had
closed the door and was gone.

She went up to the room in which Paula sat scribbling letters.

'Ten minutes more!' exclaimed that young lady. 'I'm just finishing a
note to mamma--so dutiful!'

'Have you written to Mr. Egremont?'

Paula nodded and laughed.

'He is downstairs.'

Paula started, looking incredulous.

'Really, Bell?'

'He has just walked over from Pooley Bridge.'

'Oh, Bell, do tell me! Have those horrid measles left any trace? I
really can't discover any, but of course one hasn't good eyes for one's
own little speckles. Well, at all events, everybody hasn't forgotten
me. But do look at me, Bell.'

Her cousin regarded her with conscientious gravity.

'I see no trace whatever; indeed, I should say you are looking better
than you ever did.'

'Now that's awfully kind of you. And you don't pay compliments, either.
Shall I go down? Did you tell him where I was?'

Had Annabel been disposed to dainty feminine malice, here was an
opportunity indeed. But she looked at Paula with simple curiosity,
seeming for a moment to lose herself. The other had to repeat her
question.

'I mentioned that you were in the house,' she replied. 'He is talking
with father.'

Paula moved to the door, but suddenly paused and turned.

'Now I wonder what thought you have in your serious head?' she said,
merrily. 'It's only my fun, you know.'

Annabel nodded, smiling.

'But it is only my fun. Say you believe me. I shall be cross with you
if you put on that look.'

They went into the morning room. Annabel stood at the window; her
companion flitted about, catching glimpses of herself in reflecting
surfaces. In five minutes the study door opened, and men's voices drew
near.

Egremont met Miss Tyrrell with the manner of an old acquaintance, but
unsmiling.

'I am fortunate enough to see you well again without having known of
your illness,' he said.

'You didn't know that I was ill?'

Paula looked at him dubiously. He explained, and, in doing so, quite
dispelled the girl's illusion that he was come on her account. When she
remained silent, he said:

'You must pity the people in London.'

'Certainly I do. I'm learning to keep my temper and to talk wisely. I
know nobody in London who could teach me to do either the one or the
other.'

'Well, I suppose you'll go out till luncheon-time?' said Mr. Newthorpe.
'Egremont wants to have a pull. You'll excuse an old man.'

They left the house, and for an hour drank the breath of the hillsides.
Paula was at first taciturn. Very unlike herself she dabbled her
fingers over the boat-side, and any light remark that she made was
addressed to her cousin. Annabel exerted herself to converse, chiefly
telling of the excursions that had been made with Paula during the past
week.

'What have you been doing in Jersey?' Paula asked of Egremont,
presently. Her tone was indifferent, a little condescending.

'Reading.'

'Novels?'

'No.'

'And where are you going next?'

'I shall live in London. My travels are over, I think.'

'We have heard that too often,' said Annabel. 'Did you ever calculate
how many miles you have travelled since you left Oxford?'

'I have been a restless fellow,' he admitted, regarding her with quiet
scrutiny, 'but I dare say some profit has come of my wanderings.
However, it's time to set to work.'

'Work!' asked Paula in surprise. 'What sort of work?'

'Local preacher's.'

Paula moved her lips discontentedly.

'That is your way of telling me to mind my own business. Don't you find
the sun dreadfully hot, Annabel? Do please row into a shady place, Mr.
Egremont.'

His way of handling the oars showed that he was no stranger to exercise
of this kind. His frame, though a trifle meagre, was well set. By
degrees a preoccupation which had been manifest in him gave way under
the influence of the sky, and when it was time to approach the
landing-place he had fallen into a mood of cheerful talk--light with
Paula, with Annabel more earnest. His eyes often passed from one to the
other of the faces opposite him, with unmarked observation; frequently
he fixed his gaze on the remoter hills in brief musing.

Mr. Newthorpe had come down to the water to meet them; he had a
newspaper in his hand.

'Your friend Dalmaine is eloquent on education,' he said, with a
humorous twitching of the eyebrows.

'Yes, he knows his House,' Egremont replied. 'You observe the
construction of his speech. After well-sounding periods on the
elevation of the working classes, he casually throws out the hint that
employers of labour will do wisely to increase the intelligence of
their hands in view of foreign competition. Of course that is the root
of the matter; but Dalmaine knows better than to begin with crude
truths.'

In the meanwhile the boat was drawn up and the chain locked. The girls
walked on in advance; Egremont continued to speak of Mr. Dalmaine, a
rising politician, whose acquaintance he had made on the voyage home
from New York.

'One of the few sincere things I ever heard from his lips was a remark
he made on trade-unions. "Let them combine by all means," he said;
"it's a fair fight." There you have the man; it seems to him mere
common sense to regard his factory hands as his enemies. A fair fight!
What a politico-economical idea of fairness!'

He spoke with scorn, his eyes flashing and his nostrils trembling. Mr.
Newthorpe kept a quiet smile--sympathetic, yet critical.

Annabel sought her father for a word apart before lunch.

'How long will Mr. Egremont stay?' she asked, apparently speaking in
her quality of house-mistress.

'A day or two,' was the reply. 'We'll drive over to Pooley Bridge for
his bag this afternoon; he left it at the hotel.'

'What has he on his mind?' she continued, smiling.

'Some idealistic project. He has only given me a hint. I dare say we
shall hear all about it to-night.'




CHAPTER II

THE IDEALIST


When Egremont began his acquaintance with the Newthorpes he was an
Oxford undergraduate. A close friendship had sprung up between him and
a young man named Ormonde, and at the latter's home he met Mr.
Newthorpe, who, from the first, regarded him with interest. A year
after Mrs. Newthorpe's death Egremont was invited to visit the house at
Ullswater; since then he had twice spent a week there. This personal
intercourse was slight to have resulted in so much intimacy, but he had
kept up a frequent correspondence with Mr. Newthorpe from various parts
of the world, and common friends aided the stability of the relation.

He was the only son of a man who had made a fortune by the manufacture
of oil-cloth. His father began life as a house-painter, then became an
oil merchant in a small way, and at length married a tradesman's
daughter, who brought him a moderate capital just when he needed it for
an enterprise promising greatly. In a short time he had established the
firm of Egremont & Pollard, with extensive works in Lambeth. His wife
died before him; his son received a liberal education, and in early
manhood found himself, as far as he knew, without a living relative,
but with ample means of independence. Young Walter Egremont retained an
interest in the business, but had no intention of devoting himself to a
commercial life. At the University he had made alliances with men of
standing, in the academical sense, and likewise with some whose place
in the world relieved them from the necessity of establishing a claim
to intellect. In this way society was opened to him, and his personal
qualities won for him a great measure of regard from those whom he most
desired to please.

Somebody had called him 'the Idealist,' and the name adhered to him. At
two-and-twenty he published a volume of poems, obviously derived from
study of Shelley, but marked with a certain freshness of impersonal
aspiration which was pleasant enough. They had the note of sincerity
rather than the true poetical promise. The book had no successor.
Having found this utterance for his fervour, Egremont began a series of
ramblings over sea, in search, he said, of himself. The object seemed
to evade him; he returned to England from time to time, always in
appearance more restless, but always overflowing with ideas, for which
he had the readiest store of enthusiastic words. He was able to talk of
himself without conveying the least impression of egotism to those who
were in sympathy with his intellectual point of view; he was accused of
conceit only by a few who were jealous of him or were too conventional
to appreciate his character. With women he was a favourite, and their
society was his greatest pleasure; yet, in spite of his fervid
temperament--in appearance fervid, at all events--he never seemed to
fall in love. Some there were who said that the self he went so far to
discover would prove to have a female form. Perhaps there was truth in
this; perhaps he sought, whether consciously or no, the ideal woman.
None of those with whom he companioned had a charge of light wooing to
bring against him, though one or two would not have held it a
misfortune if they had tempted him to forget his speculations and
declare that he had reached his goal. But his striving always seemed to
be for something remote from the world about him. His capacity for warm
feeling, itself undeniable, was never dissociated from that impersonal
zeal which was the characteristic of his expressions in verse. In fact,
he had written no love-poem.

Annabel and her father observed a change in him since his last visit.
This was the first time that he had come without an express invitation,
and they gathered from his speech that he had at length found some
definite object for his energies. His friends had for a long time been
asking what he meant to do with his life. It did not appear that he
purposed literary effort, though it seemed the natural outlet for his
eager thought; and of the career of politics he at all times spoke with
contempt. Was he one of the men, never so common as nowadays, who spend
their existence in canvassing the possibilities that lie before them
and delay action till they find that the will is paralysed? One did not
readily set Egremont in that class, principally, no doubt, because he
was so free from the offensive forms of self-consciousness which are
wont to stamp such men. The pity of it, too, if talents like his were
suffered to rust unused; the very genuineness of his idealism made one
believe in him and look with confidence to his future.

Having dined, all went forth to enjoy the evening upon the lawn. The
men smoked; Annabel had her little table with tea and coffee. Paula had
brought out a magazine, and affected to read. Annabel noticed, however,
that a page was very seldom turned.

'Have you seen Mrs. Ormonde lately?' Mr. Newthorpe asked of Egremont.

'I spent a day at Eastbourne before going to Jersey.'

'She has promised to come to us in the autumn,' said Annabel; 'but she
seems to have such a difficulty in leaving her Home. Had she many
children about her when you were there?'

'Ten or twelve.'

'Do they all come from London?' asked Annabel.

'Yes. She has relations with sundry hospitals and the like. By-the-by,
she told me one remarkable story. A short time ago out of eight
children that were in the house only one could read--a little girl of
ten--and this one regularly received letters from home. Now there came
for her what seemed to be a small story-paper, or something of the
kind, in a wrapper. Mrs. Ormonde gave it her without asking any
questions, and, in the course of the morning, happening to see her
reading it, she went to look what the paper was. It proved to be an
anti-Christian periodical, and on the front page stood a woodcut
offered as a burlesque illustration of some Biblical incident. "Father
always brings it home and gives it me to read," said the child. "It
makes me laugh!"'

'Probably she knew nothing of the real meaning of it all,' said Mr.
Newthorpe.

'On the contrary, she understood the tendency of the paper surprisingly
well; her father had explained everything to the family.'

'One of the interesting results of popular education,' remarked Mr.
Newthorpe philosophically. 'It is inevitable.'

'What did Mrs. Ormonde do?' Annabel asked.

'It was a difficult point. No good would have been done by endeavouring
to set the child against her father; she would be home again in a
fortnight. So Mrs. Ormonde simply asked if she might have the paper
when it was done with, and, having got possession, threw it into the
fire with vast satisfaction. Happily it didn't come again.'

'What a gross being that father must be!' Annabel exclaimed.

'Gross enough,' Egremont replied, 'yet I shouldn't wonder if he had
brains above the average in his class. A mere brute wouldn't do a thing
of that kind; ten to one he honestly believed that he was benefiting
the girl; educating her out of superstition.'

'But why should the poor people be left to such ugly-minded teachers?'
Annabel exclaimed. 'Surely those influences may be opposed?'

'I doubt whether they can be,' said her father. 'The one insuperable
difficulty lies in the fact that we have no power greater than
commercial enterprise. Nowadays nothing will succeed save on the
commercial basis; from church to public-house the principle applies.
There is no way of spreading popular literature save on terms of supply
and demand. Take the Education Act. It was devised and carried simply
for the reason indicated by Egremont's friend Dalmaine; a more
intelligent type of workmen is demanded that our manufacturers may keep
pace with those of other countries. Well, there is a demand for comic
illustrations of the Bible, and the demand is met; the paper exists
because it pays. An organ of culture for the people who enjoy
burlesquing the Bible couldn't possibly be made to pay.'

'But is there no one who would undertake such work without hope of
recompense in money? We are not all mere tradespeople.'

'I have an idea for a beginning of such work, Miss Newthorpe,' said
Egremont, in a voice rather lower than hitherto. 'I came here because I
wanted to talk it over.'

Annabel met his look for a moment, expressing all the friendly interest
which she felt. Mr. Newthorpe, who had been pacing on the grass, came
to a seat. He placed himself next to Paula. She glanced at him, and he
said kindly:

'You are quite sure you don't feel cold?'

'I dare say I'd better go in,' she replied, checking a little sigh as
she closed her magazine.

'No, no, don't go, Paula!' urged her cousin, rising. 'You shall have a
shawl, dear; I'll get it.'

'It is very warm,' put in Egremont. 'There surely can't be any danger
in sitting till it grows dark.'

This little fuss about her soothed Paula for a while.

'Oh, I don't want to go,' she said. 'I feel I'm getting very serious
and wise, listening to such talk. Now we shall hear, I suppose, what
you mean by your "local preacher"?'

Annabel brought a shawl and placed it carefully about the girl's
shoulders. Then she said to her father:

'Let me sit next to Paula, please.'

The change of seats was effected. Annabel secretly took one of her
cousin's hands and held it. Paula seemed to regard a distant object in
the garden.

There was silence for a few moments. The evening was profoundly calm. A
spirit of solemn loveliness brooded upon the hills, glorious with
sunset. The gnats hummed, rising and falling in myriad crowds about the
motionless leaves. A spring which fell from a rock at the foot of the
garden babbled poetry of the twilight.

'I hope it is something very practicable,' Annabel resumed, looking
with expectancy at Egremont.

'I will have your opinion on that. I believe it to be practical enough;
at all events, it is a scheme of very modest dimensions. That story of
the child and her paper fixed certain thoughts that had been floating
about in my mind. You know that I have long enough tried to find work,
but I have been misled by the common tendency of the time. Those who
want to be of social usefulness for the most part attack the lowest
stratum. It seems like going to the heart of the problem, of course,
and any one who has means finds there the hope of readiest
result--material result. But I think that the really practical task is
the most neglected, just because it does not appear so pressing. With
the mud at the bottom of society we can practically do nothing; only
the vast changes to be wrought by time will cleanse that foulness, by
destroying the monstrous wrong which produces it. What I should like to
attempt would be the spiritual education of the upper artisan and
mechanic class. At present they are all but wholly in the hands of men
who can do them nothing but harm--journalists, socialists, vulgar
propagators of what is called freethought. These all work against
culture, yet here is the field really waiting for the right tillage. I
often have in mind one or two of the men at our factory in Lambeth.
They are well-conducted and intelligent fellows, but, save for a vague
curiosity, I should say they live without conscious aim beyond that of
keeping their families in comfort. They have no religion, a matter of
course; they talk incessantly of politics, knowing nothing better; but
they are very far above the gross multitude. I believe such men as
these have a great part to play in social development--that, in fact,
_they_ may become the great social reformers, working on those above
them--the froth of society--no less than on those below.'

He had laid down his half-finished cigar, and, having begun in a
scrupulously moderate tone, insensibly warmed to the idealist fervour.
His face became more mobile, his eyes gave forth all their light, his
voice was musically modulated as he proceeded in his demonstration. He
addressed himself to Annabel, perhaps unconscious of doing so
exclusively.

Mr. Newthorpe muttered something of assent. Paula was listening
intently, but as one who hears of strange, far-off things, very
difficult of realisation.

'Now suppose one took a handful of such typical men,' Egremont went on,
'and tried to inspire them with a moral ideal. At present they have
nothing of the kind, but they own the instincts of decency, and that is
much. I would make use of the tendency to association, which is so
strong among them. They have numberless benefit clubs; they stand
together resolutely to help each other in time of need and to exact
terms from their employers--the fair fight, as the worthy Member for
Vauxhall calls it. Well, why shouldn't they band for moral and
intellectual purposes? I would have a sort of freemasonry, which had
nothing to do with eating and drinking, or with the dispensing of
charity; it should be wholly concerned with spiritual advancement.
These men cannot become rich, and so are free from one kind of danger;
they are not likely to fall into privation; they have a certain amount
of leisure. If one could only stir a few of them to enthusiasm for an
ideal of life! Suppose one could teach them to feel the purpose of such
a book as "Sesame and Lilies," which you only moderately care for, Miss
Newthorpe--'

'Not so!' Annabel broke in, involuntarily. 'I think it very beautiful
and very noble.'

'What book is that?' asked Paula with curiosity.

'I'll give it to you to read, Paula,' her cousin replied.

Egremont continued:

'The work of people who labour in the abominable quarters of the town
would be absurdly insignificant in comparison with what these men might
do. The vulgar influence of half-taught revolutionists, social and
religious, might be counteracted; an incalculable change for good might
be made on the borders of the social inferno, and would spread. But it
can only be done by personal influence. The man must have an ideal
himself before he can create it in others. I don't know that I am
strong enough for such an undertaking, but I feel the desire to try,
and I mean to try. What do you think of it?'

'Thinking it so clearly must be half doing it,' said Annabel.

Egremont replied to her with a clear regard.

'But the details,' Mr. Newthorpe remarked. 'Are you going to make
Lambeth your field?'

'Yes, Lambeth. I have a natural connection with the place and my name
may be of some service to me there; I don't think it is of evil odour
with the workmen. My project is to begin with lectures. Reserve your
judgment; I have no intention of standing forth as an apostle; all I
mean to do at first is to offer a free course of lectures on a period
of English literature. I shall not throw open my doors to all and
sundry, but specially invite a certain small number of men, whom I
shall be at some pains to choose. We have at the works a foreman named
Bower; I have known him, in a way, for years, and I believe he is an
intelligent man. Him I shall make use of, telling him nothing of my
wider aims, but simply getting him to discover for me the dozen or so
of men who would be likely to care for my lectures. By-the-by, the man
of whom I was speaking, the father of Mrs. Ormonde's patient, lives in
Lambeth; I shall certainly make an effort to draw him into the net!'

'I shall be curious to hear more of him,' said Mr. Newthorpe. 'And you
use English literature to tune the minds of your hearers?'

'That is my thought. I have spent my month in Jersey in preparing a
couple of introductory lectures. It seems to me that if I can get them
to understand what is meant by love of literature, pure and simple,
without a thought of political or social purpose--especially without a
thought of cash profit, which is so disastrously blended with what
little knowledge they acquire--I shall be on the way to founding my
club of social reformers. I shall be most careful not to alarm them
with hints that I mean more than I say. Here arc certain interesting
English books; let us see what they are about, who wrote them, and why
they are deemed excellent. That is our position. These men must get on
a friendly footing with me. Little by little I shall talk with them
more familiarly, try to understand each one. Success depends upon my
personal influence. I may find that it is inadequate, yet I have hope.
Naturally, I have points of contact with the working class which are
lacking to most educated men; a little chance, and I should myself have
been a mechanic or something of the kind. This may make itself felt; I
believe it will.'

Night was falling. The last hue of sunset had died from the swarth
hills, and in the east were pale points of starlight.

'I think you and I must go in, Paula,' said Annabel, when there had
been silence for a little.

Paula rose without speaking, but as she was about to enter the house
she turned back and said to Egremont:

'I get tired so soon, being so much in the open air. I'd better say
good-night.'

Her uncle, when he held her hand, stroked it affectionately. He often
laughed at the child's manifold follies, but her prettiness and the
_naivete_ which sweetened her inbred artificiality had won his liking.
Much as it would have astonished Paula had she known it, his feeling
was for the most part one of pity.

'I suppose you'll go out again?' Paula said to her cousin as they
entered the drawing-room.

'No; I shall read a little and then go to bed.' She added, with a
laugh, 'They will sit late in the study, no doubt, with their cigars
and steaming glasses.'

Paula moved restlessly about the room for a few minutes; then from the
door she gave a 'good-night,' and disappeared without further ceremony.

The two men came in very shortly. Egremont entered the drawing-room
alone, and began to turn over books on the table. Then Annabel rose.

'It promises for another fine day to-morrow,' she said. 'I must get
father away for a ramble. Do you think he looks well?'

'Better than he did last autumn, I think.'

'I must go and say good-night to him. Will you come to the study?'

He followed in silence, and Annabel took her leave of both.

The morning broke clear. It was decided to spend the greater part of
the day on the hills. Paula rode; the others drove to a point whence
their ramble was to begin. Annabel enjoyed walking. Very soon her being
seemed to set itself to more spirited music; the veil of reflection
fell from her face, and she began to talk light-heartedly.

Paula behaved with singularity. At breakfast she had been very silent,
a most unusual thing, and during the day she kept an air of reserve, a
sort of dignity which was amusing. Mr. Newthorpe walked beside her
pony, and adapted himself to her favourite conversation, which was
always of the town and Society.

Once Annabel came up with a spray of mountain saxifrage.

'Isn't it lovely, Paula?' she said. 'Do look at the petals.'

'Very nice,' was the reply, 'but it's too small to be of any use.'

There was no more talk of Egremont's projects. Books and friends and
the delights of the upland scenery gave matter enough for conversation.
Not long after noon the sky began to cloud, and almost as soon as the
party reached home again there was beginning of rain. They spent the
evening in the drawing-room. Paula was persuaded to sing, which she did
prettily, though still without her native vivacity. Again she retired
early.

After breakfast on the morrow it still rained, though not without
promise of clearing.

'You'll excuse me till lunch,' Paula said to Annabel and Egremont, when
they rose from the table. 'I have a great deal of correspondence to see
to.'

'Correspondence' was a new word. Usually she said, 'I have an awful
heap of letters to write.' Her dignity of the former day was still
preserved.

Having dismissed her household duties, Annabel went to the morning room
and sat down to her books. She was reading Virgil. For a quarter of an
hour it cost her a repetition of efforts to fix her attention, but her
resolve was at length successful. Then Egremont came in.

'Do I disturb you?' he said, noticing her studious attitude.

'You can give me a little help, if you will. I can't make out that
line.'

She gave him one copy and herself opened another. It led to their
reading some fifty lines together.

'Oh, why have we girls to get our knowledge so late and with such
labour!' Annabel exclaimed at length. 'You learn Greek and Latin when
you are children; it ought to be the same with us. I am impatient; I
want to read straight on.'

'You very soon will,' he replied absently. Then, having glanced at the
windows, which were suddenly illumined with a broad slant of sunlight,
he asked: 'Will you come out? It will be delightful after the rain.'

Annabel was humming over dactylics. She put her book aside with
reluctance.

'I'll go and ask my cousin.'

Egremont averted his face. Annabel went up to Paula's room, knocked,
and entered. From a bustling sound within, it appeared likely that Miss
Tyrrell's business-like attitude at the table had been suddenly assumed.

'Will you come out, Paula? The rain is over and gone.'

'Not now.'

'Mr. Egremont wishes to go for a walk. Couldn't you come?'

'Please beg Mr. Egremont to excuse me. I am tired after yesterday,
dear.'

When her cousin had withdrawn Paula went to the window. In a few
minutes she saw Egremont and Annabel go forth and stroll from the
garden towards the lake. Then she reseated herself, and sat biting her
pen.

The two walked lingeringly by the water's edge. They spoke of trifles.
When they were some distance from the house, Egremont said:

'So you see I have at last found my work. If you thought of me at all,
I dare say my life seemed to you a very useless one, and little likely
to lead to anything.'

'No, I had not that thought, Mr. Egremont,' she answered simply. 'I
felt sure that you were preparing yourself for something worthy.'

'I hope that is the meaning of these years that have gone so quickly.
But it was not conscious preparation. It has often seemed to me that in
travelling and gaining experience I was doing all that life demanded of
me. Few men can be more disposed to idle dreaming than I am. And even
now I keep asking myself whether this, too, is only a moment of
idealism, which will go by and leave me with less practical energy than
ever. Every such project undertaken and abandoned is a weight upon a
man's will. If I fail in perseverance my fate will be decided.'

'I feel assured that you will not fail. You could not speak as you did
last night and yet allow yourself to falter in purpose when the task
was once begun. What success may await you we cannot say; the work will
certainly be very difficult. Will it not ask a lifetime?'

'No less, if it is to have any lasting result.'

'Be glad, then. What happier thing can befall one than to have one's
life consecrated to a worthy end!'

He walked on in silence, then regarded her.

'Such words in such a voice would make any man strong. Yet I would ask
more from you. There is one thing I need to feel full confidence in
myself, and that is a woman's love. I have known for a long time whose
love it was that I must try to win. Can you give me what I ask?'

The smile which touched his lips so seldom was on them now. He showed
no agitation, but the light of his eyes was very vivid as they read her
expression. Annabel had stayed her steps; for a moment she looked
troubled. His words were not unanticipated, but the answer with which
she was prepared was more difficult to utter than she had thought it
would be. It was the first time that a man had spoken to her thus, and
though in theory such a situation had always seemed to her very simple,
she could not now preserve her calm as she wished. She felt the warmth
of her blood, and could not at once command her wonted voice. But when
at length she succeeded in meeting his look steadily her thought grew
clear again.

'I cannot give you that, Mr. Egremont.'

As his eyes fell, she hastened to add:

'I think of you often. I feel glad to know you, and to share in your
interest. But this is no more than the friendship which many people
have for you--quite different from the feeling which you say would aid
you. I have never known that.'

He was gazing across the lake. The melancholy always lurking in the
thoughtfulness of his face had become predominant. Yet he turned to her
with the smile once more.

'Those last words must be my hope. To have your friendship is much.
Perhaps some day I may win more.'

'I think,' she said, with a sincerity which proved how far she was from
emotion, 'that you will meet another woman whose sympathy will be far
more to you than mine.'

'Then I must have slight knowledge of myself. I have known you for
seven years, and, though you were a child when we first spoke to each
other, I foresaw then what I tell you now. Every woman that I meet I
compare with you; and if I imagine the ideal woman she has your face
and your mind. I should have spoken when I was here last autumn, but I
felt that I had no right to ask you to share my life as long as it
remained so valueless. You see'--he smiled--'how I have grown in my own
esteem. I suppose that is always the first effect of a purpose strongly
conceived. Or should it be just the opposite, and have I only given you
a proof that I snatch at rewards before doing the least thing to merit
them?'

Something in these last sentences jarred upon her, and gave her courage
to speak a thought which had often come to her in connection with
Egremont.

'I think that a woman does not reason in that way if her deepest
feelings are pledged. If I were able to go with you and share your life
I shouldn't think I was rewarding you, but that you were offering me a
great happiness. It is my loss that I can only watch you from a
distance.'

The words moved him. It was not with conscious insincerity that he
spoke of his love and his intellectual aims as interdependent, yet he
knew that Annabel revealed the truer mind.

'And my desire is for the happiness of your love!' he exclaimed.
'Forget that pedantry--always my fault. I cannot feel sure that my
other motives will keep their force, but I know that this desire will
be only stronger in me as time goes on.'

Yet when she kept silence the habit of his thought again uttered itself.

'I shall pursue this work that I have undertaken, because, loving you,
I dare not fall below the highest life of which I am capable. I know
that you can see into my nature with those clear eyes of yours. I could
not love you if I did not feel that you were far above me. I shall
never be worthy of you, but I shall never cease in my striving to
become so.'

The quickening of her blood, which at first troubled her, had long
since subsided. She could now listen to him, and think of her reply
almost with coldness. There was an unreality in the situation which
made her anxious to bring the dialogue to an end.

'I have all faith in you,' she said. 'I hope--I feel assured--that
something will come of your work; but it will only be so if you pursue
it for its own sake.'

The simple truth of this caused him to droop his eyes again with a
sense of shame. He grew impatient with himself. Had he no plain,
touching words in which to express his very real love--words such as
every man can summon when he pleads for this greatest boon? Yet his
shame heightened the reverence in which he held her; passion of the
intellect breathed in his next words.

'If you cannot love me with your heart, in your mind you can be one
with me. You feel the great and the beautiful things of life. There is
no littleness in your nature. In reading with you just now I saw that
your delight in poetry was as spirit-deep as my own; your voice had the
true music, and your cheeks warmed with sympathy. You do not deny me
the right to claim so much kinship with you. I, too, love all that is
rare and noble, however in myself I fall below such ideals. Say that
you admit me as something more than the friend of the everyday world!
Look for once straight into my eyes and know me!'

There was no doubtful ring in this; Annabel felt the chords of her
being smitten to music. She held her hand to him.

'You are my very near friend, and my life is richer for your influence.'

'I may come and see you again before very long, when I have something
to tell you?'

'You know that our house always welcomes you.'

He released her hand, and they walked homewards. The sky was again
overcast. A fresh gust came from the fell-side and bore with it drops
of rain.

'We must hasten,' Annabel said, in a changed voice. 'Look at that
magnificent cloud by the sun!'

'Isn't the rain sweet here?' she continued, anxious to re-establish the
quiet, natural tone between them. 'I like the perfume and the taste of
it. I remember how mournful the rain used to be in London streets.'

They regained the house. Annabel passed quickly upstairs. Egremont
remained standing in the porch, looking forth upon the garden. His
reverie was broken by a voice.

'How gloomy the rain is here! One doesn't mind it in London; there's
always something to do and somewhere to go.'

It was Paula. Egremont could not help showing amusement.

'Do you stay much longer?' he asked.

'I don't know.'

She spoke with indifference, keeping her eyes averted.

'I must catch the mail at Penrith this evening,' he said. 'I'm afraid
it will be a wet drive.'

'You're going, are you? Not to Jersey again, I hope?

'Why not?'

'It seems to make people very dull. I shall warn all my friends against
it.'

She hummed an air and left him.

Late in the afternoon Egremont took leave of his friends. Mr. Newthorpe
went out into the rain, and at the last moment shook hands with him
heartily. Annabel stood at the window and smiled farewell.

The wheels splashed along the road; rain fell in torrents. Egremont
presently looked back from the carriage window. The house was already
out of view, and the summits of the circling hills were wreathed with
cloud.




CHAPTER III

A CORNER OF LAMBETH


A working man, one Gilbert Grail, was spending an hour of his Saturday
afternoon in Westminster Abbey. At five o'clock the sky still pulsed
with heat; black shadows were sharp edged upon the yellow pavement.
Between the bridges of Westminster and Lambeth the river was a
colourless gleam; but in the Sanctuary evening had fallen. Above the
cool twilight of the aisles floated a golden mist; and the echo of a
footfall hushed itself among the tombs.

He was a man past youth, but of less than middle age, with meagre limbs
and shoulders, a little bent. His clothing was rough but decent; his
small and white hands gave evidence of occupation which was not rudely
laborious. He had a large head, thickly covered with dark hair, which,
with his moustache and beard, heightened the wanness of his complexion.
A massive forehead, deep-set eyes, thin, straight nose, large lips
constantly drawn inwards, made a physiognomy impressive rather than
pleasing. The cast of thought was upon it; of thought eager and
self-tormenting; the mark of a spirit ever straining after something
unattainable. At moments when he found satisfaction in reading the
legend on some monument his eyes grew placid and his beetling brows
smoothed themselves; but the haunter within would not be forgotten,
and, as if at a sudden recollection, he dropped his eyes in a troubled
way, and moved onwards brooding. In those brief intervals of peace his
countenance expressed an absorbing reverence, a profound humility. The
same was evident in his bearing; he walked as softly as possible and
avoided treading upon a sculptured name.

When he passed out into the sunny street, he stood for an instant with
a hand veiling his eyes, as if the sudden light were too strong. Then
he looked hither and thither with absent gaze, and at length bent his
steps in the direction of Westminster Bridge. On the south side of the
river he descended the stairs to the Albert Embankment and walked along
by St. Thomas's Hospital.

Presently he overtook a man who was reading as he walked, a second book
being held under his arm. It was a young workman of three- or
four-and-twenty, tall, of wiry frame, square-shouldered, upright. Grail
grasped his shoulder in a friendly way, asking:

'What now?'

'Well, it's tempted eighteenpence out of my pocket,' was the other's
reply, as he gave the volume to be examined. 'I've wanted a book on
electricity for some time.'

He spoke with a slight North of England accent. His name was Luke
Ackroyd; he had come to London as a lad, and was now a work-fellow of
Grail's. There was rough comeliness in his face and plenty of
intelligence, something at the same time not quite satisfactory if one
looked for strength of character; he smiled readily and had eyes which
told of quick but unsteady thought; a mouth, too, which expressed a
good deal of self-will and probably a strain of sensuality. His manner
was hearty, his look frank to a fault and full of sensibility.

'I found it at the shop by Westminster Bridge,' he continued. 'You
ought to go and have a look there to-night. I saw one or two things
pretty cheap that I thought were in your way.'

'What's the other?' Grail inquired, returning the work on electricity,
which he had glanced through without show of much interest.

'Oh, this belongs to Jo Bunce,' Ackroyd replied, laughing. 'He's just
lent it me.'

It was a collection of antitheistic discourses; the titles, which were
startling to the eye, sufficiently indicated the scope and quality of
the matter. Grail found even less satisfaction in this than in the
other volume.

'A man must have a good deal of time to spare,' he said, with a smile,
'if he spends it on stuff of that kind.'

'Oh, I don't know about that. You don't need it, but there's plenty of
people that do.'

'And that's the kind of thing Bunce gives his children to read, eh?'

'Yes; he's bringing them up on it. He's made them learn a secularist's
creed, and hears them say it every night.'

'Well, I'm old-fashioned in such matters,' said Grail, not caring to
pursue the discussion. 'I'd a good deal rather hear children say the
ordinary prayer.'

Ackroyd laughed.

'Have you heard any talk,' he asked presently, 'about lectures by a Mr.
Egremont? He's a son of Bower's old governor.'

'No, what lectures?'

'Bower tells me he's a young fellow just come from Oxford or Cambridge,
and he's going to give some free lectures here in Lambeth.'

'Political?'

'No. Something to do with literature.'

Ackroyd broke into another laugh--louder this time, and contemptuous.

'Sops to the dog that's beginning to show his teeth!' he exclaimed. 'It
shows you what's coming. The capitalists are beginning to look about
and ask what they can do to keep the people quiet. Lectures on
literature! Fools! As if that wasn't just the way to remind us of what
we've missed in the way of education. It's the best joke you could hit
on. Let him lecture away; he'll do more than he thinks.'

'Where does he give them?' Grail inquired.

'He hasn't begun yet. Bower seems to be going round to get men to hear
him. Do you think you'd like to go?'

'It depends what sort of a man he is.'

'A conceited young fool, I expect.'

Grail smiled.

In such conversation they passed the Archbishop's Palace; then, from
the foot of Lambeth Bridge, turned into a district of small houses and
multifarious workshops. Presently they entered Paradise Street.

The name is less descriptive than it might be. Poor dwellings, mean and
cheerless, are interspersed with factories and one or two small shops;
a public-house is prominent, and a railway arch breaks the perspective
of the thoroughfare midway. The street at that time--in the year
'80--began by the side of a graveyard, no longer used, and associated
in the minds of those who dwelt around it with numberless burials in a
dire season of cholera. The space has since been converted into a
flower-garden, open to the children of the neighbourhood, and in summer
time the bright flower-beds enhance the ignoble baldness of the by-way.

When they had nearly reached the railway arch Ackroyd stopped.

'I'm just going in to Bower's shop,' he said; 'I've got a message for
poor old Boddy.'

'Boddy?'

'You know of him from the Trent girls, don't you?'

'Yes, yes,' Grail answered, nodding. He seemed about to add something,
but checked himself, and, with a 'good-bye,' went his way.

Ackroyd turned his steps to a little shop close by. It was of the kind
known as the 'small general'; over the door stood the name of the
proprietor--'Bower'--and on the woodwork along the top of the windows
was painted in characters of faded red: 'The Little Shop with the Large
Heart.' Little it certainly was, and large of heart if the term could
be made to signify an abundant stock. The interior was so packed with
an indescribable variety of merchandise that there was scarcely space
for more than two customers between door and counter. From an inner
room came the sound of a violin, playing a lively air.

When the young man stepped through the doorway he was at once
encompassed with the strangest blend of odours; every article in the
shop--groceries of all kinds, pastry, cooked meat, bloaters,
newspapers, petty haberdashery, firewood, fruit, soap--seemed to exhale
its essence distressfully under the heat; impossible that anything sold
here should preserve its native savour. The air swarmed with flies,
spite of the dread example of thousands that lay extinct on sheets of
smeared newspaper. On the counter, among other things, was a perspiring
yellow mass, retailed under the name of butter; its destiny hovered
between avoirdupois and the measure of capacity. A literature of
advertisements hung around; ginger-beer, blacking, blue, &c., with a
certain 'Samaritan salve,' proclaimed themselves in many-coloured
letters. One descried, too, a scrubby but significant little card,
which bore the address of a loan office.

The music issued from the parlour behind the shop; it ceased as Ackroyd
approached the counter, and at the sound of his footsteps appeared Mrs.
Bower. She was a stout woman of middle age, red of face, much given to
laughter, wholesomely vulgar. At four o'clock every afternoon she laid
aside her sober garments of the working day and came forth in an
evening costume which was the admiration and envy of Paradise Street.
Popular from a certain wordy good-humour which she always had at
command, she derived from this evening garb a social superiority which
friends and neighbours, whether they would or no were constrained to
recognise. She was deemed a well-to-do woman, and as such--Paradise
Street held it axiomatic--might reasonably adorn herself for the
respect of those to whom she sold miscellaneous pennyworths. She did
not depend upon the business. Her husband, as we already know, was a
foreman at Egremont & Pollard's oilcloth manufactory; they were known
to have money laid by. You saw in her face that life had been smooth
with her from the beginning. She wore a purple dress with a yellow
fichu, in which was fixed a large silver brooch; on her head was a
small lace cap. Her hands were enormous, and very red. As she came into
the shop, she mopped her forehead with a handkerchief; perspiration
streamed from every pore.

'What a man you are for keepin' yourself cool, Mr. Hackroyd!' she
exclaimed; 'it's like a breath o' fresh air to look at you, I'm sure.
If this kind o' weather goes on there won't be much left o' me. I'm
a-goin' like the butter.'

'It's warmish, that's true,' said Luke, when she had finished her
laugh. 'I heard Mr. Boddy playing in there, and I've got a message for
him.'

'Come in and sit down. He's just practisin' a new piece for his club
to-night.'

Ackroyd advanced into the parlour. The table was spread for tea, and at
the tray sat Mrs. Bower's daughter, Mary. She was a girl of nineteen,
sparely made, and rather plain-featured, yet with a thoughtful,
interesting face. Her smile was brief, and always passed into an
expression of melancholy, which in its turn did not last long; for the
most part she seemed occupied with thoughts which lay on the borderland
between reflection and anxiety. Her dress was remarkably plain,
contrasting with her mother's, and her hair was arranged in the
simplest way.

In a round-backed chair at a distance from the table sat an old man
with a wooden leg, a fiddle on his knee. His face was parchmenty, his
cheeks sunken, his lips compressed into a long, straight line; his
small grey eyes had an anxious look, yet were ever ready to twinkle
into a smile. He wore a suit of black, preserved from sheer decay by a
needle too evidently unskilled. Wrapped about a scarcely visible collar
was a broad black neckcloth of the antique fashion; his one shoe was
cobbled into shapelessness. Mr. Boddy's spirit had proved more durable
than his garments. Often hard set to earn the few shillings a week that
sufficed to him, he kept up a long-standing reputation for joviality,
and, with the aid of his fiddle, made himself welcome at many a festive
gathering in Lambeth.

'Give Mr. Hackroyd a cup o' tea, Mary,' said Mrs. Bower. 'How you pore
men go about your work days like this is more than I can understand. I
haven't life enough in me to drive away a fly as settles on my nose.
It's all very well for you to laugh, Mr. Boddy. There's good in
everything, if we only see it, and you may thank the trouble you've had
as it's kep' your flesh down.'

Ackroyd addressed the old man.

'There's a friend of mine in Newport Street would be glad to have you
do a little job for him, Mr. Boddy. Two or three chairs, I think.'

Mr. Boddy held forth his stumpy, wrinkled hand.

'Give us a friendly grip, Mr. Ackroyd! There's never a friend in this
world but the man as finds you work; that's the philosophy as has come
o' my three-score-and-nine years. What's the name and address? I'll be
round the first thing on Monday morning.'

The information was given.

'You just make a note o' that in your head, Mary, my dear,' the old mam
continued. ''Taint very likely I'll forget, but my memory do play me a
trick now and then. Ask me about things as happened fifty years ago,
and I'll serve you as well as the almanac. It's the same with my eyes.
I used to be near-sighted, and now I'll read you the sign-board across
the street easier than that big bill on the wall.'

He raised his violin, and struck out with spirit 'The March of the Men
of Harlech.'

'That's the teen as always goes with me on my way to work,' he said,
with a laugh. 'It keeps up my courage; this old timber o' mine stumps
time on the pavement, and I feel I'm good for something yet. If only
the hand'll keep steady! Firm enough yet, eh, Mr. Ackroyd?'

He swept the bow through a few ringing chords.

'Firm enough,' said Luke, 'and a fine tone, too. I suppose the older
the fiddle is the better it gets?'

'Ah, 'taint like these fingers. Old Jo Racket played this instrument
more than sixty years ago; so far back I can answer for it. You
remember Jo, Mrs. Bower, ma'am? Yes, yes, you can just remember him;
you was a little 'un when he'd use to crawl round from the work'us of a
Sunday to the "Green Man." When he went into the 'Ouse he give the
fiddle to Mat Trent, Lyddy and Thyrza's father, Mr. Ackroyd. Ah, talk
of a player! You should a' heard what Mat could do with this 'ere
instrument. What do _you_ say, Mrs. Bower, ma'am?'

'He was a good player, was Mr. Trent; but not better than somebody else
we know of, eh, Mr. Hackroyd?'

'Now don't you go pervertin' my judgment with flattery, ma'am,' said
the old man, looking pleased for all that. 'Matthew Trent was Matthew
Trent, an' Lambeth 'll never know another like him. He was made o'
music! When did you hear any man with a tenor voice like his? He made
songs, too, Mr. Ackroyd--words, music, an' all. Why, Thyrza sings one
of 'em still.'

'But how does she remember it?' Ackroyd asked with much interest. 'He
died when she was a baby.'

'Yes, yes, she don't remember it of her father. It was me as taught her
it, to be sure, as I did most o' the other songs she knows.'

'But she wasn't a baby either,' put in Mrs. Bower. 'She was four years;
an' Lydia was four years older.'

'Four years an' two months,' said Mr. Boddy, nodding with a laugh.
'Let's be ac'rate, Mrs. Bower, ma'am. Thirteen year ago next fourteenth
o' December, Mr. Ackroyd. There's a deal happened since then. On that
day I had my shop in the Cut, and I had two legs like other mortals.
Things wasn't doing so bad with me. Why, it's like yesterday to
remember. My wife she come a-runnin' into the shop just before
dinner-time. "There's a boiler busted at Walton's," she says, "an' they
say as Mr. Trent's killed." It was Walton's, the pump-maker's, in
Ground Street.'

'It's Simpson & Thomas's now,' remarked Mrs. Bower. 'Why, where Jim
Candle works, you know, Mr. Hackroyd.'

Luke nodded, knowing the circumstance. The whole story was familiar to
him, indeed; but Mr. Boddy talked on in an old man's way for pleasure
in the past.

'So it is, so it is. Me an' my wife took the little 'uns to the
'Orspital. He knew 'em, did poor Mat, but he couldn't speak. What a
face he had! Thyrza was frighted and cried; Lyddy just held on hard to
my hand, but she didn't cry. I don't remember to a' seen Lyddy cry more
than two or three times in my life; she always hid away for that, when
she couldn't help herself, bless her!'

'Lydia grows more an' more like her father,' said Mrs. Bower.

'She does, ma'am, she does. I used to say as she was like him, when she
sat in my shop of a night and watched the people in and out. Her eyes
was so bright-looking, just like Mat's. Eh, there wasn't much as the
little 'un didn't see. One day--how my wife did laugh!--she looks at me
for a long time, an' then she says: "How is it, Mr. Boddy," she says,
"as you've got one eyelid lower than the other?" It's true as I have a
bit of a droop in the right eye, but it's not so much as any one 'ud
notice it at once. I can hear her say that as if it was in this room.
An' she stood before me, a little thing that high. I didn't think she'd
be so tall. She growed wonderful from twelve to sixteen. It's me has to
look up to her now.'

A customer entered the shop, and Mrs. Bower went out.

'I don't think Thyrza's as much a favourite with any one as her
sister,' said Ackroyd, looking at Mary Bower, who had been silent all
this time.

'Oh, I like her very much,' was the reply. 'But there's something--I
don't think she's as easy to understand as Lydia. Still, I shouldn't
wonder if she pleases some people more.'

Mary dropped her eyes as she spoke, and smiled gently. Ackroyd tapped
with his foot.

'That's Totty Nancarrow,' said Mrs. Bower, reappearing from the shop.
'What a girl that is, to be sure! She's for all the world like a lad
put into petticoats. I should think there's a-goin' to be a feast over
in Newport Street. A tin o' sardines, four bottles o' ginger-beer, two
pound o' seed cake, an' two pots o' raspberry! Eh, she's a queer 'un! I
can't think where she gets her money from either.'

'It's a pity to see Thyrza going about with her so much,' said Mary,
gravely.

'Why, I can't say as I know any real harm of her,' said her mother,
'unless it is as she's a Catholic.'

'Totty Nancarrow a Catholic!' exclaimed Ackroyd. 'Why, I never knew
that.'

'Her mother was Irish, you see, an' I don't suppose as her father
thought much about religion. I dessay there's some good people
Catholics, but I can't say as I take much to them I know.'

Mary's face was expressing lively feeling.

'How can they be really good, mother, when their religion lets them do
wrong, if only they'll go and confess it to the priest? I wouldn't
trust anybody as was a Catholic. I don't think the religion ought to be
allowed.'

Here was evidently a subject which had power to draw Mary from her
wonted reticence. Her quiet eyes gleamed all at once with indignation.

Ackroyd laughed with good-natured ridicule.

'Nay,' he said, 'the time's gone by for that kind of thing, Miss Bower.
You wouldn't have us begin religious persecution again?'

'I don't want to persecute anybody,' the girl answered; 'but I wouldn't
let them be misled by a bad and false religion.'

On any other subject Mary would have expressed her opinion with
diffidence; not on this.

'I don't want to be rude, Miss Mary,' Luke rejoined, 'but what right
have you to say that their religion's any worse or falser than your
own?'

'Everybody knows that it is--that cares about religion at all,' Mary
replied with coldness and, in the last words, a significant severity.

'It's the faith, Mary, my dear,' interposed Mr. Boddy, 'the faith's the
great thing. I don't suppose as form matters so much.'

The girl gave the old man a brief, offended glance, and drew into
herself.

'Well,' said Mrs. Bower, 'that's one way o' lookin' at it but I can't
see neither as there's much good in believin' what isn't true.'

'That's to the point, Mrs. Bower,' said Ackroyd with a smile.

There was a footstep in the shop--firm, yet light and quick--then a
girl's face showed itself at the parlour door. It was a face which
atoned for lack of regular features by the bright intelligence and the
warmth of heart that shone in its smile of greeting. A fair broad
forehead lay above well-arched brows; the eyes below were large and
shrewdly observant, with laughter and kindness blent in their dark
depths. The cheeks were warm with health; the lips and chin were
strong, yet marked with refinement; they told of independence, of
fervid instincts; perhaps of a temper a little apt to be impatient. It
was not an imaginative countenance, yet alive with thought and
feeling--all, one felt, ready at the moment's need--the kind of face
which becomes the light and joy of home, the bliss of children, the
unfailing support of a man's courage. Her hair was cut short and
crisped itself above her neck; her hat of black straw and dark dress
were those of a work-girl--poor, yet, in their lack of adornment,
suiting well with the active, helpful impression which her look
produced.

'Here's Mary an' Mr. Hackroyd fallin' out again, Lydia,' said Mrs.
Bower.

'What about now?' Lydia asked, coming in and seating herself. Her eyes
passed quickly over Ackroyd's face and rested on that of the old man
with much kindness.

'Oh, the hold talk--about religion.'

'I think it 'ud be better if they left that alone,' she replied,
glancing at Mary.

'You're right, Miss Trent,' said Luke. 'It's about the most
unprofitable thing anyone can argue about.'

'Have you had your tea?' Mrs. Bower asked of Lydia.

'No; but I mustn't stop to have any, thank you, Mrs. Bower. Thyrza 'll
think I'm never coming home. I only looked in just to ask Mary to come
and have tea with us tomorrow.'

Ackroyd rose to depart.

'If I see Holmes I'll tell him you'll look in on Monday, Mr. Boddy.'

'Thank you, Mr. Ackroyd, thank you; no fear but I'll be there, sir.'

He nodded a leave-taking and went.

'Some work, grandad?' Lydia asked, moving to sit by Mr. Boddy.

'Yes, my dear; the thing as keeps the world a-goin'. How's the little
'un?'

'Why, I don't think she seems very well. I didn't want her to go to
work this morning, but she couldn't make up her mind to stay at home.
The hot weather makes her restless.'

'It's dreadful tryin'!' sighed Mrs. Bower.

'But I really mustn't stay, and that's the truth.' She rose from her
chair. 'Where do you think I've been, Mary? Mrs. Isaacs sent round this
morning to ask if I could give her a bit of help. She's going to
Margate on Monday, and there we've been all the afternoon trimming new
hats for herself and the girls. She's given me a shilling, and I'm sure
it wasn't worth half that, all I did. You'll come tomorrow, Mary?'

'I will if--you know what?'

'Now did you ever know such a girl!' Lydia exclaimed, looking round at
the others. 'You understand what she means, Mrs. Bower?'

'I dare say I do, my dear.'

'But I can't promise, Mary. I don't like to leave Thyrza always.'

'I don't see why she shouldn't come too,' said Mary. Lydia shook her
head.

'Well, you come at four o'clock, at all events, and we'll see all about
it. Good-bye, grandad.'

She hurried away, throwing back a bright look as she passed into the
shop.

Paradise Street runs at right angles into Lambeth Walk. As Lydia
approached this point, she saw that Ackroyd stood there, apparently
waiting for her. He was turning over the leaves of one of his books,
but kept glancing towards her as she drew near. He wished to speak, and
she stopped.

'Do you think,' he said, with diffidence, 'that your sister would come
out to-morrow after tea?'

Lydia kept her eyes down.

'I don't know, Mr. Ackroyd,' she answered. 'I'll ask her; I don t think
she's going anywhere.'

'It won't be like last Sunday?'

'She really didn't feel well. And I can't promise, you know Mr.
Ackroyd.'

She met his eyes for an instant, then looked along the street There was
a faint smile on her lips, with just a suspicion of some trouble.

'But you _will_ ask her?'

'Yes, I will.'

She added in a lower voice, and with constraint:

'I'm afraid she won't go by herself.'

'Then come with her. Do! Will you?'

'If she asks me to, I will.'

Lydia moved as if to leave him, but he followed.

'Miss Trent, you'll say a word for me sometimes?'

She raised her eyes again and replied quickly:

'I never say nothing against you, Mr. Ackroyd.'

'Thank you. Then I'll be at the end of the Walk at six o'clock, shall
I?'

She nodded, and walked quickly on. Ackroyd turned back into Paradise
Street. His cheeks were a trifle flushed, and he kept making nervous
movements with his head. So busy were his thoughts that he
unconsciously passed the door of the house in which he lived, and had
to turn when the roar of a train passing over the archway reminded him
where he was.




CHAPTER IV

THYRZA SINGS


Lydis, too, betrayed some disturbance of thought as she pursued her
way. Her face was graver than before: once or twice her lips moved as
if she were speaking to herself.

After going a short distance along Lambeth Walk, she turned off into a
street which began unpromisingly between low-built and poverty-stained
houses, but soon bettered in appearance. Its name is Walnut Tree Walk.
For the most part it consists of old dwellings, which probably were the
houses of people above the working class in days when Lambeth's squalor
was confined within narrower limits. The doors are framed with dark
wood, and have hanging porches. At the end of the street is a glimpse
of trees growing in Kennington Road.

To one of these houses Lydia admitted herself with a latch-key; she
ascended to the top floor and entered a room in the front. It was
sparely furnished, but with a certain cleanly comfort. A bed stood in
one corner; in another, a small washhand-stand; between them a low
chest of drawers with a looking-glass upon it. The rest was arranged
for day use; a cupboard kept out of sight household utensils and food.
Being immediately under the roof, the room was much heated after long
hours of sunshine. From the open window came a heavy scent of
mignonette.

Thyrza had laid the table for tea, and was sitting idly. It was not
easy to recognise her as Lydia's sister; if you searched her features
the sisterhood was there, but the type of countenance was so subtly
modified, so refined, as to become beauty of rare suggestiveness. She
was of pale complexion, and had golden hair; it was plaited in one
braid, which fell to her waist. Like Lydia's, her eyes were large and
full of light; every line of the face was delicate, harmonious, sweet;
each thought that passed through her mind reflected itself in a change
of expression, produced one knew not how, one phase melting into
another like flitting lights upon a stream in woodland. It was a subtly
morbid physiognomy, and impressed one with a sense of vague trouble.
There was none of the spontaneous pleasure in life which gave Lydia's
face such wholesome brightness; no impulse of activity, no resolve; all
tended to preoccupation, to emotional reverie. She had not yet
completed her seventeenth year, and there was still something of
childhood in her movements. Her form was slight, graceful, and of lower
stature than her sister's. She wore a dress of small-patterned print,
with a broad collar of cheap lace.

'It was too hot to light a fire,' she said, rising as Lydia entered.
'Mrs. Jarmey says she'll give us water for the tea.'

'I hoped you'd be having yours,' Lydia replied. 'It's nearly six
o'clock. I'll take the tea-pot down, dear.'

When they were seated at the table, Lydia drew from her pocket a
shilling and held it up laughingly.

'That from Mrs. Isaacs?' her sister asked.

'Yes. Not bad for Saturday afternoon, is it? Now I must take my boots
to be done. If it began to rain I should be in a nice fix; I haven't a
sole to walk on.'

'I just looked in at Mrs. Bower's as I passed,' she continued
presently. 'Mr. Ackroyd was there. He'd come to tell grandad of some
work. That was kind of him, wasn't it?'

Thyrza assented absently.

'Is Mary coming to tea to-morrow?' she asked.

'Yes. At least she said she would if I'd go to chapel with her
afterwards. She won't be satisfied till she gets me there every Sunday.'

'How tiresome, Lyddy!'

'But there's somebody wants you to go out as well. You know who.'

'You mean Mr. Ackroyd?'

'Yes. He met me when I came out of Mrs. Bower's, and asked me if I
thought you would.'

Thyrza was silent for a little, then she said:

'I can't go with him alone, Lyddy. I don't mind if you go too.'

'But that's just what he doesn't want,' said her sister, with a smile
which was not quite natural.

Thyrza averted her eyes, and began to speak of something else. The meal
was quickly over, then Lydia took up some sewing. Thyrza went to the
window and stood for a while looking at the people that passed, but
presently she seated herself, and fell into the brooding which her
sister's entrance had interrupted. Lydia also was quieter than usual;
her eyes often wandered from her work to Thyrza. At last she leaned
forward and said:

'What are you thinking of, Blue-eyes?'

Thyrza drew a deep sigh.

'I don't know, Lyddy. It's so hot, I don't feel able to do anything.'

'But you're always thinking and thinking. What is it that troubles you?'

'I feel dull.'

'Why don't you like to go out with Mr. Ackroyd?' Lydia asked.

'Why do you so much want me to, Lyddy?'

'Because he thinks a great deal of you, and it would be nice if you got
to like him.'

'But I shan't, never;--I know I shan't.'

'Why not, dear?'

'I don't _dislike_ him, but he mustn't get to think it's any thing
else. I'll go out with him if you'll go as well,' she added, fixing her
eyes on Lydia's.

The latter bent to pick up a reel of cotton.

'We'll see when to-morrow comes,' she said.

Silence again fell between them, whilst Lydia's fingers worked rapidly.
The evening drew on. Thyrza took her chair to the window, leaned upon
the sill, and looked up at the reddening sky. The windows of the other
houses were all open; here and there women talked from them with
friends across the street. People were going backwards and forwards
with bags and baskets, on the business of Saturday evening; in the
distance sounded the noise of the market in Lambeth Walk.

Shortly after eight o'clock Lydia said

'I'll just go round with my boots, and get something for dinner
to-morrow.'

'I'll come with you,' Thyrza said. 'I can't bear to sit here any
longer.'

They went forth, and were soon in the midst of the market. Lambeth Walk
is a long, narrow street, and at this hour was so thronged with people
that an occasional vehicle with difficulty made slow passage. On the
outer edges of the pavement, in front of the busy shops, were rows of
booths, stalls, and harrows, whereon meat, vegetables, fish, and
household requirements of indescribable variety were exposed for sale.
The vendors vied with one another in uproarious advertisement of their
goods. In vociferation the butchers doubtless excelled; their 'Lovely,
lovely, lovely!' and their reiterated 'Buy, buy, buy!' rang clangorous
above the hoarse roaring of costermongers and the din of those who
clattered pots and pans. Here and there meat was being sold by Dutch
auction, a brisk business. Umbrellas, articles of clothing, quack
medicines, were disposed of in the same way, giving occasion for much
coarse humour. The market-night is the sole out-of-door amusement
regularly at hand for London working people, the only one, in truth,
for which they show any real capacity. Everywhere was laughter and
interchange of good-fellowship. Women sauntered the length of the
street and back again for the pleasure of picking out the best and
cheapest bundle of rhubarb, or lettuce, the biggest and hardest
cabbage, the most appetising rasher; they compared notes, and bantered
each other on purchases. The hot air reeked with odours. From stalls
where whelks were sold rose the pungency of vinegar; decaying
vegetables trodden under foot blended their putridness with the musty
smell of second-hand garments; the grocers' shops were aromatic; above
all was distinguishable the acrid exhalation from the shops where fried
fish and potatoes hissed in boiling grease. There Lambeth's supper was
preparing, to be eaten on the spot, or taken away wrapped in newspaper.
Stewed eels and baked meat pies were discoverable through the steam of
other windows, but the fried fish and potatoes appealed irresistibly to
the palate through the nostrils, and stood first in popularity.

The people were of the very various classes which subdivide the great
proletarian order. Children of the gutter and sexless haunters of the
street corner elbowed comfortable artisans and their wives; there were
bareheaded hoidens from the obscurest courts, and work-girls whose
self-respect was proof against all the squalor and vileness hourly
surrounding them. Of the women, whatsoever their appearance, the great
majority carried babies. Wives, themselves scarcely past childhood,
balanced shawl-enveloped bantlings against heavy market-baskets. Little
girls of nine or ten were going from stall to stall, making purchases
with the confidence and acumen of old housekeepers; slight fear that
they would fail to get their money's worth. Children, too, had the
business of sale upon their hands: ragged urchins went about with
blocks of salt, importuning the marketers, and dishevelled girls
carried bundles of assorted vegetables, crying, 'A penny all the lot! A
penny the 'ole lot!'

The public-houses were full. Through the gaping doors you saw a
tightly-packed crowd of men, women, and children, drinking at the bar
or waiting to have their jugs filled, tobacco smoke wreathing above
their heads. With few exceptions the frequenters of the Walk turned
into the public-house as a natural incident of the evening's business.
The women with the babies grew thirsty in the hot, foul air of the
street, and invited each other to refreshment of varying strength,
chatting the while of their most intimate affairs, the eternal 'says
I,' 'says he,' 'says she,' of vulgar converse. They stood indifferently
by the side of liquor-sodden creatures whose look was pollution.
Companies of girls, neatly dressed and as far from depravity as
possible, called for their glasses of small beer, and came forth again
with merriment in treble key.

When the sisters had done their business at the boot-maker's, and were
considering what their purchase should be for Sunday's dinner, Thyrza
caught sight of Totty Nancarrow entering a shop. At once she said: 'I
won't be late back, Lyddy. I'm just going to walk a little way with
Totty.'

Lydia's face showed annoyance.

'Where is she?' she asked, looking back.

'In the butcher's just there.'

'Don't go to-night, Thyrza. I'd rather you didn't.'

'I promise I won't be late. Only half an hour.'

She waved her hand and ran off, of a sudden changed to cheerfulness.
Totty received her in the shop with a friendly laugh. Mrs. Bower's
description of Miss Nancarrow as a lad in petticoats was not inapt, yet
she was by no means heavy or awkward. She had a lithe, shapely figure,
and her features much resembled those of a fairly good-looking boy. Her
attire showed little care for personal adornment, but it suited her,
because it suggested bodily activity. She wore a plain, tight-fitting
grey gown, a small straw hat of the brimless kind, and a white linen
collar about her neck. Totty was nineteen; no girl in Lambeth relished
life with so much determination, yet to all appearance so harmlessly.
Her independence was complete; for five years she had been parentless
and had lived alone.

Thyrza was attracted to her by this air of freedom and joyousness which
distinguished Totty. It was a character wholly unlike her own, and her
imaginative thought discerned in it something of an ideal; her own
timidity and her tendency to languor found a refreshing antidote in the
other's breezy carelessness. Impurity of mind would have repelled her,
and there was no trace of it in Totty. Yet Lydia took very ill this
recently-grown companionship, holding her friend Mary Bower's view of
the girl's character. Her prejudice was enhanced by the jealous care
with which, from the time of her own childhood, she had been accustomed
to watch over her sister. Already there had been trouble between Thyrza
and her on this account. In spite of the unalterable love which united
them, their points of unlikeness not seldom brought about debates which
Lydia's quick temper sometimes aggravated to a quarrel.

So Lydia finished her marketing and turned homewards with a perturbed
mind. But the other two walked, with gossip and laughter, to Totty's
lodgings, which were in Newport Street, an offshoot of Paradise Street.

'I'm going with Annie West to a friendly lead,' Totty said; 'will you
come with us?'

Thyrza hesitated. The entertainment known as a 'friendly lead' is
always held at a public-house, and she knew that Lydia would seriously
disapprove of her going to such a place. Yet she had even a physical
need of change, of recreation. Whilst she discussed the matter
anxiously with herself they entered the house and went up to Totty's
room. The house was very small, and had a close, musty smell, as if no
fresh air ever got into it. Totty's chamber was a poor, bare little
retreat, with low, cracked, grimy ceiling, and one scrap of carpet on
the floor, just by the diminutive bed. On a table lay the provisions
she had that afternoon brought in from Mrs. Bower's. On the
mantel-piece was a small card, whereon was printed an announcement of
the friendly lead; at the bead stood the name of a public-house, with
that of its proprietor; then followed: 'A meeting will take place at
the above on Saturday evening, August 2, for the benefit of Bill
Mennie, the well-known barber of George Street, who has been laid up
through breaking of his leg, and is quite unable to follow his
employment at present. We the undersigned, knowing him to be thoroughly
respected and a good supporter of these meetings, they trust you will
come forward on this occasion, and give him that support he so richly
deserve, this being his first appeal.--Chairman:--Count Bismark.
Vice:--Dick Perkins. Assisted by' (here was a long list, mostly of
nicknames) 'Little Arthur, Flash Bob, Young Brummy, Lardy, Bumper, Old
Tacks, Jo at Thomson's, Short-pipe Tommy, Boy Dick, Chaffy Sam
Coppock,' and others equally suggestive.

Whilst Thyrza perused this, Totty was singing a merry song.

'I've had ten shillin's sent me to-day,' she said.

'Who by?'

'An old uncle of mine, 'cause it's my birthday to-morrow. He's a rum
old fellow. About two years ago he came and asked me if I'd go and live
with him and my aunt, and be made a lady of. Honest, he did! He keeps a
shop in Tottenham Court Road. He and father 'd quarrelled, and he never
come near when father died, and I had to look out for myself. Now, he'd
like to make a lady of me; he'll wait a long time till he gets the
chance!'

'But wouldn't it be nice, Totty?' Thyrza asked, doubtfully.

'I'd sooner live in my own way, thank you. Fancy me havin' to sit
proper at a table, afraid to eat an' drink! What's the use o' livin',
if you don't enjoy yourself?'

They were interrupted by a knock at the door, followed by the
appearance of Annie West, a less wholesome-looking girl than Totty, but
equally vivacious.

'Well, will you come to the "Prince Albert," Thyrza?' Totty asked.

'I can't stay long,' was the answer; 'but I'll go for a little while.'

The house of entertainment was at no great distance. They passed
through the bar and up into a room on the first floor, where a
miscellaneous assembly was just gathering. Down the middle was a long
table, with benches beside it, and a round-backed chair at each end;
other seats were ranged along the walls. At the upper end of the room
an arrangement of dirty red hangings--in the form of a canopy,
surmounted by a lion and unicorn, of pasteboard--showed that festive
meetings were regularly held here. Round about were pictures of hunting
incidents, of racehorses, of politicians and pugilists, interspersed
with advertisements of beverages. A piano occupied one corner.

The chairman was already in his place; on the table before him was a
soup-plate, into which each visitor threw a contribution on arriving.
Seated on the benches were a number of men, women, and girls, all with
pewters or glasses before them, and the air was thickening with smoke
of pipes. The beneficiary of the evening, a portly person with a face
of high satisfaction, sat near the chairman, and by him were two girls
of decent appearance, his daughters. The president puffed at a
churchwarden and exchanged genial banter with those who came up to
deposit offerings. Mr. Dick Perkins, the Vice, was encouraging a spirit
of conviviality at the other end. A few minutes after Thyrza and her
companions had entered, a youth of the seediest appearance struck
introductory chords on the piano, and started off at high pressure with
a selection of popular melodies. The room by degrees grew full. Then
the chairman rose, and with jocular remarks announced the first song.

Totty had several acquaintances present, male and female; her laughter
frequently sounded above the hubbub of voices. Thyrza, who had declined
to have anything to drink, shrank into as little space as possible; she
was nervous and self-reproachful, yet the singing and the uproar gave
her a certain pleasure. There was nothing in the talk around her and
the songs that were sung that made it a shame for her to be present.
Plebeian good-humour does not often degenerate into brutality at
meetings of this kind until a late hour of the evening. The girls who
sat with glasses of beer before them, and carried on primitive
flirtations with their neighbours, were honest wage-earners of factory
and workshop, well able to make themselves respected. If they lacked
refinement, natural or acquired, it was not their fault; toil was
behind them and before, the hours of rest were few, suffering and lack
of bread might at any moment come upon them. They had all thrown their
hard-earned pence into the soup-plate gladly and kindly; now they
enjoyed themselves.

The chairman excited enthusiasm by announcement of a song by Mr. Sam
Coppock--known to the company as 'Chaffy Sem.' Sam was a young man who
clearly had no small opinion of himself; he wore a bright-blue necktie,
and had a geranium flower in his button-hole; his hair was cut as short
as scissors could make it, and as he stood regarding the assembly he
twisted the ends of a scarcely visible moustache. When he fixed a round
glass in one eye and perked his head with a burlesque of aristocratic
bearing, the laughter and applause were deafening.

'He's a warm 'un, is Sem!' was the delighted comment on all hands.

The pianist made discursive prelude, then Mr. Coppock gave forth a
ditty of the most sentimental character, telling of the disappearance
of a young lady to whom he was devoted. The burden, in which all bore a
part, ran thus:

  We trecked 'er little footprints in the snayoo,
  We trecked 'er little footprints in the snayoo,
  I shall ne'er forget the d'y
  When Jenny lost her w'y,
  And we trecked 'er little footprints in the snayoo!

It was known that the singer had thoughts of cultivating his talent and
of appearing on the music-hall stage; it was not unlikely that he might
some day become 'the great Sam.' A second song was called for and
granted; a third--but Mr. Coppock intimated that it did not become him
to keep other talent in the background. The chairman made a humorous
speech, informing the company that their friend would stand forth again
later in the evening. Mr. Dick Perkins was at present about to oblige.

The Vice was a frisky little man. He began with what is known as
'patter,' then gave melodious account of a romantic meeting with a
damsel whom he had seen only once to lose sight of for ever. And the
refrain was:

  She wore a lov-e-lie bonnet
  With fruit end flowers upon it,
  End she dwelt in the henvirons of 'Ol-lo-w'y!

As yet only men had sung; solicitation had failed with such of the
girls as were known to be musically given. Yet an earnest prayer from
the chairman succeeded at length in overcoming the diffidence of one.
She was a pale, unhealthy thing, and wore an ugly-shaped hat with a
gruesome green feather; she sang with her eyes down, and in a voice
which did not lack a certain sweetness. The ballad was of springtime
and the country and love.

  Underneath the May-tree blossoms
  Oft we've wandered, you and I,
  Listening to the mill-stream's whisper,
  Like a stream soft-gliding by.

The girl had a drunken mother, and spent a month or two of every year
in the hospital, for her day's work overtaxed her strength. She was one
of those fated toilers, to struggle on as long as any one would employ
her, then to fall among the forgotten wretched. And she sang of
May-bloom and love; of love that had never come near her and that she
would never know; sang, with her eyes upon the beer-stained table, in a
public-house amid the backways of Lambeth.

Totty Nancarrow was whispering to Thyrza:

'Sing something, old girl! Why shouldn't you?'

Annie West was also at hand, urging the same.

'Let 'em hear some real singing, Thyrza. There's a dear.'

Thyrza was in sore trouble. Music, if it were but a street organ,
always stirred her heart and made her eager for the joy of song. She
had never known what it was to sing before a number of people; the
prospect of applause tempted her. Yet she had scarcely the courage, and
the thought of Lydia's grief and anger--for Lydia would surely hear of
it--was keenly present.

'It's getting late,' she replied nervously. 'I can't stay; I can't sing
to-night.'

Only one or two people in the room knew her by sight, but Totty had led
to its being passed from one to another that she was a good singer. The
landlord of the house happened to be in the room; he came and spoke to
her.

'You don't remember me, Miss Trent, but I knew your father well enough,
and I knew you when you was a little 'un. In those days I had the
"Green Man" in the Cut; your father often enough gave us a toon on his
fiddle. A rare good fiddler he was, too! Give us a song now, for old
times' sake.'

Thyrza found herself preparing, in spite of herself. She trembled
violently, and her heart beat with a strange pain. She heard the
chairman shout her name; the sound made her face burn.

'Oh, what shall I sing?' she whispered distractedly to Totty, whilst
all eyes were turned to regard her.

'Sing "A Penny for your thoughts."'

It was the one song she knew of her father's making, a half-mirthful,
half-pathetic little piece in the form of a dialogue between husband
and wife, a true expression of the life of working folk, which only a
man who was more than half a poet could have shaped.

The seedy youth at the piano was equal to any demand for accompaniment;
Totty hummed the air to him, and he had his chords ready without delay.

Thyrza raised her face and began to sing. Yes, it was different enough
from anything that had come before; her pure sweet tones touched the
hearers profoundly; not a foot stirred. At the second verse she had
grown in confidence, and rose more boldly to the upper notes. At the
end she was singing her best--better than she had ever sung at home,
better than she thought she could sing. The applause that followed was
tumultuous. By this time much beer had been consumed; the audience was
in a mood for enjoying good things.

'That's something like, old girl!' cried Totty, clapping her on the
back. 'Have a drink out of my glass. It's only ginger-beer; it can't
hurt you. This is jolly! Ain't it a lark to be alive?'

The pale-faced girl who had sung of May-blossoms looked across the
table with eyes in which jealousy strove against admiration. There were
remarks aside between the men with regard to Thyrza's personal
appearance.

She must sing again. They were not going to be left with hungry ears
after a song like that. Thyrza still suffered from the sense that she
was doing wrong, but the praise was so sweet to her; sweeter, she
thought, than anything she had ever known. She longed to repeat her
triumph.

Totty named another song; the faint resistance was overcome, and again
the room hushed itself, every hearer spellbound. It was a voice well
worthy of cultivation, excellent in compass, with rare sweet power.
Again the rapturous applause, and again the demand for more. Another!
she should not refuse them. Only one more and they would be content.
And a third time she sang; a third time was borne upwards on clamour.

'Totty, I _must_ go,' she whispered. 'What's the time?'

'It's only just after ten,' was the reply. 'You'll soon run home.'

'After ten? Oh, I must go at once!'

She left her place, and as quickly as possible made her way through the
crowd. Just at the door she saw a face that she recognised, but a
feeling of faintness was creeping upon her, and she could think of
nothing but the desire to breathe fresh air. Already she was on the
stairs, but her strength suddenly failed; she felt herself falling,
felt herself strongly seized, then lost consciousness.

She came to herself in a few minutes in the bar-parlour; the landlady
was attending to her, and the door had been shut against intruders. Her
first recognition was of Luke Ackroyd.

'Don't say anything,' she murmured, looking at him imploringly. 'Don't
tell Lyddy.'

'Not I,' replied Ackroyd. 'Just drink a drop and you'll be all right.
I'll see you home. You feel better, don't you?'

Yes, she felt better, though her head ached miserably. Soon she was
able to walk, and longed to hasten away. The landlady let her out by
the private door, and Ackroyd went with her.

'Will you take my arm?' he said, speaking very gently, and looking into
her face with eloquent eyes. 'I'm rare and glad I happened to be there.
I heard you singing from downstairs, and I asked, Who in the world's
that? I know now what Mr. Boddy means when he talks so about your
voice. Won't you take my arm, Miss Trent?'

'I feel quite well again, thank you,' she replied. 'I'd no business to
be there, Mr. Ackroyd. Lyddy 'll be very angry; she can't help hearing.'

'No, no! she won't be angry. You tell her at once. You were with Totty
Nancarrow, I suppose? Oh, it'll be all right. But of course it isn't
the kind of place for you, Miss Trent.'

She kept silence. They were walking through a quiet street where the
only light came from the gas-lamps. Ackroyd presently looked again into
her face.

'Will you come out to-morrow?' he asked, softly.

'Not to-morrow, Mr. Ackroyd.' She added: 'If I did I couldn't come
alone. It is better to tell you at once, isn't it? I don't mind with my
sister, because then we just go like friends; but I don't want to have
people think anything else.'

'Then come with your sister. We _are_ friends, aren't we? I can wait
for something else.'

'But you mustn't, Mr. Ackroyd. It'll never come. I mean it; I shall
never alter my mind. I have a reason.'

'What reason?' he asked, standing still.

She looked away.

'I mean that--that I couldn't never marry you.'

'Don't say that! You don't knew what I felt when I heard you singing.
Have you heard any harm against me. Thyrza? I haven't always been as
steady a fellow as I ought to be, but that was before I came to know
you. It's no good, whatever you say--I can't give up hope. Why, a man
'ud do anything for half a kind word from you. Thyrza (he lowered his
voice), there isn't anyone else, is there?'

She was silent.

'You don't mean that? Good God! I don't know what'll become of me if I
think of that. The only thing I care to live for is the hope of having
you for my wife.'

'But you mustn't hope, Mr. Ackroyd. You'll find someone much better for
you than me. But I can't stop. It's so late, and my head aches so. Do
let me go, please.'

He made an effort over himself. The nearest lamp showed him that she
was very pale.

'Only one word, Thyrza. Is there really any one else?'

'No; but that doesn't alter it.'

She walked quickly on. Ackroyd, with a great sigh of relief, went on by
her side. They came out into Lambeth Walk, where the market was as
noisy as ever; the shops lit up, the stalls flaring with naphtha lamps,
the odour of fried fish everywhere predominant. He led her through the
crowd and a short distance into her own street. Then she gave him her
hand and said: 'Good-night, Mr. Ackroyd. Thank you for bringing me
back. You'll be friends with me and Lyddy?'

'You'll come out with her to-morrow?'

'I can't promise. Good-night!'




CHAPTER V

A LAND OF TWILIGHT


It happened that Mrs. Jarmey, the landlady of the house in which the
sisters lived, had business in the neighbourhood of the 'Prince
Albert,' and chanced to exchange a word with an acquaintance who had
just come away after hearing Thyrza sing. Returning home, she found
Lydia at the door, anxiously and impatiently waiting for Thyrza's
appearance. The news, of course, was at once communicated, with moral
reflections, wherein Mrs. Jarmey excelled. Not five minutes later, and
whilst the two were still talking in the passage, the front door
opened, and Thyrza came in. Lydia turned and went upstairs.

Thyrza, entering the room, sought her sister's face; it had an angry
look. For a moment Lydia did not speak; the other, laying aside her
hat, said: 'I'm sorry I'm so late, Lyddy.'

'Where have you been?' her sister asked, in a voice which strove to
command itself.

Thyrza could not tell the whole truth at once, though she knew it would
have to be confessed eventually; indeed, whether or no discovery came
from other sources, all would eventually be told of her own free will.
She might fear at the moment, but in the end kept no secret from Lydia.

'I've been about with Totty,' she said, averting her face as she drew
off her cotton gloves.

'Yes, you have! You've been singing at a public-house.'

Lydia was too upset to note the paleness of Thyrza's face, which at
another moment would have elicited anxious question. She was deeply
hurt that Thyrza made so little account of her wishes; jealous of the
influence of Totty Nancarrow; stirred with apprehensions as powerful as
a mother's. On the other hand, it was Thyrza's nature to shrink into
coldness before angry words. She suffered intensely when the voice
which was of wont so affectionate turned to severity, but she could not
excuse herself till the storm was over. And it was most often from the
elder girl that the first words of reconcilement came.

'That's your Totty Nancarrow,' Lydia went on, with no check upon her
tongue. 'Didn't I tell you what 'ud come of going about with her? What
next, I should like to know! If you go on and sing in a public-house, I
don't know what you won't do. I shall never trust you out by yourself
again. You shan't go out at night at all, that's about it!'

'You've no right to speak to me like that, Lydia,' Thyrza replied, with
indignation. The excitement and the fainting fit had strung her nerves
painfully; and, for all her repentance, the echo of applause was still
very sweet in her ears. This vehement reproach caused a little injury
to her pride. 'It doesn't depend on you whether I go out or not. I'm
not a child, and I can take care of myself. I haven't done nothing
wrong.'

'You have--and you know you have! You knew I shouldn't have let you go
near such a place. You know how I've begged you not to go with Totty
Nancarrow, and how you've promised me you wouldn't be led into no harm.
I shall never be able to trust you again. You _are_ only a child! You
show it! And in future you'll do as I tell you!'

Thyrza caught up her hat.

'I'm not going to stop here whilst you're in such a bad temper,' she
said, in a trembling voice; 'you'll find that isn't the way to make me
do as you wish.'

She stepped to the door. Lydia, frightened, sprang forward and barred
the way.

'Go and sit down, Thyrza!'

'Let me go! What right have you to stop me?'

Then both were silent. At the same moment they became aware that a
common incident of Saturday night was occurring had got thus far on
their way home, the wife's shrill tongue in the street below. A
half-tipsy man and a nagging woman running over every scale of
scurrility and striking every note of ingenious malice. The man was at
length worked to a pitch of frenzy, and then--thud, thud, mingled with
objurgations and shrill night-piercing yells. Fury little short of
murderous was familiar enough to dwellers in this region, but that
woman's bell-clapper tongue had struck shame into Lydia. She could not
speak another angry word.

'Thyrza, take your hat off,' she said quietly, moving away a little
from the door. Her cheeks burned, and she quivered in the subsidence of
her temper.

Her sister did not obey, but, unable to stand longer, she went to a
chair at a distance. The uproar in the street continued for a quarter
of an hour, then by degrees passed on, the voice of the woman shrieking
foul abuse till remoteness stifled it. Lydia forced herself to keep
silence from good or ill; it was no use speaking the thoughts she had
till morning. Thyrza sat with her eyes fixed on vacancy; she was so
miserable, her heart had sunk so low, that tears would have come had
she not forced them back. More than once of late she had known this
mood, in which life lay about her barren and weary. She was very young
to suffer that oppression of the world-worn; it was the penalty she
paid for her birthright of heart and mind.

By midnight they were lying side by side, but no 'goodnight' had passed
between them. When Thyrza's gentle breathing told that she slept, Lydia
still lay with open eyes, watching the flicker of the street lamp upon
the ceiling, hearing the sounds that came of mirth or brutality in
streets near and far. She did not suffer in the same way as her sister;
as soon as she had gently touched Thyrza's unconscious hand love came
upon her with its warm solace; but her trouble was deep, and she looked
into the future with many doubts.

The past she could scarcely deem other than happy, though a stranger
would have thought it sad enough. Her mother she well remembered--a
face pale and sweet, like Thyrza's: the eyes that have their sad beauty
from foresight of death. Her father lived only a year longer, then she
and the little one passed into the charge of Mr. Boddy, who was paid a
certain small sum by Trent's employers, in consideration of the death
by accident. Then came the commencement of Mr. Boddy's misfortunes; his
shop and house were burnt down, he lost his limb in an endeavour to
save his property, he lost his wife in consequence of the shock. Dreary
things for the memory, yet they did not weigh upon Lydia; she was so
happily endowed that her mind selected and dwelt on sunny hours, on
kind looks and words which her strong heart cherished unassailably, on
the mutual charities which sorrow had begotten rather than on the
sorrow itself. Above all, the growing love of her dear one, of her to
whom she was both mother and sister, had strengthened her against every
trouble. Yet of late this strongest passion of her life had become a
source of grave anxieties, as often as circumstance caused her to look
beyond her contentment. Thyrza was so beautiful, and, it seemed to her,
so weak; always dreaming of something beyond and above the life which
was her lot; so deficient in the practical qualities which that life
demanded. At moments Lydia saw her responsibility in a light which
alarmed her.

They worked at a felt-hat factory, as 'trimmers;' that is to say, they
finished hats by sewing in the lining, putting on the bands, and the
like. In the busy season they could average together wages of about a
pound a week; at dull times they earned less, and very occasionally had
to support themselves for a week or two without employment. Since the
age of fourteen Lydia herself had received help from no one; from
sixteen she had lived in lodgings with Thyrza, independent. Mr. Boddy
was then no longer able to do more than supply his own needs, for
things had grown worse with him from year to year. Lydia occasionally
found jobs for her free hours, and she had never yet wanted. She was
strong, her health had scarcely ever given her a day's uneasiness;
there never came to her a fear lest bread should fail. But Thyrza could
not take life as she did. It was not enough for that imaginative nature
to toil drearily day after day, and year after year, just for the sake
of earning a livelihood. In a month she would be seventeen; it was too
true, as she had said to-night, that she was no longer a child. What
might happen if the elder sister's influence came to an end? Thyrza
loved her: how Lydia would have laughed at anyone who hinted that the
love could ever weaken! But it was not a guard against every danger.

It was inevitable that Lydia should have hoped that her sister might
marry early. And one man she knew in whom--she scarcely could have told
you why--her confidence was so strong that she would freely have
entrusted him with Thyrza's fate. Thyrza could not bring herself to
think of him as a husband. It was with Ackroyd that Lydia's thoughts
were busy as she lay wakeful. Before to-night she had not pondered so
continuously on what she knew of him. For some two years he had been an
acquaintance, through the Bowers, and she had felt glad when it was
plain that he sought Thyrza's society. 'Yes,' she had said to herself,
'I like him, and feel that he is to be relied upon.' Stories, to be
sure, had reached her ears; something of an over-fondness for
conviviality; but she had confidence. To-night she seemed called upon
to review all her impressions. Why? Nothing new had happened. She
longed for sleep, but it only came when dawn was white upon the blind.

When it was time to rise, neither spoke. Lydia prepared the breakfast
as usual--it seemed quite natural that she should do nearly all the
work of the home--and they sat down to it cheerlessly.

Since daybreak a mist had crept over the sky; it thinned the sunlight
to a suffusion of grey and gold. Within the house there was the silence
of Sunday morning; the street was still, save for the jodeling of a
milkman as he wheeled his clattering cans from house to house. In that
London on the other side of Thames, known to these girls with scarcely
less of vagueness than to simple dwellers in country towns, the
autumn-like air was foretaste of holiday; the martyrs of the Season and
they who do the world's cleaner work knew that rest was near, spoke at
breakfast of the shore and the mountain. Even to Lydia, weary after her
short sleep and unwontedly dejected, there came a wish that it were
possible to quit the streets for but one day, and sit somewhere apart
under the open sky. It was not often that so fantastic a dream visited
her.

In dressing, Thyrza had left her hair unbraided. Lydia always did that
for her. When the table was cleared, the former took up a story-paper
which she bought every week, and made a show of reading. Lydia went
about her accustomed tasks.

Presently she took a brush and comb and went behind her sister's chair.
She began to unloosen the rough coils in which the golden hair was
pinned together. It was always a joy to her to bathe her hands in the
warm, soft torrent. With delicate care she combed out every intricacy,
and brushed the ordered tresses till the light gleamed on their smooth
surface; then with skilful fingers she wove the braid, tying it with a
blue ribbon so that the ends hung loose. The task completed, it was her
custom to bend over the little head and snatch an inverted kiss, always
a moment of laughter. This morning she omitted that; she was moving
sadly away, when she noticed that the face turned a little, a very
little.

'Isn't it right?' she asked, keeping her eyes down.

'I think so--it doesn't matter.'

She drew near again, as if to inspect her work. Perhaps there was a
slight lack of smoothness over the temple; she touched the spot with
her fingers.

'Why are you so unkind to me, Thyrza?'

The words had come involuntarily; the voice shook as they were spoken.

'I don't mean to be, Lyddy--you know I don't.'

'But you do things that you know 'll make me angry. I'm quick-tempered,
and I couldn't bear to think of you going to that place; I ought to
have spoke in a different way.'

'Who told you I'd been singing?'

'Mrs. Jarmey. I'm very glad she did; it doesn't seem any harm to you,
Thyrza, but it does to me. Dear, have you ever sung at such places
before?'

Thyrza shook her head.

'Will you promise me never to go there again?'

'I don't want to go. But I get no harm. They were very pleased with my
singing. Annie West was there, and several other girls. Why do you make
so much of it, Lyddy?'

'Because I'm older than you, Thyrza; and if you'll only trust me, and
do as I wish, you'll see some day that I was right. I know you're a
good girl; I don't think a wrong thought ever came into your head. It
isn't that, it's because you can't go about the streets and into
public-houses without hearing bad things and seeing bad people. I want
to keep you away from everything that isn't homelike and quiet. I want
you to love me more than anyone else!'

'I do, Lyddy! I do, dear! It's only that I--'

'What--?'

'I don't know how it is. I'm discontented. There's never any change.
How can you be so happy day after day? I love to be with you, but--if
we could go and live somewhere else! I should like to see a new place.
I've been reading there about the seaside what it must be like! I want
to know things. You don't understand me?'

'I think I do. I felt a little the same when I heard Mrs. Isaacs and
her daughter talking about Margate yesterday. But we shall be better
off some day, see if we aren't! Try your best not to think about those
things. Suppose you ask Mr. Grail to lend you a book to read? I met
Mrs. Grail downstairs last night, and she asked if we'd go down and
have tea to-day. I can't, because Mary's coming, but you might. And I'm
sure he'd lend you something nice if you asked him.'

'I don't think I durst. He always sits so quiet, and he's such a queer
man.'

'Yes, he is rather queer, but he speaks very kind.'

'I'll see. But you mustn't speak so cross to me if I do wrong, Lyddy. I
felt as if I should like to go away, some time when you didn't know. I
did, really!'

Lydia gazed at her anxiously.

'I don't think you'd ever have the heart to do that, Thyrza,' she said,
in a low voice.

'No,' she shook her head, smiling. 'I couldn't do without you. And now
kiss me properly, like you always do.'

Lydia stood behind the chair again, and the laughing caress was
exchanged.

'I should stay,' Thyrza went on, 'if it was only to have you do my
hair. I do so like to feel your soft hands!'

'Soft hands! Great coarse things. Just look!'

She took one of Thyrza's, and held it beside her own. The difference
was noticeable enough; Lydia's was not ill-shapen, but there were marks
on it of all the rough household work which she had never permitted her
sister to do. Thyrza's was delicate, supple, beautiful in its kind as
her face.

'I don't care!' she said laughing. 'It's a good, soft, sleepy hand.'

'Sleepy, child!'

'I mean it always makes me feel dozy when it's doing my hair.'

There was no more cloud between them. The morning passed on with
sisterly talk. Lydia had wisely refrained from exacting promises; she
hoped to resume the subject before long--together with another that was
in her mind. Thyrza, too, had something to speak of, but could not
bring herself to it as yet.

Though it was so hot, they had to keep a small fire for cooking the
dinner. This meal consisted of a small piece of steak, chosen from the
odds and ends thrown together on the front of a butcher's shop, and a
few potatoes. It was not always they had meat; yet they never went
hungry, and, in comparing herself with others she knew, it sometimes
made Lydia a little unhappy to think how well she lived.

Then began the unutterable dreariness of a Sunday afternoon. From the
lower part of the house sounded the notes of a concertina; it was Mr.
Jarmey who played. He had the habit of doing so whilst half asleep,
between dinner and tea. With impartiality he passed from strains of
popular hymnody to the familiar ditties of the music hall, lavishing on
each an excess of sentiment. He shook pathetically on top notes and
languished on final chords. A dolorous music!

The milkman came along the street. He was followed by a woman who
wailed 'wa-ater-creases!' Then the concertina once more possessed the
stillness. Few pedestrians were abroad; the greater part of the male
population of Lambeth slumbered after the baked joint and flagon of
ale. Yet here and there a man in his shirt-sleeves leaned forth
despondently from a window or sat in view within, dozing over the
Sunday paper.

A rattling of light wheels drew near, and a nasal voice cried
''Okey-pokey! 'Okey-'okey-'okey Penny a lump!' It was the man who sold
ice-cream. He came to a stop, and half a dozen boys gathered about his
truck. The delicacy was dispensed to them in little green and yellow
glasses, from which they extracted it with their tongues. The vendor
remained for a few minutes, then on again with his ''Okey'-okey-'okey!'
sung through the nose.

Next came a sound of distressful voices, whining the discords of a
mendicant psalm. A man, a woman, and two small children crawled along
the street; their eyes surveyed the upper windows. All were ragged and
filthy; the elders bore the unmistakable brand of the gin-shop, and the
children were visaged like debased monkeys. Occasionally a copper fell
to them, in return for which the choragus exclaimed 'Gord bless yer!'

Thyrza sat in her usual place by the window, now reading for a few
minutes, now dreaming. Lydia had some stockings to be darned; she
became at length so silent that her sister turned to look at her. Her
head had dropped forward. She slumbered for a few minutes, then started
to consciousness again, and laughed when she saw Thyrza regarding her.

'I suppose Mary'll be here directly?' she said. 'I'd better put this
work out of sight.' And as she began to spread the cloth, she asked:
'What'll you do whilst we're at chapel, Thyrza?'

'I think I'll go and have tea with Mrs. Grail; then I'll see if I dare
ask for a book.'

'You've made up your mind not to go out?'

'There was something I wanted to tell you. I met Mr. Ackroyd as I was
coming home last night. I told him I couldn't come out alone, and I
said I couldn't be sure whether you'd come or not.'

'But what a pity!' returned Lydia. 'You knew I was going to chapel. I'm
afraid he'll wait for us.'

'Yes, but I somehow didn't like to say we wouldn't go at all. What time
is he going to be there?'

'He said at six o'clock.'

'Would you mind just running out and telling him? Perhaps you'll be
going past with Mary, not long after?'

'That's a nice job you give me!' remarked Lydia, with a half smile.

'But I know you don't mind it, Lyddy. It isn't the first thing you've
done for me.'

It was said with so much _naivete_ that Lydia could not but laugh.

'I should like it much better if you'd go yourself,' she replied. 'But
I'm afraid it's no good asking.'

'Not a hit! And, Lyddy, I told Mr. Ackroyd that it would always be the
same. He understands now.'

The other made no reply.

'You won't be cross about it?'

'No, dear; there's nothing to be cross about. But I'm very sorry.'

The explanation passed in a tone of less earnestness than either would
have anticipated. They did not look at each other, and they dismissed
the subject as soon as possible. Then came two rings at the house-bell,
signifying the arrival of their visitor.

Mary Bower and Lydia had been close friends for four or five years, yet
they had few obvious points of similarity, and their differences were
marked enough. The latter increased; for Mary attached herself more
closely to religious observances, whilst Lydia continued to declare
with native frankness that she could not feel it incumbent upon her to
give grave attention to such matters. Mary grieved over this attitude
in one whose goodness of heart she could not call in question; it
troubled her as an inconsequence in nature; she cherished a purpose of
converting Lydia, and had even brought herself to the point of hoping
that some sorrow might befall her friend--nothing of too sad a nature,
but still a grief which might turn her thoughts inward. Yet, had
anything of the kind come to pass, Mary would have been the first to
hasten with consolation.

Thyrza went downstairs, and the two gossiped as tea was made ready.
Mary had already heard of the incident at the 'Prince Albert;' such a
piece of news could not be long in reaching Mrs. Bower's. She wished to
speak of it, yet was in uncertainty whether Lydia had already been
told. The latter was the first to bring forward the subject.

'It's quite certain she oughtn't to make a friend of that girl Totty,'
Mary said, with decision. 'You must insist that it is stopped, Lydia.'

'I shan't do any good that way,' replied the other, shaking her head.
'I lost my temper last night, like a silly, and of course only harm
came of it.'

'But there's no need to lose your temper. You must tell her she's _not_
to speak to the girl again, and there's an end of it!'

'Thyrza's too old for that, dear. I must lead her by kindness, or I
can't lead her at all. I don't think, though, she'll ever do such a
thing as that again. I know what a temptation it was; she does sing so
sweetly. But she won't do it again now she knows how I think about it.'

Mary appeared doubtful. Given a suggestion of iniquity, and it was her
instinct rather to fear than to hope. Secretly she had no real liking
for Thyrza; something in that complex nature repelled her. As she
herself had said: 'Thyrza was not easy to understand,' but she did
understand that the girl's essential motives were of a kind radically
at enmity with her own. Thyrza, it seemed to her, was worldly in the
most hopeless way.

'You'll be sorry for it if you're not firm,' she remarked.

Lydia made no direct reply, but after a moment's musing she said:

'If only she could think of Mr. Ackroyd!'

She had not yet spoken so plainly of this to Mary; the latter was
surprised by the despondency of her tone.

'But I thought they were often together?'

'She's only been out with him when I went as well, and last night she
told him it was no use.'

'Well, I can't say I'm sorry to hear that,' Mary replied with the air
of one who spoke an unpleasant truth.

'Why not, Mary?'

'I think he's likely to do her every bit as much harm as Totty
Nancarrow.'

'What _do_ you mean, Mary?' There was a touch of indignation in Lydia's
voice. 'What harm can Mr. Ackroyd do to Thyrza?'

'Not the kind of harm you're thinking of, dear. But if I had a sister I
know I shouldn't like to see her marry Mr. Ackroyd. He's got no
religion, and what's more he's always talking against religion. Father
says he made a speech last week at that place in Westminster Bridge
Road where the Atheists have their meetings. I don't deny there's
something nice about him, but I wouldn't trust a man of that kind.'

Lydia delayed her words a little. She kept her eyes on the table; her
forehead was knitted.

'I can't help what he thinks about religion,' she replied at length,
with firmness. 'He's a good man, I'm quite sure of that.'

'Lydia, he can't be good if he does his best to ruin people's souls.'

'I don't know anything about that, Mary. Whatever he says, he says
because he believes it and thinks it right. Why, there's Mr. Grail
thinks in the same way, I believe; at all events, he never goes to
church or chapel. And he's a friend of Mr. Ackroyd's.'

'But we don't know anything about Mr. Grail.'

'We don't know much, but it's quite enough to talk to him for a few
minutes to know he's a man that wouldn't say or do anything wrong.'

'He must be a wonderful man, Lydia.'

These Sunday conversations were always fruitful of trouble. Mary was
prepared by her morning and afternoon exercises to be more aggressive
and uncompromising than usual. But the present difficulty appeared a
graver one than any that had yet risen between them. Lydia had never
spoken in the tone which marked her rejoinder:

'Really, Mary, it's as if you couldn't put faith in no one! You know I
don't feel the same as you do about religion and such things, and I
don't suppose I ever shall. When I like people, I like them; I can't
ask what they believe and what they don't believe. We'd better not talk
about it any more.'

Mary's face assumed rather a hard look.

'Just as you like, my dear,' she said.

There ensued an awkward silence, which Lydia at length broke by speech
on some wholly different subject. Mary with difficulty adapted herself
to the change; tea was finished rather uncomfortably.

It was six o'clock. Lydia, hearing the hour strike, knew that Ackroyd
would be waiting at the end of Walnut Tree Walk. She was absent-minded,
halting between a desire to go at once, and tell him that they could
not come, and a disinclination not perhaps very clearly explained. The
minutes went on. It seemed to be decided for her that he should learn
the truth by their failure to join him.

Church bells began to sound. Mary rose and put on her hat, then, taking
up the devotional books she had with her, offered her hand as if to say
good-bye.

'But,' said Lydia in surprise, 'I'm going with you.'

'I didn't suppose you would,' the other returned quietly.

'But haven't you had tea with me?'

Mary had not now to learn that her friend held a promise inviolable;
her surprise would have been great if Lydia had allowed her to go forth
alone. She smiled.

'Will there be nice singing?' Lydia asked, as she prepared herself
quickly. 'I do really like the singing, at all events, Mary.'

The other shook her head, sadly.

They left the house and turned towards Kennington Road. Before Lydia
had gone half a dozen steps she saw that Ackroyd was waiting at the end
of the street. She felt a pang of self-reproach; it was wrong of her to
have allowed him to stand in miserable uncertainty all this time; she
ought to have gone out at six o'clock. In a low voice she said to her
companion:

'There's Mr. Ackroyd. I want just to speak a word to him. If you'll go
on when we get up, I'll soon overtake you.'

Mary acquiesced in silence. Lydia, approaching, saw disappointment on
the young man's face. He raised his hat to her--an unwonted attention
in these parts--and she gave him her hand.

'I'm going to chapel,' she said playfully.

He had a sudden hope.

'Then your sister'll come out?'

'No, Mr. Ackroyd; she can't to-night. She's having tea with Mrs. Grail.'

He looked down the street. Lydia was impelled to say earnestly:

'Some time, perhaps! Thyrza is very young yet, Mr. Ackroyd. She thinks
of such different things.'

'What does she think of?' he asked, rather gloomily.

'I mean she--she must get older and know you better. Good-bye! Mary
Bower is waiting for me.'

She ran on, and Ackroyd sauntered away without a glance after her.




CHAPTER VI

DISINHERITED


When Thyrza left the two at tea and went downstairs, she knocked at the
door of the front parlour on the ground floor. The room which she
entered was but dimly lighted; thick curtains encroached upon each side
of the narrow window, which was also shadowed above by a valance with
long tassels, whilst in front of it stood a table with a great pot of
flowering musk. The atmosphere was close; with the odour of the plant
blended the musty air which comes from old and neglected furniture.
Mrs. Grail, Gilbert Grail's mother, was an old lady with an unusual
dislike for the upset of household cleaning, and as her son's
prejudice, like that of most men, tended in the same direction, this
sitting-room, which they used in common, had known little disturbance
since they entered it a year and a half ago. Formerly they had occupied
a house in Battersea; it was given up on the death of Gilbert's sister,
and these lodgings taken in Walnut Tree Walk.

A prominent object in the room was a bookcase, some six feet high,
quite full of books, most of them of shabby exterior. They were
Gilbert's purchases at second-hand stalls during the past fifteen
years. Their variety indicated a mind of liberal intelligence. Works of
history and biography predominated, but poetry and fiction were also
represented on the shelves. Odd volumes of expensive publications
looked forth plaintively here and there, and many periodical issues
stood unbound.

Another case, a small one with glass doors, contained literature of
another order--some thirty volumes which had belonged to Gilbert's
father, and were now his mother's peculiar study. They were
translations of sundry works of Swedenborg, and productions put forth
by the Church of the New Jerusalem. Mrs. Grail was a member of that
church. She occasionally visited a meeting-place in Brixton, but for
the most part was satisfied with conning the treatises of the mystic,
by preference that on 'Heaven and Hell,' which she read in the first
English edition, an old copy in boards, much worn.

She was a smooth-faced, gentle-mannered woman, not without dignity as
she rose to receive Thyrza and guided her to a comfortable seat. Her
voice was habitually subdued to the limit of audibleness; she spoke
with precision, and in language very free from vulgarisms either of
thought or phrase. Her taste had always been for a home-keeping life;
she dreaded gossipers, and only left the house when it was absolutely
necessary, then going forth closely veiled. With the landlady she held
no more intercourse than arose from the weekly payment of rent; the
other lodgers in the house only saw her by chance on rare occasions.
Her son left home and returned with much regularity, he also seeming to
desire privacy above all things. Mrs. Jarmey had at first been disposed
to take this reserve somewhat ill. When she knocked at Mrs. Grail's
door on some paltry excuse for seeing the inside of the room, and found
that the old lady exchanged brief words with her on the threshold, she
wondered who these people might be who thought themselves too good for
wonted neighbourship. In time, however, her feeling changed, and she
gave everybody to understand that her ground-floor lodgers were of the
highest respectability, inmates such as did not fall to the lot of
every landlady.

Gilbert was surprised when, of her own motion, his mother made
overtures to the sisters who lived at the top of the house. Neither
Lydia nor Thyrza was at first disposed to respond very warmly; they
agreed that the old lady was doubtless very respectable, but, at the
same time, decidedly queer in her way of speaking. But during the past
few months they had overcome this reluctance, and were now on a certain
footing of intimacy with Mrs. Grail, who made it no secret that she
took great interest in Thyrza. Thyrza always entered the sitting-room
with a feeling of awe. The dim light, the old lady's low voice, above
all, the books--in her eyes a remarkable library--impressed her
strongly. If Grail himself were present, he was invariably reading;
Thyrza held him profoundly learned, a judgment confirmed by his
mother's way of speaking of him. For Mrs. Grail regarded her son with
distinct reverence. He, in turn, was tenderly respectful to her; they
did not know what it was to exchange an unkind or an impatient word.

Thyrza liked especially to have tea here on Sunday. The appointments of
the table seemed to her luxurious, for the tea-service was uniform and
of pretty, old-fashioned pattern, and simple little dainties of a kind
new to her were generally forthcoming. Moreover, from her entrance to
her leave-taking, she was flattered by the pleasantest attentions. The
only other table at which she sometimes sat as a guest was Mrs.
Bower's; between the shopkeeper's gross good-nature and the
well-mannered kindness of Mrs. Grail there was a broad distinction, and
Thyrza was very ready to appreciate it. For she was sensible of
refinements; numberless little personal delicacies distinguished her
from the average girl of her class, and even from Lydia. The meals
which she and her sister took in their own room might be ever so poor;
they were always served with a modest grace which perhaps would not
have marked them if it had depended upon Lydia alone. In this respect,
as in many others, Thyrza had repaid her sister's devotion with subtle
influences tending to a comely life.

Once, when she had gone down alone to have tea, she said to Lydia on
her return. 'Downstairs they treat me as if I was a lady,' and it was
spoken with the simple satisfaction which was one of her charming
traits.

Till quite lately Gilbert had scarcely conversed with her at all. When
he broke his habitual silence he addressed himself to Lydia; if he did
speak to the younger girl it was with studied courtesy and kindness,
but he seemed unable to overcome a sort of shyness with which she had
troubled him since the beginning of their acquaintance. It was
noticeable in his manner this evening when he shook hands with a
murmured word or two. Thyrza, however, appeared a little less timid
than usual; she just met his look, and in a questioning way which he
could not understand at the time. The truth was, Thyrza wondered
whether he had heard of her escapade of the night before; she tried to
read his expression, searching for any hint of disapproval.

The easy chair was always given to her when she entered. So seldom she
sat on anything easier than the stiff cane-bottomed seats of her own
room that this always seemed luxurious. By degrees she had permitted
herself to lean back in it. She did so want Lyddy to know what it was
like to sit in that chair; but it had never yet been possible to effect
an exchange. It might have offended Mrs. Grail, a thing on no account
to be risked.

'Lyddy has Mary Bower to tea,' she said on her arrival this evening.
'They're going to chapel. You don't mind me coming alone, Mrs. Grail?'

'You're never anything but welcome, my dear,' murmured the old lady,
pressing the little hand in both her own.

Tea was soon ready. Mrs. Grail talked with pleasant continuousness, as
usual. She had fallen upon reminiscences, and spoke of Lambeth as she
had known it when a girl; it was her birthplace, and through life she
had never strayed far away. She regarded the growth of population, the
crowding of mean houses where open spaces used to be, the whole change
of times in fact, as deplorable. One would have fancied from her
descriptions that the Lambeth of sixty years ago was a delightful
rustic village.

After tea Thyrza resumed the low chair and folded her hands, full of
contentment. Mrs. Grail took the tea-things from the room and was
absent about a quarter of an hour. Thyrza, left alone with the man who
for her embodied so many mysteries, let her eyes stray over the
bookshelves. She felt it very unlikely that any book there would be
within the compass of her understanding; doubtless they dealt with the
secrets of learning--the strange, high things for which her awed
imagination had no name. Gilbert had seated himself in a shadowed
corner; his face was bent downwards. Just when Thyrza was about to put
some timid question with regard to the books, he looked at her and said:

'Do you ever go to Westminster Abbey?'

The intellectual hunger of his face was softened; he did not smile, but
kept a mild gravity of expression which showed that he had a pleasure
in the girl's proximity. When he had spoken he stroked his forehead
with the tips of his fingers, a nervous action.

'I've never been inside,' Thyrza made answer. 'What is there to see?'

'It's the place, you know, where great men have been buried for
hundreds of years. I should like, if I could, to spend a little time
there every day.'

'Can you see the graves?' Thyrza asked.

'Yes, many. And on the stones you read who they were that lie there.
There are the graves of kings, and of men much greater than kings.'

'Greater than kings! Who were they, Mr. Grail?'

She had rested her elbow on the arm of the chair, and her fingers just
touched her chin. She regarded him with a gaze of deep curiosity.

'Men who wrote books,' he answered, with a slight smile.

Thyrza dropped her eyes. In her thought of books it had never occurred
to her that any special interest could attach to the people who wrote
them; indeed, she had perhaps never asked herself how printed matter
came into existence. Even among the crowd of average readers we know
how commonly a book will be run through without a glance at its
title-page.

Gilbert continued:

'I always come away from the Abbey with fresh courage. If I'm tired and
out of spirits, I go there, and it makes me feel as if I daren't waste
a minute of the time when I'm free to try and learn something.'

It was a strange impulse that made him speak in this way to an untaught
child. With those who were far more likely to understand him he was the
most reticent of men.

'But you know a great deal, Mr. Grail,' Thyrza said with surprise,
looking again at the bookshelves.

'You mustn't think that. I had very little teaching when I was a lad,
and ever since I've had very little either of time or means to teach
myself. If I only knew those few books well, it would be something, but
there are some of them I've never got to yet.'

'Those _few_ books!' Thyrza exclaimed. 'But I never thought anybody had
so many, before I came into this room.'

'I should like you to see the library at the British Museum. Every book
that is published in England is sent there. There's a large room where
people sit and study any book they like, all day long, and day after
day. Think what a life that must be!'

'Those are rich people, I suppose,' Thyrza remarked. 'They haven't to
work for their living.'

'Not rich, all of them. But they haven't to work with their hands.'

He became silent. In his last words there was a little bitterness.
Thyrza glanced at him; he seemed to have forgotten her presence, and
his face had the wonted look of trouble kept under.

Then Mrs. Grail returned. She sat down near Thyrza, and, after a little
more of her pleasant talk, said, turning to her son:

'Could you find something to read us. Gilbert?'

He thought for a moment, then reached down a book of biographies,
writing of a popular colour, not above Thyrza's understanding. It
contained a life of Sir Thomas More, or rather a pleasant story founded
upon his life, with much about his daughter Margaret.

'Yes, that'll do nicely,' was Mrs. Grail's opinion.

He began with a word or two of explanation to Thyrza, then entered upon
the narrative. As soon as the proposal was made, Thyrza's face had
lighted up with pleasure; she listened intently, leaning a little
forward in her chair, her hands folded together. Gilbert, if he raised
his eyes from the page, did not look at her. Mrs. Grail interrupted
once or twice with a question or a comment. The reading was good;
Gilbert's voice gave life to description and conversation, and supplied
an interest even where the writer was in danger of growing dull.

When the end was reached, Thyrza recovered herself with the sigh which
follows strained attention. But she was not in a mood to begin
conversation again; her mind had got something to work upon, it would
keep her awake far into the night with a succession of half-realised
pictures. What a world was that of which a glimpse had been given her!
Here, indeed, was something remote from her tedious life. Her brain was
full of vague glories, of the figures of kings and queens, of courtiers
and fair ladies, of things nobly said and done; and her heart throbbed
with indignation at wrongs greater than any she had ever imagined. When
it had all happened she knew not; surely very long ago! But the names
she knew, Chelsea, Lambeth, the Tower--these gave a curiously fantastic
reality to the fairy tale. And one thing she saw with uttermost
distinctness: that boat going down the stream of Thames, and the dear,
dreadful head dropped into it from the arch above. She would go and
stand on the bridge and think of it.

Ah, she must tell Lyddy all that! Better still, she must read it to
her. She found courage to say:

'Could you spare that book, Mr. Grail? Could you lend it me for a day
or two? I'd be very careful with it.'

'I shall be very glad to lend it you,' Gilbert answered. His voice
changed somehow from that in which he usually spoke.

She received it from him and held it on her lap with both hands. She
would not look into it till alone in her room; and, having secured it,
she did not wish to stay longer.

'Going already?' Mrs. Grail said, seeing her rise.

'Lyddy 'll be back very soon,' was the reply. 'I think I'd better go
now.'

She shook hands with both of them, and they heard her run up the
thin-carpeted stairs.

Mother and son sat in silence for some minutes. Gilbert had taken
another book, and seemed to be absorbed in it; Mrs. Grail had a face of
meditation. Occasionally she looked upwards, as though on the track of
some memory which she strove to make clear.

'Gilbert,' she began at length, suggestively.

He raised his eyes and regarded her in an absent way.

'I've been trying for a long time to remember what that child's face
reminded me of. Every time I see her, I make sure I've seen someone
like her before, and now I think I've got it.'

Gilbert was used to a stream of amusing fancifulness in his mother;
analysis and resemblances were dear to her; possibly the Biblical
theories which she had imbibed were in some degree answerable for the
characteristic.

'And who does she remind you of?' he asked.

'Of somebody whose name I can't think of. You remember the school in
Lambeth Road where Lizzie used to go?'

She referred to a time five-and-twenty years gone by, when Gilbert's
sister was a child. He nodded.

'It was Mrs. Green's school, you know, and soon after Lizzie began to
go, there was an assistant teacher taken on. Now can you think what her
name was? You must remember that Lizzie used to walk home along with
her almost every day. Miss--, Miss--. Oh, dear me, what _was_ that
name?'

Gilbert smiled and shook his head.

'I can't help you, mother. I don't even remember any such thing.'

'What a poor memory you have in ordinary things, Gilbert! I wonder at
it, with your mind for study.'

'But what's the connection?'

'Why, Thyrza has got her very face. It's just come to me. I'm sure that
was her mother.'

'But how impossible that you should have that woman's face still in
your mind!' Gilbert protested, good-humouredly.

'My dear, don't be so hasty. It's as clear to me as if Lizzie had just
come in and said, "Miss Denny brought me home." Why, there _is_ the
name! It fell from my tongue! To be sure; Miss Denny! A pale,
sad-looking little thing, she was. Often and often I've been at the
window and seen her coming along the street hand in hand with your
sister. Now I'll ask Thyrza if her mother's name wasn't Denny, and if
she didn't teach at Mrs. Green's school. Depend upon it, I'm right,
Gilbert!'

Gilbert still smiled very incredulously.

'It'll be a marvellous thing if it turns out to be true,' he said.

'Oh, but I have a wonderful memory for faces. I always used to think
there was something very good in that teacher's look. I don't think I
ever spoke to her, though she went backwards and forwards past our
house in Brook Street for nearly two years. Then I didn't see her any
more. Depend upon it, she went away to be married. Lizzie had left a
little before that. Oh yes, it explains why I seemed to know Thyrza the
first time I saw her.'

Mrs. Grail was profoundly satisfied. Again a short silence ensued.

'How nicely they keep themselves!' she resumed, half to herself. 'I'm
sure Lydia's one of the most careful girls I ever knew. But Thyrza's my
favourite. How she enjoyed your reading, Gilbert!'

He nodded, but kept his attention on the book. His mother just glanced
at him, and presently continued:

'I do hope she won't be spoilt. She is very pretty, isn't she? But
they're not girls for going out much, I can see. And Thyrza's always
glad when I ask her to come and have tea with us. I suppose they
haven't many friends.'

It was quite against Mrs. Grail's wont to interrupt thus when her son
had settled down to read. Gilbert averted his eyes from the page, and,
after reflecting a little, said:

'Ackroyd knows them.'

His mother looked at him closely. He seemed to be absorbed again.

'Does he speak to you about them, Gilbert?'

'He's mentioned them once or twice.'

'Perhaps that's why Lydia goes out to chapel,' the old lady said, with
a smile.

'No, I don't think so.'

The reply was so abrupt, so nearly impatient, that Mrs. Grail made an
end of her remarks. In a little while she too began to read.

They had supper at nine; at ten o'clock Mrs. Grail kissed her son's
forehead and bade him good-night, adding, 'Don't sit long, my dear.'
Every night she took leave of him with the same words, and they were
not needless. Gilbert too often forgot the progress of time, and spent
in study the hours which were demanded for sleep.

His daily employment was at a large candle and soap factory. By such
work he had earned his living for more than twenty years. As a boy, he
had begun with wages of four shillings a week, his task being to trim
with a knife the rough edges of tablets of soap just stamped out. By
degrees he had risen to a weekly income of forty shillings,
occasionally increased by pay for overtime. Beyond this he was not
likely to get. Men younger than he had passed him, attaining the
position of foreman and the like; some had earned money by inventions
which they put at the service of their employers; but Gilbert could
hope for nothing more than the standing of a trustworthy mechanic, who,
as long as he keeps his strength, can count on daily bread. His heart
was not in his work; it would have been strange if he had thriven by an
industry which was only a weariness to him.

His hours were from six in the morning to seven at night. Ah, that
terrible rising at five o'clock, when it seemed at first as if he must
fall back again in sheer anguish of fatigue, when his eyeballs throbbed
to the light and the lids were as if weighted with iron, when the
bitterness of the day before him was like poison in his heart! He could
not live as his fellow-workmen did, coming home to satisfy his hunger
and spend a couple of hours in recreation, then to well-earned sleep.
Every minute of freedom, of time in which he was no longer a machine
but a thinking and desiring man, he held precious as fine gold. How
could he yield to heaviness and sleep, when books lay open before him,
and Knowledge, the goddess of his worship, whispered wondrous promises?
To Gilbert, a printed page was as the fountain of life; he loved
literature passionately, and hungered to know the history of man's mind
through all the ages. This distinguished him markedly from the not
uncommon working man who zealously pursues some chosen branch of study.
Such men ordinarily take up subjects of practical bearing; physical
science is wont to be their field; or if they study history it is from
the point of view of current politics. Taste for literature pure and
simple, and disinterested love of historical search, are the rarest
things among the self-taught; naturally so, seeing how seldom they come
of anything but academical tillage of the right soil. The average man
of education is fond of literature because the environment of his
growth has made such fondness a second nature. Gilbert had conceived
his passion by mere grace. It had developed in him slowly. At twenty
years he was a young fellow of seemingly rather sluggish character,
without social tendencies, without the common ambitions of his class,
much given to absence of mind. About that time he came across one of
the volumes of the elder D'Israeli, and, behold, he had found himself.
Reading of things utterly unknown to him, he was inspired with strange
delights; a mysterious fascination drew him on amid names which were
only a sound; a great desire was born in him, and its object was seen
in every volume that met his eye. Had he then been given means and
leisure, he would have become at the least a man of noteworthy
learning. No such good fortune awaited him. Daily his thirteen hours
went to the manufacture of candles, and the evening leisure, with one
free day in the week, was all he could ever hope for.

At five-and-twenty he had a grave illness. Insufficient rest and
ceaseless trouble of spirit brought him to death's door. For a long
time it seemed as if he must content himself with earning his bread. He
had no right to call upon others to bear the burden of his needs. His
brother; a steady hard-headed mechanic, who was doing well in the
Midlands and had just married, spoke to him with uncompromising common
sense; if he chose to incapacitate himself, he must not look to his
relatives to support him. Silently Gilbert acquiesced; silently he went
back to the factory, and, when he came home of nights, sat with eyes
gazing blankly before him. His mother lived with him, she and his
sister; the latter went out to work; all were dependent upon the wages
of the week. Nearly a year went by, during which Gilbert did not open a
book. It was easier for him, he said, not to read at all than to
measure his reading by the demands of his bodily weakness. He would
have sold his handful of books, sold them in sheer bitterness of mind,
but this his mother interfered to prevent.

But he could not live so. There was now a danger that the shadow of
misery would darken into madness, Little by little he resumed his
studious habits, yet with prudence. At thirty his bodily strength
seemed to have consolidated itself; if he now and then exceeded the
allotted hours at night, he did not feel the same evil results as
formerly. His sister was a very dear companion to him; she had his own
tastes in a simpler form, and woman's tact enabled her to draw him into
the repose of congenial talk when she and her mother were troubled by
signs of overwork in him. He purchased a book as often as he could
reconcile himself to the outlay, and his knowledge grew, though he
seemed to himself ever on the mere threshold of the promised land,
hopeless of admission.

Then came his sister's death, and the removal from Battersea back to
Lambeth. Henceforth it would be seldomer than ever that he could devote
a shilling to the enrichment of his shelves. When both he and Lizzie
earned wages, the future did not give much trouble, but now all
providence was demanded. His brother in the Midlands made contribution
towards the mother's support, but Henry had a family of his own, and it
was only right that Gilbert should bear the greater charge. Gilbert was
nearing five-and-thirty.

By nature he was a lonely man. Amusement such as his world offered had
always been savourless to him, and he had never sought familiar
fellowship beyond his home. Even there it often happened that for days
he kept silence; he would eat his meal when he came from work, then
take his book to a corner, and be mute, answering any needful question
with a gesture or the briefest word. At such times his face had the
lines of age; you would have deemed him a man weighed upon by some vast
sorrow. And was he not? His life was speeding by; already the best
years were gone, the years of youth and force and hope--nay, hope he
could not be said to have known, unless it were for a short space when
first the purpose of his being dawned upon consciousness; and the end
of that had been bitter enough. The purpose he knew was frustrated. The
'Might have been,' which is 'also called No more, Too late, Farewell,'
often stared him in the eyes with those unchanging orbs of ghastliness,
chilling the flow of his blood and making life the cruellest of
mockeries. Yet he was not driven to that kind of resentment which makes
the revolutionary spirit. His personality was essentially that of a
student; conservative instincts were stronger in him than the misery
which accused his fortune. A touch of creative genius, and you had the
man whose song would lead battle against the hoary iniquities of the
world. That was denied him; he could only eat his own heart in despair,
his protest against the outrage of fate a desolate silence.

A lonely man, yet a tender one. The capacity of love was not less in
him than the capacity of knowledge. Yet herein too he was wronged by
circumstance. In youth an extreme shyness held him from intercourse
with all women save his mother and his sister; he was conscious of his
lack of ease in dialogue, of an awkwardness of manner and an
unattractiveness of person. On summer evenings, when other young
fellows were ready enough in finding companions for their walk, Gilbert
would stray alone in the quietest streets until he tired himself; then
go home and brood over fruitless longings. In love, as afterwards in
study, he had his ideal; sometimes he would catch a glimpse of some
face in the street at night, and would walk on with the feeling that
his happiness had passed him--if only he could have turned and pursued
it! In all women he had supreme faith; that one woman whom his heart
imagined was a pure and noble creature, with measureless aspiration,
womanhood glorified in her to the type of the upward striving soul--she
did not come to him; his life remained chaste and lonely.

Neither had he friends. There were at all times good fellows to be
found among those with whom he worked, but again his shyness held him
apart, and indeed he felt that intercourse with them would afford him
but brief satisfaction. Occasionally some man more thoughtful than the
rest would be drawn to him by curiosity, but, finding himself met with
so much reserve, involuntary in Gilbert, would become doubtful and turn
elsewhither for sympathy. Yet in this respect Grail improved as time
went on; as his character ripened, he was readier to gossip now and
then of common things with average associates. He knew, however, that
he was not much liked, and this naturally gave a certain coldness to
his behaviour. Perhaps the very first man for whom he found himself
entertaining something like warmth of kindness was Luke Ackroyd.
Ackroyd came to the factory shortly after Gilbert had gone to live in
Walnut Tree Walk, and in the course of a few weeks the two had got into
the habit of walking their common way homewards together. As might have
been anticipated, it was a character very unlike his own which had at
length attached Gilbert. To begin with, Ackroyd was pronounced in
radicalism, was aggressive and at times noisy; then, he was far from
possessing Grail's moral stability, and did not care to conceal his
ways of amusing himself; lastly, his intellectual tastes were of the
scientific order. Yet Gilbert from the first liked him; he felt that
there was no little good in the fellow, if only it could be fostered at
the expense of his weaker characteristics. Yet those very weaknesses
had much to do with his amiability. This they had in common: both
aspired to something that fortune had denied them. Ackroyd had his idea
of a social revolution, and, though it seemed doubtful whether he was
exactly the man to claim a larger sphere for the energies of his class,
his thought often had genuine nobleness, clearly recognisable by
Gilbert. Ackroyd had brain-power above the average, and it was his
right to strive for a better lot than the candle-factory could assure
him. So Grail listened with a smile of much indulgence to the young
fellow's fuming against the order of things, and if he now and then put
in a critical remark was not sorry to have it scornfully swept aside
with a flood of vehement words. He felt, perchance, that a share of
such vigour might have made his own existence more fruitful.

This was Gilbert Grail at the time with which we are now concerned. His
mother believed that she had discovered in him something of a new mood
of late, a tendency to quiet cheerfulness, and she attributed it in
part to the healthfulness of intercourse with a friend; partly she
assigned to it another reason. But her assumption did not receive much
proof from Gilbert's demeanour when left alone in the sitting-room this
Sunday night. Since Thyrza's departure, he had in truth only made
pretence of reading, and now that his mother was gone, he let the book
fall from his hands. His countenance was fixed in a supreme sadness,
his lips were tightly closed, and at times moved, as if in the
suppression of pain. Hopelessness in youth, unless it be justified by
some direst ruin of the future, is wont to touch us either with
impatience or with a comforting sense that reaction is at hand; in a
man of middle age it moves us with pure pathos. The sight of Gilbert as
he sat thus motionless would have brought tears to kindly eyes. The
past was a burden on his memory, the future lay before him like a long
road over which he must wearily toil--the goal, frustration. To-night
he could not forget himself in the thoughts of other men. It was one of
the dread hours, which at intervals came upon him, when the veil was
lifted from the face of destiny, and he was bidden gaze himself into
despair. At such times he would gladly have changed beings with the
idlest and emptiest of his fellow-workmen; their life might be ignoble,
but it had abundance of enjoyment. To him there came no joy, nor ever
would. Only when he lay in his last sleep would it truly be said of him
that he rested.

At twelve o'clock he rose; he had no longing for sleep, but in five
hours the new week would have begun, and he must face it with what
bodily strength he might. Before entering his bedroom, which was next
to the parlour, he went to the house-door and opened it quietly. A soft
rain was falling. Leaving the door ajar, he stepped out into the street
and looked up to the top windows. There was no light behind the blinds.
As if satisfied, he went hack into the house and to his room.

The factory was at so short a distance from Walnut Tree Walk that
Gilbert was able to come home for breakfast and dinner. When he entered
at mid-day on Monday, his mother pointed to a letter on the
mantel-piece. He examined the address, and was at a loss to recognise
the writing.

'Who's this from, I wonder?' he said, as he opened the envelope.

He found a short letter, and a printed slip which looked like a
circular. The former ran thus:


'Sir,--I am about to deliver a course of evening lectures on a period
of English Literature in a room which I have taken for the purpose,
No.--High Street, Lambeth. I desire to have a small audience, not more
than twenty, consisting of working men who belong to Lambeth.
Attendance will be at my invitation, of course without any kind of
charge. You have been mentioned to me as one likely to be interested in
the subject I propose to deal with. I permit myself to send you a
printed syllabus of the course, and to say that it will give me great
pleasure if you are able to attend. I should like to arrange for two
lectures weekly, each of an hour's duration; the days I leave
undecided, also the hour, as I wish to adapt these to the convenience
of my hearers. If you feel inclined to give thought to the matter, will
you meet me at the lecture-room at eight o'clock on the evening of
Sunday, August 16, when we could discuss details? The lectures
themselves had better, I should think, begin with the month of
September.

'Reply to this is unnecessary; I hope to have the pleasure of meeting
you on the 16th.--Believe me to be yours very truly,

'WALTER EGREMONT.'


'Ah, this is what Ackroyd was speaking of on Saturday,' Gilbert
remarked, holding the letter to his mother. 'I wonder what it means.'

'Who is this Mr. Egremont?' asked Mrs. Grail.

'He belongs to the firm of Egremont & Pollard, so Ackroyd tells me. You
know that big factory in Westminster Bridge Road--where they make
oil-cloth.'

Gilbert was perusing the printed syllabus; it interested him, and he
kept it by his plate when he sat down to dinner.

'Do you think of going?' his mother inquired.

'Well, I should like to, if the lectures are good. I suppose he's a
young fellow fresh from college. He may have something to say, and he
may be only conceited; there's no knowing. Still, I don't dislike the
way he writes. Yes, I think I shall go and have a look at him, at all
events.'

Gilbert finished his meal and walked back to the factory. Groups of men
were standing about in the sunshine, waiting for the bell to ring; some
talked and joked, some amused themselves with horse-play. The narrow
street was redolent with oleaginous matter; the clothing of the men was
penetrated with the same nauseous odour.

At a little distance from the factory, Ackroyd was sitting on a
door-step, smoking a pipe. Grail took a seat beside him and drew from
his pocket the letter he had just received.

'I've got one of them, too,' Luke observed with small show of interest.
There was an unaccustomed gloom on his face; he puffed at his pipe
rather sullenly.

'Who has told him our names and addresses?' Gilbert asked.

'Bower, no doubt.'

'But how comes Bower to know anything about me?'

'Oh, I've mentioned you sometimes.'

'Well, do you think of going?'

'No, I shan't go. It isn't at all in my line.'

Gilbert became silent.

'Something the matter?' he asked presently, as his companion puffed on
in the same gloomy way.

'A bit of a headache, that's all.'

His tone was unusual. Gilbert fixed his eyes on the pavement.

'It's easy enough to see what it means,' Ackroyd continued after a
moment, referring to Egremont's invitation. 'We shall be having an
election before long, and he's going to stand for Vauxhall. This is one
way of making himself known.'

'If I thought that,' said the other, musingly, 'I shouldn't go near the
place.'

'What else can it be?'

'I don't know anything about the man, but he may have an idea that he's
doing good.'

'If so, _that's_ quite enough to prevent me from going. What the devil
do I want with his help? Can't I read about English literature for
myself?'

'Well, I can't say that I have that feeling. A lecture may be a good
deal of use, if the man knows his subject well. But,' he added,
smiling, 'I suppose you object to him and his position?'

'Of course I do. What business has the fellow to have so much time that
he doesn't know what to do with it?'

'He might use it worse, anyhow.'

'I don't know about that. I'd rather he'd get a bad name, then it 'ud
be easier to abuse him, and he'd be more good in the end.'

Their eyes met. Gilbert's had a humorous expression, and Ackroyd
laughed in an unmirthful way. The factory bell rang; Gilbert rose and
waited for the other to accompany him. But Luke, after a struggle to
his feet, said suddenly:

'Work be hanged! I've had enough of it; I feel Mondayish, as we used to
say in Lancashire.'

'Aren't you coming, then?'

'No, I'll go and get drunk instead.'

'Come on, old man. No good in getting drunk,'

'Maybe I won't but I can't go back to work to-day. So long!'

With which vernacular leave-taking, he turned and strolled away. The
bell was clanging its last strokes; Gilbert hurried to the door, and
once more merged his humanity in the wage-earning machine.

Two days later, as he sat over his evening meal, Gilbert noticed that
his mother had something to say. She cast frequent glances at him; her
pursed lips seemed to await an opportune moment.

'Well, mother, what is it?' he said presently, with his wonted look of
kindness. By living so long together and in such close intercourse the
two had grown skilled in the reading of each other's faces.

'My dear,' she replied, with something of solemnity, 'I was perfectly
right. Miss Denny _was_ those girls' mother.'

'Nonsense!'

'But there's no doubt about it. I've asked Thyrza. She knows that was
her mother's name, and she knows that her mother was a teacher.'

'In that case I've nothing more to say. You're a wonderful old lady, as
I've often told you.'

'I have a good memory, Gilbert. You can't think how pleased I am that I
found out that. I feel more interest in them than ever. And the child
seemed so pleased too! She could scarcely believe that I'd known her
mother before she was born. She wants me to tell her and her sister all
I can remember. Now, isn't it nice?'

Gilbert smiled, but made no further remark. The evening silence set in.




CHAPTER VII

THE WORK IN PROGRESS


On the sheltered side of Eastbourne, just at the springing of the downs
as you climb towards Beachy Head, is a spacious and heavy-looking stone
house, with pillared porch, oriel windows on the ground floor of the
front, and a square turret rising above the fine row of chestnuts which
flanks the road. It was built some forty years ago, its only neighbours
then being a few rustic cottages; recently there has sprung up a suburb
of comely red-brick houses, linking it with the visitors' quarter of
Eastbourne. The builder and first proprietor, a gentleman whose dignity
derived from Mark Lane, called the house Odessa Lodge; at his death it
passed by purchase into the hands of people to whom this name seemed
something worse than inappropriate, and the abode was henceforth known
as The Chestnuts.

One morning early in November, three months after the date of that
letter which he addressed to Gilbert Grail and other working men of
Lambeth, our friend Egremont arrived from town at Eastbourne station
and was conveyed thence by fly to the house of which I speak. He
inquired for Mrs. Ormonde. That lady was not within, but would shortly
return from her morning drive. Egremont followed the servant to the
library and prepared to wait.

The room was handsomely furnished and more than passably supplied with
books, which inspection showed to be not only such as one expects to
find in the library of a country house, but to a great extent works of
very modern issue, arguing in their possessor the catholicity of taste
which our time encourages. The solid books which form the substratum of
every collection were brought together by Mr. Brook Ormonde, in the
first instance at his house in Devonshire Square; when failing health
compelled him to leave London, the town establishment was broken up,
and until his death, three years later, the family resided wholly at
The Chestnuts. During those years the library grew appreciably, for the
son of the house, Horace Ormonde, had just come forth from the academic
curriculum with a vast appetite for literature. His mother, moreover,
was of the women who read. Whilst Mr. Ormonde was taking a lingering
farewell of the world and its concerns, these two active minds were
busy with the fire-new thought of the scientific and humanitarian age.
Walter Egremont was then a frequent visitor of the house; he and Horace
talked many a summer night into dawn over the problems which nowadays
succeed measles and scarlatina as a form of youthful complaint. But
Horace Ormonde had even a shorter span of life before him than his
invalid father. He was drowned in bathing, and it was Egremont who had
to take the news up to The Chestnuts. A few months later, there was
another funeral from the house. Mrs. Ormonde remained alone.

It was in this room that Egremont had waited for the mother's coming,
that morning when he returned companionless from the beach. He was then
but two-and-twenty; big task was as terrible as a man can be called
upon to perform. Mrs. Ormonde had the strength to remember that; she
shed no tears, uttered no lamentations. When, after a few questions,
she was going silently from the room, Walter, his own eyes blinded,
caught her hand and pressed it passionately in both his own. She was
the woman whom he reverenced above all others, worshipping her with
that pure devotion which young men such as he are wont to feel for some
gracious lady much their elder. At that moment he would have given his
own life to the sea could he by so doing have brought her back the son
who would never return. Such moments do not come often to the best of
us, perhaps in very truth do not repeat themselves. Egremont never
entered the library without having that impulse of uttermost
unselfishness brought back vividly to his thoughts; on that account he
liked the room, and gladly spent a quiet half-hour in it.

In a little less than that Mrs. Ormonde returned from her breathing of
the sea air. At the door she was told of Egremont's arrival, and with a
look of pleased expectancy she went at once to the library.

Egremont rose from the fireside, and advanced with the quiet confidence
with which one greets only the dearest friends.

'So the sunshine has brought you,' she said, holding his hand for a
moment. 'We had a terrible storm in the night, and the morning is very
sweet after it. Had you arrived a very little sooner, you would have
been in time to drive with me.'

She was one of those women who have no need to soften their voice when
they would express kindness. Her clear and firm, yet sweet, tones
uttered with perfection a nature very richly and tenderly endowed.
During the past five years she had aged in appearance; the grief which
she would not expose had drawn its lines upon her features, and
something too of imperfect health was visible there. But her gaze was
the same as ever, large, benevolent, intellectual. In her presence
Egremont always felt a well-being, a peace of mind, which gave to his
own look its pleasantest quality. Of friends she was still, and would
ever be, the dearest to him. The thought of her approval was always
active with him when he made plans for fruitful work; he could not have
come before her with a consciousness of ignoble fault weighing upon his
mind.

She passed upstairs, and he followed more slowly. Behind the first
landing was a small conservatory; and there, amid evergreens, sat two
children whose appearance would have surprised a chance visitor knowing
nothing of the house and its mistress. They obviously came from some
very poor working-class home; their clothing was of the plainest
possible, and, save that they were very clean and in perfect order,
they might have been sitting on a doorstep in a London back street.
Mrs. Ormonde had thrown a kind word to them in hurrying by. At the
sight of Egremont they hushed their renewed talk and turned shamefaced
looks to the ground. He went on to the drawing-room, where there was
the same comfort and elegance as in the library. Almost immediately
Mrs. Ormonde joined him.

'So you want news!' she said, with her own smile, always a little sad,
always mingling tenderness with reserve on the firm lips. 'Really, I
told you everything essential in my letter. Annabel is in admirable
health, both of body and mind. She is deep in Virgil and Dante--what
more could you wish her? Her father, I am sorry to say, is not
altogether well. Indeed, I was guilty of doing my best to get him to
London for the winter.'

'Ah! That is something of which your letter made no mention.'

'No, for I didn't succeed. At least, he shook his head very
persistently.'

'I heartily wish you had succeeded. Couldn't you get help from
Annabel--Miss Newthorpe?'

'Never mind; let it be Annabel between us,' said Mrs. Ormonde, seating
herself near the fire. 'I tried to, but she was not fervent. All the
same, it is just possible, I think, that they may come. Mr. Newthorpe
needs society, however content he may believe himself. Annabel, to my
surprise, does really seem independent of such aids. How wonderfully
she has grown since I saw her two years ago! No, no, I don't mean
physically--though that is also true--but how her mind has grown! Even
her letters hadn't quite prepared me for what I found.'

Egremont was leaning on the back of a chair, his hands folded together.
He kept silence, and Mrs. Ormonde, with a glance at him, added:

'But she is something less than human at present. Probably that will
last for another year or so.'

'Less than human?'

'Abstract, impersonal. With the exception of her father, you were the
only living person of whom she voluntarily spoke to me.'

'She spoke of me?'

'Very naturally. Your accounts of Lambeth affair interest her deeply,
though again in rather too--what shall we call it?--too theoretical a
way. But that comes of her inexperience.'

'Still she at least speaks of me.'

Mrs. Ormonde could have made a discouraging rejoinder. She said nothing
for a moment, her eyes fixed on the fire. Then:

'But now for your own news.'

'What I have is unsatisfactory. A week ago the class suffered a
secession. You remember my description of Ackroyd?'

'Ackroyd? The young man of critical aspect?'

'The same. He has now missed two lectures, and I don't think he'll come
again.'

'Have you spoken to Bower about him?'

'No. The fact is, my impressions of Bower have continued to grow
unfavourable. Plainly, he cares next to nothing for the lectures. There
is a curious pomposity about him, too, which grates upon me. I
shouldn't have been at all sorry if he had been the seceder; he's bored
terribly, I know, yet he naturally feels bound to keep his place. But
I'm very sorry that Ackroyd has gone; he has brains, and I wanted to
get to know him. I shall not give him up; I must persuade him to come
and have a talk with me.'

'What of Mr. Grail?'

'Ah, Grail is faithful. Yes, Grail is the man of them all; that I am
sure of. I am going to ask him to stay after the lecture to-morrow. I
haven't spoken privately with him yet. But I think I can begin now to
establish nearer relations with two or three of them. I have been
lecturing for just a couple of months; they ought to know something of
me by this time, On the whole, I think I am succeeding. But if there is
one of them on whom I found great hopes, it is Grail. The first time I
saw him, I knew what a distinction there was between him and the
others. He seems to be a friend of Ackroyd's, too; I must try to get at
Ackroyd by means of him.'

'Is he--Grail, I mean--a married man?'

'I really don't know. Yet I should think so. I shouldn't be surprised
if he were unhappily married. Certainly there is some great trouble in
his life. Sometimes he looks terribly worn, quite ill.'

'And Mr. Bunce?' she asked, with a look of peculiar interest.

'Poor Bunce is also a good deal of a mystery to me. He, too, always
looks more or less miserable, and I'm afraid his interest is not very
absorbing. Still, he takes notes, and now and then even puts an
intelligent question.'

'He has not attacked you on the subject of religion yet.

'Oh, no! We still have that question to fight out. But of course I must
know him very well before I approach it. I think he bears me goodwill;
I caught him looking at me with a curious sort of cordiality the other
night.'

'I must have that little girl of his down again,' Mrs. Ormonde said. 'I
wonder whether she still reads that insufferable publication.
By-the-by, I found you had told them the story at Ullswater.'

'Yes. It came up _a propos_ of my scheme.'

A gong sounded down below.

'Twelve o'clock' remarked Mrs. Ormonde. 'My birds are going to their
dinner--poor little town sparrows! We'll let them get settled, then go
and have a peep at them--shall we?'

'Yes, I should like to see them--and,' he added pleasantly, 'to see the
look on your face when you watch them.'

'I have much to thank them for, Walter,' she said, earnestly. 'They
brighten many an hour when I should be unhappy.'

Presently Mrs. Ormonde led the way downstairs and to the rear of the
house. A room formerly devoted to billiards had been converted into a
homely but very bright refectory; it was hung round with cheerful
pictures, and before each of the two windows stood a large aquarium,
full of water-plants and fishes. At the table were seated seven little
girls, of ages from eight to thirteen, all poorly clad, yet all looking
remarkably joyous, and eating with much evidence of appetite. At the
head of the table was a woman of middle age and motherly aspect--Mrs.
Mapper. She had the superintendence of the convalescents whom the lady
of the house received and sent back to their homes in London better
physically and morally than they had ever been in their lives before.
The children did not notice that Mrs. Ormonde and her companion had
entered; they were chatting gaily over their meal. Now and then one of
them drew a gentle word of correction from Mrs. Mapper, but on the
whole they needed no rebuke. Those who had been longest in the house
speedily instructed new arrivals in the behaviour they had learned to
deem becoming. A girl waited at table. On that subject Mrs. Ormonde had
amusing stories to relate; how more than one servant had regretfully
but firmly declined to wait upon little ragamuffins (female, too), and
how one in particular had explained that she made no objection to doing
it only because she regarded it as a religious penance.

Egremont had his pleasure in regarding her face, nobly beautiful as she
moved her eyes from one to another of her poor little pensioners. She
had said at first that it would be impossible ever again to live in
this house, when she quitted it for a time after her husband's death.
How could she pass through the barren rooms, how dwell within sight and
sound of the treacherous waves which had taken her dearest? It was a
royal thought which converted the sad dwelling into a home for those
whose reawakening laughter would chide despondency from beneath the
roof; whose happiness would ease the heavy heart and make memory a
sacred solace. She had her abounding reward, and such as only the
greatly loving may attain to.

They withdrew without having excited attention; Mrs. Mapper saw them,
but Mrs. Ormonde made sign to her to say nothing.

'Two are upstairs, I'm sorry to say,' she remarked as they went back to
the drawing-room. 'They have obstinate colds; I keep them under the
bed-clothes. The difficulty these poor things have in getting rid of a
cold! With many of them I believe such a condition is chronic; it goes
on, I suppose, until they die of it.'

They talked together till luncheon time. Egremont led the conversation
back to Ullswater, where Mrs. Ormonde had just spent a fortnight.

'I think I must go and see them at Christmas,' he said, 'if they don't
come south.'

The other considered.

'Don't go so soon,' she said at length.

'So soon? It will be six mortal months.'

'Be advised.'

Egremont sighed and left the subject.

'Tell me what you have been doing of late,' Mrs. Ormonde resumed,
'apart from your lectures.'

'Very little of which any account can be rendered. I read a good deal,
and occasionally come across an acquaintance.'

'Have you seen the Tyrrells since they returned?'

'No. I had an invitation to dine with them the other day, but excused
myself.'

'On what grounds?'

'I mean to see less of people in general.'

Mrs. Ormonde regarded him.

'I hope,' she said, 'that you will pursue no such idea. You mean, of
course, that your Lambeth work is to be absorbing. Let it be so, but
don't fall into the mistake of making it your burden. You are not one
of those who can work in solitude.'

'I am getting a distaste for ordinary society.'

'Then I beg of you to resist the mood. Go into society freely. You are
in danger as soon as you begin to neglect it.'

'I, individually?'

'Yes.' She smiled at the deprecating look he turned on her. 'Let me be
your moral physician. Already I notice that you fall short of perfect
health: the refusal of that invitation is a symptom. Pray give faith to
what I say; if any one knows you, I think it is I.'

He kept silence. Mrs. Ormonde continued:

'I hear that the Tyrrells have made the acquaintance of Mr. Dalmaine.
Paula mentions him in a letter.'

'Ha! With enthusiasm probably?'

'No. They met him somewhere in Switzerland. He gave them the benefit of
his experience on the education question.'

'Of course. Well, I am prejudiced against the man, as you know.'

'He is a force. It looks as if we should hear a good deal of him in the
future.'

'Doubtless. The incarnate ideal of British philistinism is sure to have
a career before him.'

The lady laughed.

Early in the afternoon Egremont took leave of his friend and returned
to London. It was his habit when in England, to run down to Eastbourne
in this way about once a month.

Since the death of his father, his home had been represented by rooms
in Great Russell Street. He chose them on account of their proximity to
the British Museum; at that time he believed himself destined to
produce some monumental work of erudition: the subject had not defined
itself, but his thoughts were then busy with the origins of
Christianity, and it seemed to him that a study of certain Oriental
literatures would be fruitful of results. Characteristically, he must
establish himself at the very doors of the great Library. His Oriental
researches, as we know, were speedily abandoned, but the rooms in Great
Russell Street still kept their tenant. They were far from an ideal
abode, indifferently furnished, with draughty doors and smoky chimneys,
and the rent was exorbitant; the landlady, who speedily gauged her
lodger's character, had already made a small competency out of him.
Even during long absences abroad Egremont retained the domicile; at
each return he said to himself that he must really find quarters at
once more reputable and more homelike, but the thought of removing his
books, of dealing with new people, deterred him from the actual step.
In fact, was indifferent as to where or how he lived; all he asked was
the possibility of privacy. The ugliness of his surroundings did not
trouble him, for he paid no attention to them. Some day he would have a
beautiful home, but what use in thinking of that till he had someone to
share it with him? This was a mere _pied a terre_; it housed his body
and left his mind free.

The real home which he remembered was a house looking upon Clapham
Common. His father dwelt there for the last fifteen years of his life;
his mother died there, shortly after the removal from the small house
in Newington where she went to live upon her marriage. With much
tenderness Egremont thought of the clear-headed and warm-hearted man
whose life-long toil had made such provision for the son he loved.
Uneducated, homely, narrow enough in much of his thinking, the
manufacturer of oil-cloth must have had singular possibilities in his
nature to renew himself in a youth so apt for modern culture as Walter
was; thinking back in his maturity, the latter remembered many a
noteworthy trait in his father, and wished the old man could have lived
yet a few more years to see his son's work really beginning. And
Egremont often felt lonely. Possibly he had relatives living, but he
knew of none; in any case they could not now be of real account to him.
The country of his birth was far behind him; how far, he had recognised
since he began his lecturing in Lambeth. None the less, he at times
knew home-sickness: not seldom there seemed to be a gap between him and
the people born to refinement who were his associates, his friends.
That phase of feeling was rather strong in him just now; disguising
itself in the form of sundry plausible motives, it had induced him to
decline Mrs. Tyrrell's invitation, and was fostering his temporary
distaste for the society in which he had always found much pleasure.
What if in strictness he belonged to neither sphere? What if his life
were to be a struggle between inherited sympathies and the affinities
of his intellect? All the better, perchance, for his prospect of
usefulness; he stood as a mediator between two sections of society. But
for his private happiness, how?

He spent this evening very idly, sometimes pacing his large,
uncomfortable room, sometimes endeavouring to read one or other of
certain volumes new from the circulating library. Of late he had passed
many such evenings, for it was very seldom that any one came to see
him, and for the amusements of the town he had no inclination. He was
thinking much of Annabel; he could not imagine her other than calm,
intellectual; he could not hear her voice uttering passionate words. A
great change must come over her before her reserved maidenliness could
soften to such sweet humility.

And he had no faith in his power so to change her.

The next day was Thursday. This and Sunday were his lecture days; his
class met at half-past eight. Precisely at that hour he reached a small
doorway in High Street, Lambeth, and ascended a flight of stairs to a
room which he had furnished as he deemed most suitable. Several rows of
school-desks faced a high desk at which he stood to lecture. The walls
were washed in distemper, the boarding of the floor was uncovered, the
two windows were hidden with plain shutters. The room had formerly been
used for purposes of storage by a glass and china merchant; below was
the workshop of a saddler, which explained the pervading odour of
leather.

A little group of men stood in conversation near the fire; on
Egremont's appearance they seated themselves at the desks, each
producing a note-book which he laid open before him. Thus ranged they
were seen to be eight in number. Out of fourteen to whom invitations
were addressed, nine had presented themselves at the preliminary
meeting; one, we know, had since proved unfaithful. Egremont looked
round for Ackroyd on entering, but the young man was not here.

On the front bench were two men whom as yet you know only by name. Mr.
Bower was clearly distinguishable by his personal importance and the
_ennui_, not to be disguised, with which he listened to the opening
sentences of the lecture. He leaned against the desk behind him, and
carefully sharpened the point of his pencil. He was a large man with a
spade-shaped beard; his forehead was narrow, and owed its appearance of
height to incipient baldness; his eyes were small and shrewd. He
habitually donned his suit of black for these meetings. At the works,
where he held a foreman's position, he was in good repute: for years he
had proved himself skilful, steady, abundantly respectful to his
employers. In private life he enjoyed the fame of a petty capitalist;
since his marriage, thirty years ago, he and his wife had made it the
end of their existence to put by money, with the result that his
obsequiousness when at work was balanced by the blustering independence
of his leisure hours. The man was a fair instance of the way in which
prosperity affects the average proletarian; all his better
qualities--honesty, perseverance, sobriety--took an ignoble colour from
the essential vulgarity of his nature, which would never have so
offensively declared itself if ill fortune had kept him anxious about
his daily bread. Formerly Egremont had been impressed by his
intelligent manner; closer observation had proved to him of how little
worth this intelligence was, in its subordination to a paltry
character. Bower regarded himself as the originator of this course of
lectures; through all his obsequiousness it was easy to see that he
deemed his co-operation indispensable to the success of the project. At
first, as was natural, Egremont had sometimes seemed to address words
specially to him; of late he had purposely avoided doing so, and Bower
began to feel that his services lacked recognition.

The other, of whom there has been casual mention, was Joseph Bunce. Of
spare frame and with hollow cheeks which suggested insufficiency of
diet, he yet had far more of manliness in his appearance than the
portly Bower. You divined in him independence enough, and of worthier
origin than that which secretly inflated his neighbour. His features
were at first sight by no means pleasing; their coarseness was
undeniable, but familiarity revealed a sensitive significance in the
irregular nose, the prominent lips, the small chin and long throat.
Egremont had now and then caught a light in his eyes which was warranty
for more than his rough tongue could shape into words. He often
appeared to have a difficulty in following the lecture; would shrug
nervously, and knit his brows and mutter. Whenever he noticed that,
Egremont would pause a little and repeat in simpler form what he had
been saying, with the satisfactory result that Bunce showed a clearer
face and jotted something on his dirty note-book with his stumpy pencil.

Gilbert Grail we know. It was impossible not to remark him as the one
who followed with most consecutive understanding, even if his
countenance had not declared him of higher grade than any of those
among whom he sat. It had needed only the first ten minutes of the
first lecture to put him at his ease with regard to Egremont's claims
to stand forward as a teacher; the preliminary meeting, indeed, had
removed the suspicions suggested by Ackroyd. To him these evenings were
pure enjoyment. He delighted in this subject, and had an inexpressible
pleasure in listening continuously to the speech of a cultivated man.
Had the note-books of the class been examined (Egremont had strongly
advised their use), Gilbert's jottings would probably have alone been
found of substantial value, seeing that he alone possessed the mental
habit necessary for the practice. Bunce's would doubtless have come
next, though at a long distance; a Carlylean editor might have
disengaged from them many a rudely forcible scrap of comment. Bower's
pages would have smelt of the day-book. It was to Grail that Egremont
mentally directed the best things he had to say; not seldom he was
repaid by the quick gleam of sympathy on that grave interesting face.

The remaining five hearers were average artisans of the inquiring type;
they followed with perseverance, though at times one or the other would
furtively regard his watch or allow his eyes to stray about the room.
They had made a bargain, and were bent on honourably carrying out their
share in it. But Egremont already began to doubt whether he was really
fixing anything in their thoughts. How were they likely to serve him
for the greater purpose whereto this instruction was only preliminary?
When he looked forward to that, he had to fix his eyes on Grail and
forget the others. He was beginning to regret that the choice of those
to whom his invitations were sent had depended upon Bower; another man
might have aided him more effectually. Yet the fact was that Bower's
selection had been a remarkably good one. It would have been difficult
to assemble nine Lambeth workmen of higher aggregate intellect than
those who responded to the summons; it would have been, on the other
hand, the easiest thing to find nine with not a man of them available
for anything more than futile wrangling over politics or religion.
Egremont would know this some day; he was yet young in social reform.

And the lectures? It is not too much to say that they were good.
Egremont had capacity for teaching; with his education, had he been
without resources, he would probably have chosen an academic career,
and have done service in it. There was nothing deep in his style of
narrative and criticism, and here depth was not wanted; sufficient that
he was perspicuous and energetic. He loved the things of which he
spoke, and he had the power of presenting to others his reason for
loving them. Not one in five hundred men inexperienced in such work
could have held the ears of the class as he did for the first two or
three evenings. It was impossible for them to mistake his
spirit--ardent, disinterested, aspiring--impossible not to feel
something of a respondent impulse. That familiarity should diminish the
effect of his speech was only to be anticipated. He was preaching a
religion, but one that could find no acceptance as such with eight out
of nine who heard him. Common minds are not kept at high-interest mark
for long together by exhibition of the merely beautiful, however
persuasively it be set forth.

He had chosen the Elizabethan period, and he led up to it by the kind
of introduction which he felt would be necessary. Trusting himself more
after the first fortnight, he ceased to write out his lectures
verbatim; free utterance was an advantage to himself and his audience.
He read at large from his authors; to expect the men to do this for
themselves--even had the books been within their reach--would have been
too much, and without such illustration the lectures were vain. This
reading brought him face to face with his main difficulty: how to
create in men a sense which they do not possess. The working man does
not read, in the strict sense of the word; fiction has little interest
for him, and of poetry he has no comprehension whatever; your artisan
of brains can study, but he cannot read. Egremont was under no illusion
on this point; he knew well that the loveliest lyric would appeal to a
man like Bower no more than an unintelligible demonstration of science.
Was it impossible to bestow this sense of intellectual beauty? With
what earnestness he made the endeavour! He took sweet passages of prose
and verse, and read them with all the feeling and skill he could
command. 'Do you yield to that?' he said within himself as he looked
from face to face. 'Are your ears hopelessly sealed, your minds
immutably earthen?' Grail--Oh yes, Grail had the right intelligence in
his eyes; but Ackroyd, but Bunce? Ackroyd thought of the meaning of the
words; no more. Poor Bunce had darkling throes of mind, but struggled
with desperate nervousness and could not be at ease till the
straightforward talk began again. And Bower?--Nay, there goes more to
this matter than mere enthusiasm in a teacher. Who had instructed
Gilbert Grail to discern the grace of the written word? On the other
hand, it was doubtful whether Walter Egremont, left to himself in the
home of his good plain father, would have felt what now he did. The
soil was there, but how much do we not owe to tillage. Read what
Egremont on one occasion read to these men:

'"He beginneth not with obscure definitions, which must blur the
margins with interpretations and load the memory with doubtfulness: but
he cometh to you with words set in delightful proportion, either
accompanied with or prepared for the well-enchanting skill of music and
with a tale forsooth he cometh unto you--with a tale which holdeth
children from play, and old men from the chimney-corner."'

What were _that_ to you, save for the glow of memory fed with incense
of the poets?--save for innumerable dear associations, only possible to
the instructed, which make the finer part of your intellectual being?
Walter was attempting too much, and soon became painfully conscious of
it.

He came to the dramatists, and human interest thenceforth helped him.
He could read well, and a scene from those giants of the prime had
efficiency even with Bower. Hope revived in the lecturer.

To-night he was less happy than usual, for what reason he could not
himself understand. His thoughts wandered, sometimes to Eastbourne,
sometimes to Ullswater; yet he was speaking of Shakespeare. Bower was
more owl-eyed than usual; the five doubtful hearers obviously felt the
time long. Only Grail gave an unfailing ear. Egremont closed with a
sense of depression.

Would Bower come and pester him with fatuous questions and remarks? No;
Bower turned away and reached his hat from the peg. The doubtful five
took down their hats and followed the portly man from the room. Bunce
was talking with Grail, pointing with dirty forefinger to something in
his dirty note-book. But he, too, speedily moved to the hat-pegs. Grail
was also going, when Egremont said:

'Could you spare me five minutes, Mr. Grail; I should like to speak to
you.'




CHAPTER VIII

A CLASP OF HANDS


Grail approached the desk with pleasure. Egremont observed it, and met
his trusty auditor with the eye-smile which made his face so agreeable.

'I am sorry to see that Mr. Ackroyd no longer sits by you,' he began.
'Has he deserted us?'

Gilbert hesitated, but spoke at length with his natural directness.

'I'm afraid so, sir.'

'He has lost his interest in the subject?'

'It's not exactly the bent of his mind. He only came at my persuasion
to begin with. He takes more to science than literature.'

'Ah, I should have thought that. But I wish he could have still spared
me the two hours a week. I felt much interest in him; it's a
disappointment to lose him so unexpectedly. I'm sure he has a head for
our matters as well as for science.'

Grail was about to speak, but checked himself. An inquiring glance
persuaded him to say:

'He's much taken up with politics just now. They don't leave the mind
very quiet.'

'Politics? I regret more than ever that he's gone.'

Egremont moved away from the desk at which he had been standing, and
seated himself on the end of a bench which came out opposite the
fire-place.

'Come and sit down for a minute, will you, Mr. Grail?' he said.

Gilbert silently took possession of the end of the next bench.

'Is there no persuading him back? Do you think he would come and have a
talk with me? I do wish he would; I believe we could understand each
other. You see him occasionally?'

'Every day. We work together.'

'Would you ask him to come and have a chat with me here some evening?'

'I shall be glad to, sir.'

'Pray persuade him to. Any evening he likes. Perhaps next Sunday after
the lecture would do? Tell him to bring his pipe and have a smoke with
me here before the fire.'

Grail smiled, and undertook to deliver the invitation.

'But there are other things I wished to speak of to you,' Egremont
continued. 'Do you think it would be any advantage if I brought books
for the members of the class to take away and use at their leisure?
Shakespeare, of course, you can all lay hands on, but the other
Elizabethan authors are not so readily found. For instance, there's a
Marlowe on the desk; would you care to take him away with you?'

'Thank you very much, sir,' was the reply, 'but I've got Marlowe. I
picked up a second-hand copy a year or two ago.'

'You have him! Ah, that's good!'

Egremont was surprised, but remembered that it would not be very
courteous to express such feeling. After surprise came new warmth of
interest in the man. He began to speak of Marlowe with delight, and in
a moment he and Grail were on a footing of intimacy.

'But there are other books perhaps you haven't come across yet. I shall
be overjoyed if you'll let me be of use to you in that way. Have you
access to any library?'

'No, I haven't. I've often felt the want of it.'

Egremont fell into musing for a moment. He looked up with an idea in
his eyes.

'Wouldn't it be an excellent thing if one could establish a lending
library in Lambeth?'

Grail might have excusably replied that it would be a yet more
excellent thing if those disposed to use such an institution had time
granted them to do so; but with the young man's keen look fixed upon
him, he had other thoughts.

'It would be a great thing!' he replied, with subdued feeling. He
seldom allowed his stronger emotions to find high utterance; that
moderated voice was symbol of the suppression to which his life had
trained itself.

'A free library,' Egremont went on, 'with a good reading-room.'

It was an extension of his scheme, and delighted him with its prospect
of possibilities. It would be preparing the ground upon which he and
his adherents might subsequently work. Could be undertake to found a
library at his own expense? It was not beyond his means, at all events
a beginning on a moderate scale. His eyes sparkled, as they always did
when a thought burst blossom-like within him.

'Mr. Grail, I have a mind to try if I can't work on that idea.'

Gilbert was stirred. This interchange of words had strengthened his
personal liking for Egremont, and his own idealism took fire from that
of the other. He regarded the young man with admiration and with noble
envy. To be able to devise such things and straightway say 'It shall be
done!' How blest beyond all utterance was the man to whom fortune had
given such power! He reverenced Egremont profoundly. It was the man's
nature to worship, to bend with singleness of heart before whatsoever
seemed to him high and beautiful.

'Yes,' the latter continued, 'I will think it out. We might begin with
a moderate supply of books; we might find some building that would do
at first; a real library could be built when the people had begun to
appreciate what was offered them. Better, no doubt, if they would tax
themselves for the purpose, but they have burdens enough.'

'They won't give a farthing towards a library,' said Grail, 'until they
know its value; and that they can't do until they have learnt it from
books.'

'True. We'll break the circle.'

He pondered again, then added cheerfully:

'I say _we_. I mean you and the others who come to my lecture. I want,
if possible, to make this class permanent, to make it the beginning of
a society for purposes I have in my mind. I must tell you something of
this, for I know you will feel with me, Mr. Grail.'

The reply was a look of quiet trust. Egremont had not thought to get so
far as this to-night, but Grail's personality wrought upon him, even as
his on Grail. He felt a desire to open his mind, as he had done that
evening in the garden by Ullswater. This man was of those whom he would
benefit, but, if he mistook not, far unlike the crowd; Grail could
understand as few of his class could be expected to.

'To form a society, a club, let us say. Not at all like the ordinary
clubs. There are plenty of places where men can meet to talk about what
ought to be done for the working class; my idea is to bring the working
class to talk of what it can do for itself. And not how it can claim
its material rights, how to get better wages, shorter hours, more
decent homes. With all those demands I sympathise as thoroughly as any
man; but those things are coming, and it seems to me that it's time to
ask what working men are going to do with such advantages when they've
got them. Now, my hope is to get a few men to see--what you, I know,
see clearly enough--that life, to be worthy of the name, must be first
and foremost concerned with the things of the heart and mind. Yet
everything in our time favours the opposite. The struggle for existence
is so hard that we grow more and more material: the tendency is to
regard it as the end of life to make money. If there's time to think of
higher things, well and good; if not, it doesn't matter much. Well, we
have to earn money; it is a necessary evil; but let us think as little
about it as we may. Our social state, in short, has converted the means
of life into its end.'

He paused, and Gilbert looked hearty agreement.

'That puts into a sentence,' he said, 'what I have thought through many
an hour of work.'

'Well, now, we know there's no lack of schemes for reforming society.
Most of them seek to change its spirit by change of institutions. But
surely it is plain enough that reform of institutions can only come as
the natural result of a change in men's minds. Those who preach
revolution to the disinherited masses give no thought to this. It's a
hard and a bad thing to live under an oppressive system; don't think
that I speak lightly of the miseries which must drive many a man to
frenzy, till he heeds nothing so long as the present curse is attacked.
I know perfectly well that for thousands of the poorest there is no
possibility of a life guided by thought and feeling of a higher kind
until they are lifted out of the mire. But if one faces the question
with a grave purpose of doing good that will endure, practical
considerations must outweigh one's anger. There is no way of lifting
those poor people out of the mire; if their children's children tread
on firm ground it will be the most we can hope for. But there is a
class of working people that can and should aim at a state of mind far
above that which now contents them. It is my view that our only hope of
social progress lies in the possibility of this class being stirred to
effort. The tendency of their present education--a misapplication of
the word--must be counteracted. They must be taught to value supremely
quite other attainments than those which help them to earn higher
wages. Well, there is my thought. I wish to communicate it to men who
have a care for more than food and clothing, and who will exert
themselves to influence those about them.'

Grail gazed at the fire; the earnest words wrought in him.

'If that were possible!' he murmured.

'Tell me,' the other resumed, quickly, 'how many of the serious people
whom you know in Lambeth ever go to a place of worship?'

Gilbert turned his eyes inquiringly, suspiciously. Was Egremont about
to preach a pietistic revival?

'I have very few acquaintances,' he answered, 'but I know that religion
has no hold upon intelligent working men in London.'

'That is the admission I wanted. For good or for evil, it has passed;
no one will ever restore it. And yet it is a religious spirit that we
must seek to revive. Dogma will no longer help us. Pure love of moral
and intellectual beauty must take its place.'

Gilbert smiled at a thought which came to him.

'The working man's Bible,' he said, 'is his Sunday newspaper.'

'And what does he get out of it? The newspaper is the very voice of all
that is worst in our civilisation. If ever there is in one column a
pretence of higher teaching, it is made laughable by the base tendency
of all the rest. The newspaper has supplanted the book; every
gross-minded scribbler who gets a square inch of space in the morning
journal has a more respectful hearing than Shakespeare. These writers
are tradesmen, and with all their power they cry up the spirit of
trade. Till the influence of the newspaper declines--the newspaper as
we now know it--our state will grow worse.

Grail was silent. Egremont had worked himself to a fervour which showed
itself in his unsteady hands and tremulous lips.

'I had not meant to speak of this yet,' he continued. 'I hoped to
surround myself with a few friends who would gradually get to know my
views, and perhaps think they were worth something. I have obeyed an
impulse in opening my mind to you; I feel that you think with me. Will
you join me as a friend, and work on with me for the founding of such a
society as I have described?'

'I will, Mr. Egremont,' was the clear-voiced answer.

Walter put forth his hand, and it was grasped firmly. In this moment he
was equal to his ambition, unwavering, exalted, the pure idealist.
Grail, too, forgot his private troubles, and tasted the strong air of
the heights which it is granted us so seldom and for so brief a season
to tread. There was almost colour in his cheeks, and his deep-set eyes
had a light as of dawn.

'We have much yet to talk of,' said Egremont, as he rose, 'but it gets
late and I mustn't keep you longer. Will you come here some evening
when there is no lecture and let us turn over our ideas together? I
shall begin at once to think of the library. It will make a centre for
us, won't it? And remember Ackroyd. You are intimate with him?'

'We think very differently of many things,' said Grail, 'but I like
him. We work together.'

'We mustn't lose him. He has the bright look of a man who could do much
if he were really moved. Persuade him to come and see me on Sunday
night.'

They shook hands again, and Grail took his departure. Egremont still
stood for a few minutes before the fire; then he extinguished the gas,
locked the door behind him, and went forth into the street singing to
himself.

Gilbert turned into Paradise Street, which was close at hand. He had
decided to call and ask for Ackroyd on his way home. The latter had not
been at work that day, and was perhaps ailing; for some time he had
seemed out of sorts. Intercourse between them was not as constant as
formerly. Grail explained this as due to Ackroyd's disturbed mood,
another result of which was seen in his ceasing to attend the lecture;
yet in Gilbert also there was something which tended to weaken the
intimacy. He knew well enough what this was, and strove against it, but
not with great success.

Ackroyd lived with his married sister, who let half her house to
lodgers. When Gilbert knocked at the door, it was she who opened. Mrs.
Poole was a buxom young woman with a complexion which suggested
continual activity within range of the kitchen fire; her sleeves were
always rolled up to her elbow, and at whatever moment surprised she
wore an apron which seemed just washed and ironed. She knew not
weariness, nor discomfort, nor discontent, and her flow of words
suggested a safety valve letting off superfluous energy.

'That Mr. Grail?' she said, peering out into the darkness. 'You've come
to look after that great good-for-nothing of a brother of mine, I'll be
bound! Come downstairs, and I'll tell him you're here. You may well
wonder what's become of him. Ill! Not he, indeed! No more ill than I
am. It's only his laziness. He wants a good shaking, that's about the
truth of it, Mr. Grail.'

She led him down into the kitchen. A low clothes-horse, covered with
fresh-smelling, gently-steaming linen, stood before a great glowing
fire. A baby lay awake in a swinging cot just under the protruding leaf
of the table, and a little girl of three was sitting in night-dress and
shawl on a stool in a warm corner.

'Yes, you may well stare,' resumed Mrs. Poole, noticing Grail's glance
at the children. 'A quarter past ten and neither one of 'em shut an eye
yet, nor won't do till their father comes home, not if it's twelve
o'clock. You dare to laugh, Miss!' she cried to the little one on the
stool, with mock wrath. 'The idea of having to fetch you out o' bed
just for peace and quietness. And that young man there'--she pointed to
the cradle; 'there's about as much sleep ill him as there is in that
eight-day clock! You rascal, you!'

Like her brother, she had the northern accent still lingering in her
speech; it suited with her brisk, hearty ways. Whilst speaking, she had
partly moved the horse from the fire and placed a round-backed chair
for the visitor in a position which would have answered tolerably had
she meant to roast him.

'He's in the sulks, that's what he is,' she continued, returning to the
subject of Luke. 'I suppose you know all about it, Mr. Grail?'

Gilbert seated himself, and Mrs. Poole, pretending to arrange the
linen, stood just before him, with a sly smile.

'I'm not sure that I do,' he replied, avoiding her look.

She lowered her voice.

'The idea of a great lad going on like he does! Why, it's the young
lady that lives in your house--Miss Trent, you know, I don't know her
myself; no doubt she's wonderful pretty and all the rest of it, but I'm
that sick and tired of hearing about her! My husband's out a great deal
at night, of course, and Luke comes and sits here hours by the clock,
just where you are, right in my way. I don't mean _you're_ in my way;
I'm talking of times when I'm busy. Well, there he sits; and sometimes
he'll be that low it's enough to make a body strangle herself with her
apron-string. Other times he'll talk, talk, talk and it's all Thyrza
Trent, Thyrza Trent, till the name makes my ears jingle. This afternoon
I couldn't put up with it, so I told him he was a great big baby to go
on as he does. Then we had some snappy words, and he went off to his
bedroom and wouldn't have any tea. But really and truly, I don't know
what'll come to him. He says he'll take to drinking, and he does a deal
too much o' that as it is. And to think of him losing days from his
work! Now do just tell him not to be a fool, Mr. Grail.'

With difficulty Gilbert found an opportunity to put in a word.

'But is there something wrong between them?' he asked with a forced
smile.

'Wrong? Why, doesn't he talk about it to you?'

'No. I used to hear just a word or two, but there's been no mention of
her for a long time.'

'You may think yourself lucky then, that's all _I_ can say. Why, she
wouldn't have anything to say to him. And I don't see what he's got to
complain of; he admits she told him from the first she didn't care a
bit for him. As if there wasn't plenty of other lasses! Luke was always
such a softy about 'em; but I never knew him have such a turn as this.
I'll just go and tell him you're here.'

'Perhaps he's gone to bed.'

'Not he. He sits in the cold half the night, just to make people sorry
for him. He doesn't get much pity from me, the silly fellow.'

She ran up the stairs. Grail, as soon as she was gone, fell into a
reverie. It did not seem a pleasant one.

In a few minutes Mrs. Poole was heard returning; behind her came a
heavier foot. Ackroyd certainly looked far from well, but had assumed a
gay air, which he exaggerated.

'Come to see if I've hanged myself, old man? Not quite so bad as that
yet. I've had the toothache and the headache and Lord knows what. Now I
feel hungry; we'll have some supper together. Give me a jug, Maggie,
and I'll get some beer.'

'You sit down,' she replied. 'I'll run out and fetch it.'

'Why, what's the good of a jug like that!' he roared, watching her. 'A
gallon or so won't be a drop too much for me.'

He flung himself into a chair and stretched his legs.

'Been to the lecture?' he asked, as his sister left the room.

'Yes,' Gilbert replied, his wonted quietness contrasting with the
other's noise. 'Mr. Egremont's been asking me about you. He's
disappointed that you've left him.'

'Can't help it. I held out as long as I could. It isn't my line.
Besides, nothing's my line just now. So you had a talk with him, eh?'

'Yes, a talk I shan't forget. There are not many men like Mr. Egremont.'

Gilbert had it on his lips to speak of the library project, but a doubt
as to whether he might not be betraying confidence checked him.

'He wants you to go and see him at the lecture-room,' he continued,
'either on Sunday after the lecture, or any evening that suits you.
Will you go?'

Luke shook his head.

'No. What's the good?'

'I wish you would, Ackroyd,' said Gilbert, bending forward and speaking
with earnestness. 'You'd be glad of it afterwards. He said I was to ask
you to go and have a smoke with him by the fire; you needn't be afraid
of a sermon, you see. Besides, you know he isn't that kind of man.'

'No, I shan't go, old man,' returned the other, with resolution. 'I
liked his lectures well enough, as far as they went, but they're not
the kind of thing to suit me nowadays. If I go and talk to him, I'm
bound to go to the lectures. What's the good? What's the good of
anything?'

Gilbert became silent. The little girl on the stool, who had been
moving restlessly, suddenly said:

'Uncle, take me on your lap.'

'Why, of course I will, little un!' Luke replied with a sudden
affectionateness one would not have expected of him. 'Give me a kiss.
Who's that sitting there, eh?'

'Dono.'

'Nonsense! Say: Mr. Grail.'

In the midst of this, Mrs. Poole reappeared with the jug foaming.

'Oh, indeed! So _that's_ where you are!' she exclaimed with her
vivacious emphasis, looking at the child. 'A nice thing for you to be
nursed at this hour o' night!--Now just one glass, Mr. Grail. It's a
bitter night; just a glass to walk on.'

Gilbert pleased her by drinking what she offered. Ackroyd had
recommenced his uproarious mirthfulness.

'I wish you could persuade your brother to go to the lectures again,
Mrs. Poole,' said Gilbert. 'He misses a great deal.'

'And he'll miss a good deal more,' she replied, 'if he doesn't soon
come to his senses. Nay, it's no good o' me talking! He used to be a
sensible lad--that is, he could be if he liked.'

Gilbert gave his hand for leave-taking.

'I still hope you'll go on Sunday night,' he said seriously.

Ackroyd shook his head again, then tossed the child into the air and
began singing. He did not offer to accompany Grail up to the door.




CHAPTER IX

A GOLDEN PROSPECT


It wanted a week to Christmas. For many days the weather had been as
bad as it can be even in London. Windows glimmered at noon with the
sickly ray of gas or lamp; the roads were trodden into viscid foulness;
all night the droppings of a pestilent rain were doleful upon the roof,
and only the change from a black to a yellow sky told that the sun was
risen. No wonder Thyrza was ailing.

It was nothing serious. The inevitable cold had clung to her and become
feverish; it was necessary for her to stay at home for a day or two.
Lydia made her hours of work as short as possible, hastening to get
back to her sister. But fortunately there was a friend always at hand;
Mrs. Grail could not have been more anxious about a child of her own.
Her attendance was of the kind which inspires trust; Lydia, always
fretting herself into the extreme of nervousness if her dear one lost
for a day the wonted health, was thankful she had not to depend on Mrs.
Jarmey's offices.

Thyrza had spent a day in bed, but could now sit by the fire; her chair
came from the Grails' parlour, and was the very one which had always
seemed to her so comfortable. Her wish that Lyddy should sit in it had
at length been gratified.

It was seven o'clock on Friday evening. The table was drawn near to
Thyrza's chair, and Thyrza was engaged in counting out silver coins,
which she took from a capacious old purse. Lydia leaned on the table
opposite.

'Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six! I'm sure I saw a very nice
overcoat marked twenty-five shillings, not long ago; but we can't buy
one without knowing grandad's measure.'

'Oh, but you know it near enough, I think.'

'Near enough! But I want it to look nice. I wonder whether I could take
a measure without him knowing it? If I could manage to get behind him
and just measure across the shoulders, I think that 'ud do.'

Thyrza laughed.

'Go now. He's sure to be sitting with the Bowers. Take the tape and
try.'

'No, I'll take a bit of string; then he wouldn't think anything if he
saw it.'

Lydia put on her hat and jacket.

'I'll be back as soon as ever I can. Play with the money like a good
baby. You're sure you're quite warm?'

Thyrza was wrapped in a large shawl, which hooded over her head. Lydia
had taken incredible pains to stop every possible draught at door and
window. A cheerful fire threw its glow upon the invalid's face.

'I'm like a toast. Just look up at the shop next to Mrs. Isaac's,
Lyddy. There was a sort of brownish coat, with laps over the pockets;
it was hanging just by the door. We must get a few more shillings if it
makes all the difference, mustn't we?'

'We'll see. Good-bye, Blue-eyes.'

Lydia went her way. For a wonder, there was no fog tonight, but the
street lamps glistened on wet pavements, and vehicles as they rattled
along sent mud-volleys to either side. In passing through Lambeth Walk,
Lydia stopped at the clothing shop of which Thyrza had spoken. The
particular brownish coat had seemingly been carried off by a purchaser,
but she was glad to notice one or two second-hand garments of very
respectable appearance which came within the sum at her command. She
passed on into Paradise Street and entered Mrs. Bower's shop.

In the parlour the portly Mr. Bower stood with his back to the fire; he
was speaking oracularly, and, at Lydia's entrance, looked up with some
annoyance at being interrupted. Mr. Boddy sat in his accustomed corner.
Mrs. Bower, arrayed in the grandeur suitable to a winter evening, was
condescending to sew.

'Mary out?' Lydia asked, as she looked round.

'Yes, my dear,' replied Mrs. Bower, with a sigh of resignation. 'She's
at a prayer meetin', as per us'l. That's the third night this blessed
week. I 'old with goin' to chapel, but like everything else it ought to
be done in moderation. Mary's gettin' beyond everything. I don't
believe in makin' such a fuss o' religion; you can be religious in your
mind without sayin' prayers an' singin' 'ymns all the week long.
There's the Sunday for that, an' I can't see as it's pleasin' to God
neither to do so much of it at other times. Now suppose I give somebody
credit in the shop, on the understandin' as they come an' pay their
bill once a week reg'lar; do you think I should like to have 'em
lookin' in two or three times every day an' cryin' out: "Oh, Mrs.
Bower, ma'am, I don't forget as I owe you so and so much; be sure I
shall come an' pay on Saturday!" If they did that, I should precious
soon begin to think there was something wrong, else they'd 'old their
tongues an' leave it to be understood as they was honest. Why, an' it's
every bit the same with religion!'

Mr. Boddy listened gravely to this, and had the air of probing the
suggested analogy. He had a bad cold, poor old man, and for the moment
it made him look as if he indulged too freely in ardent beverages; his
nose was red and his eyes were watery.

'How's the little un, my dear?' he asked, as Lydia took a seat by him.

'Oh, she's much better, grandad. Mrs. Grail is so kind to her, you
wouldn't believe. She'll be all right again by Monday, I think.'

'Mrs. Grail's kind to her, is she?' remarked Mr. Bower. Why, you're
getting great friends with the Grails, Miss Lydia.'

'Yes, we really are.'

'And do you see much of Grail himself?'

'No, not much. We sometimes have tea with them both.'

'Ah, you do? He's a very decent, quiet fellow, is Grail. I dare say he
tells you something about Egremont now and then?'

Mr. Bower put the question in a casual way; in truth, it was designed
to elicit information which he much desired. He knew that for some time
Grail had been on a new footing with the lecturer, that the two often
remained together after the class had dispersed; it was a privilege
which he regarded disapprovingly, because it lessened his own dignity
in the eyes of the other men. He wondered what the subject of these
private conversations might be; there had seemed to him something of
mystery in Grail's manner when he was plied with a friendly inquiry or
two.

'I've heard him speak of the lectures,' said Lydia. 'He says he enjoys
them very much.'

'To be sure. Yes, they're very fair lectures, very fair, in their way.
I don't know as I've cared quite so much for 'em lately as I did at
first. I've felt he was falling off a little. I gave him a hint a few
weeks ago; just told him in a quiet way as I thought he was going too
far into things that weren't very interesting, but he didn't seem quite
to see it. It's always the way with young men of his kind; when you
give them a bit of advice, it makes them obstinate. Well, he'll see
when he begins again after Christmas. Thomas and Linwood are giving it
up, and I shall be rather surprised if Johnson holds out for another
course.'

'But I suppose you'll go, Mr. Bower?' said Lydia.

Bower stuck his forefingers into his waistcoat pockets, held his head
as one who muses, clicked with his tongue.

'I shall see,' he replied, with a judicial air. 'I don't like to give
the young feller up. You see, I may say as it was me put him on the
idea. We had a lot of talk about one thing and another one day at the
works, and a hint of mine set him off. I should like to make the
lectures successful; I believe they're a good thing, if they are
properly carried out. I'm a believer in education. It's the educated
men as get on in the world. Teach a man to use his brains and he'll
soon be worth double wages. But Egremont must keep up to the mark if
he's to have my support. I shall have to have a word or two with him
before he begins again. By-the-by, I passed him in Kennington Road just
now; I wonder what he's doing about here at this time. Been to the
works, perhaps.'

Whilst the portly man thus delivered himself, Lydia let her arm rest on
Mr. Boddy's shoulder. It was a caress which he sometimes received from
her; he looked round at her affectionately, then continued to pay
attention to the weighty words which fell from Mr. Bower. Mrs. Bower,
who was loss impressed by her husband's utterances, bent over her
sewing. In this way Lydia was able craftily to secure the measurement
she needed. And having got this, she was anxious to be back with Thyrza.

'I suppose it's no use waiting for Mary,' she said, rising.

'I don't suppose she'll be back not before nine o'clock,' Mrs. Bower
replied. 'Did you want her partic'lar?'

'Oh no, it'll do any time.'

'Whilst I think of it,' said Mrs. Bower, letting her sewing fall upon
her lap and settling the upper part of her stout body in an attitude of
dignity; 'you and your sister 'll come an' eat your Christmas dinner
with us?'

Lydia east down her eyes.

'It's very kind of you, Mrs. Bower, but I'm sure I don't know whether
Thyrza 'll be well enough. I must be very careful of her for a time.'

'Well, well, you'll see. It'll only be a quiet little fam'ly dinner
this year. You'll know there's places kep' for you.'

Lydia again expressed her thanks, then took leave. As she left the
shop, she heard Mr. Bower's voice again raised in impressive oratory.

On entering the house in Walnut Tree Walk, she found Mrs. Grail just
descending the stairs. The old lady never spoke above her breath at
such casual meetings outside her own door.

'Come in for a minute,' she whispered.

Lydia followed her into the parlour. Gilbert was settled for the
evening at the table. A volume lent by Egremont lay before him, and he
was making notes from it. At Lydia's entrance he rose and spoke a word,
then resumed his reading.

'I've just taken Thyrza a little morsel of jelly I made this
afternoon,' Mrs. Grail said, apart to the girl. 'I'm sure she looks
better to-night.'

'How good you are, Mrs. Grail! Yes, she does look better, but I
couldn't have believed a day or two 'ud have made her so weak. I shan't
let her go out before Christmas.'

'No, I don't think you ought, my dear.'

As Mrs. Grail spoke, the knocker of the house-door sounded an unusual
summons, a rat-tat, not loud indeed, but distinct from the knocks wont
to be heard here.

'Mr. and Mrs. Jarmey are both out,' said Lydia. 'They're gone to the
theatre. Perhaps it's for you, Mrs. Grail?'

'No, that's not at all likely.'

'I'll go.'

Lydia opened. A gentleman stood without; he inquired in a pleasant
voice if Mr. Grail was at home.

'I think so,' Lydia said. 'Will you please wait a minute?'

She hurried back to the parlour.

'It's a gentleman wants to see Mr. Grail,' she whispered, with the
momentary excitement which any little out-of-the-way occurrence
produces in those who live a life void of surprises. And she glanced at
Gilbert, who had heard what she said. He rose:

'I wonder whether it's Mr. Egremont! Thank you, Miss Trent; I'll go to
the door.'

Lydia escaped up the stairs. Gilbert went out into the passage, and his
surmise was confirmed. Egremont was there, sheltering himself under an
umbrella from rain which was once more beginning to fell.

'Could I have a word with you?' he said, with friendly freedom. 'I
should have written, but I had to pass so near--'

'I'm very glad. Will you come in?'

It was the first time that Egremont had been at the house. Gilbert
conducted him into the parlour, and took from him his hat and umbrella.

'This is my mother,' he said. 'Mr. Egremont, mother; you'll be glad to
see him.'

The old lady regarded Walter with courteous curiosity, and bowed to
him. A few friendly words were exchanged, then Egremont said to Grail:

'If you hadn't been in, I should have left a message, asking you to
meet me to-morrow afternoon.'

Mrs. Grail was about to leave the room; Egremont begged her to remain.

'It's only a piece of news concerning our library scheme. I think I've
found a building that will suit us. Do you know a school in Brook
Street, connected with a Wesleyan Chapel somewhere about here?'

Gilbert said that he knew it; his mother also murmured recognition.

'It'll be to let at the end of next quarter: they're building
themselves a larger place. I heard about it this afternoon, and as I
was told that evening classes are held there, I thought I'd come and
have a look at the place to-night. At last it is something like what we
want. Could you meet me there, say at three, to-morrow afternoon, so
that we could see it together in daylight--if daylight be granted us?'

Grail expressed his readiness.

'You were reading,' Waiter went on, with a glance at the table. 'I
mustn't waste your time.'

He rose, but Gilbert said:

'I should be glad if you could stay a few minutes. Perhaps you haven't
time?'

'Oh yes. What are you busy with?'

Half an hour's talk followed, of course mainly of books. Egremont
looked over the volumes on the shelves; those who love such topics will
know how readily gossip spun itself from that centre. He was pleased
with Grail's home; it was very much as he had liked to picture it since
he had known that Gilbert lived with his mother. Mrs. Grail sat and
listened to all that was said, a placid smile on her smooth face. At
length Egremont declared that he was consuming his friend's evening.

'Perhaps you'll let me come some other night?' he said, as he took up
his hat. 'I know very few people indeed who care to talk of these
things in the way I like.'

Gilbert came back from the door with a look of pleasure.

'Now, isn't he a fine fellow, mother? I'm so glad you've seen him.'

'He seems a very pleasant young man indeed,' Mrs. Grail replied. 'He's
not quite the picture I'd made of him, but his way of speaking makes
you like him from the very first.'

'I never heard him say a word yet that didn't sound genuine,' Gilbert
added. 'He speaks what he thinks, and you won't find many men who make
you feel that. And he has a mind; I wish you could hear one of his
lectures; he speaks in just the same easy running way, and constantly
says things one would be glad to remember. They don't understand him,
Bower, and Bunce, and the others; they don't _feel_ his words as they
ought to. I'm afraid he'll only have two or three when he begins again.'

Mrs. Grail turned presently to a different topic.

'Would you believe, Gilbert!' she murmured. 'Those two girls have saved
up more than a pound to buy that poor old Mr. Boddy a top-coat for
Christmas. When I went up with the jelly, Thyrza had the money out on
the table; she told me as a great secret what it was for. Kind-hearted
things they are, both of them.'

Gilbert assented silently. His mother seldom elicited a word from him
on the subject of the sisters.

On the following afternoon, Gilbert and Egremont met at the appointed
place just as three was striking. Already night had begun to close in,
a sad wind moaned about the streets, and the cold grey of the sky was
patched about with dim shifting black clouds. Egremont was full of
cheeriness as he shook hands.

'What a wonderful people we are,' he exclaimed, 'to have developed even
so much civilisation in a climate such as this!'

The school building which they were about to inspect stood at the
junction of two streets, which consisted chiefly of dwellings. In the
nature of things it was ugly. Three steps led up to the narrow
entrance, which, as well as the windows on the ground floor, was
surrounded with a wholly inappropriate pointed arch. Iron railings ran
along the two sides which abutted upon pavements, and by the door was a
tall iron support for a lamp; probably it had never been put to its
use. There was only one upper storey, and the roof was crowned with a
small stack of hideous metal chimneys.

'We must go round to the caretaker's house,' said Egremont, when they
had cast their eyes over the face of the edifice.

The way was by a narrow passage between the school itself and the
whitewashed side of an adjacent house; this led them into a small paved
yard, upon which looked the windows of the caretaker's dwelling, which
was the rear portion of the school building. A knock at the door
brought a very dirty and very asthmatical old woman, who appeared to
resent their visit. When Egremont expressed his desire to go over the
school, she muttered querulously what was understood to be an
invitation to enter. Followed by Gilbert, Egremont was conducted along
a pitch-dark passage.

'Mind the steps!' snarled their guide.

Egremont had already stumbled over an ascent of two when the warning
was given, but at the same moment a door was thrown open, giving a view
of the main schoolroom.

''Tain't swep' out yet,' remarked the old woman. 'I couldn't tell as
nobody was a-comin'. You can complain to them if you like; I'm used to
it from all sorts, an' 'taint for much longer, praise goodness! Though
there's nothink before me but the parish when the time does come.'

Egremont glanced at the strange creature in surprise, but it seemed
better to say nothing. He began to speak of the aspects of the room
with his companion.

The place was cheerless beyond description. In a large grate the last
embers of a fire were darkening; the air was chill, and, looking up to
the ceiling, one saw floating scraps of mist which had somehow come in
from the street. The lower half of each window was guarded with
lattice-work of thin wire; the windows themselves were grimy, and would
have made it dusk within even on a clear day. The whitewash of the
ceiling was dark and much cracked. Benches and desks covered half the
floor. There were black-boards and other mechanical appliances for
teaching, and on the walls hung maps and diagrams.

'The walls seem quite dry,' observed Walter, 'which is a great point.'

They laid their palms against the plaster. The old woman stood with one
hand pressed against her bosom, the other behind her back; her head was
bent; she seemed to pay no kind of attention to what was said.

'There's room here for some thousands of volumes,' Egremont said,
moving to one of the windows. 'It will serve tolerably as a
reading-room, too. Nothing like as large as it ought to be, of course,
but we must be content to feel our way to better things.'

Gilbert nodded. In spite of his companion's resolute cheerfulness, he
felt a distressing dejection creep upon him as he stood in the cold,
darkening room. He could not feel the interest and hope which hitherto
this project had inspired him with. The figure of the old caretaker
impressed him painfully. For any movement she made she might have been
asleep; the regular sound of her heavy breathing was quite audible, and
vapour rose from her lips upon the air.

'What do you think?' Egremont asked, when Grail remained mute.

'I should think it will do very well. What is there upstairs?'

'Two class-rooms. We should use those for lectures. Let us go up.'

The old woman walked before them to a door opposite that by which they
had entered. They found themselves in a small vestibule, out of which,
on one hand, a door led into a cloak-room, while on the other ascended
a flight of stone stairs. There was nothing noticeable in the rooms
above; the windows here were also very dirty, and mist floated below
the ceilings.

The caretaker had remained below, contenting herself with indicating
the way.

'You seem disappointed,' Walter said. He himself had ceased to talk, he
felt cold and uncomfortable.

'No, no, indeed I'm not,' Grail hastened to reply. 'I think it is as
good a place as you could have found.'

'We don't see it under very inspiriting conditions. Fire and light and
comfortable furniture would make a wonderful difference, even on a day
like this.'

Gilbert reproached himself for taking so coldly his friend's generous
zeal.

'And books still more,' he replied, 'The room below will be a grand
sight with shelves all round the walls.'

'Well, I must make further inquiries, but I think the place will suit
us.'

They descended, their footsteps ringing on the stone and echoing up to
the roof. The old woman still stood at the foot of the stairs, her head
bent, the hand against her side.

'Will you go out here,' she asked, 'or do you want to see anythink
else?'

'I should like to see the back part again,' Egremont replied.

She led them across the schoolroom, through the dark passage, and into
a small room which had the distant semblance of a parlour. Here she lit
a lamp; then, without speaking, guided them over the house, of which
she appeared to be the only inhabitant. There were seven rooms; only
three of them contained any furniture. Then they all returned to the
comfortless parlour.

'Your chest is bad,' Egremont remarked, looking curiously at the woman.

'Yes, I dessay it is,' was the ungracious reply.

'Well, I don't think we need trouble you any more at present, but I
shall probably have to come again in a day or two.'

'I dessay you'll find me here.'

'And feeling better, I hope. The weather gives you much trouble, no
doubt.'

He held half a crown to her. She regarded it, clasped it in the hand
which was against her bosom, and at length dropped a curtsy, though
without speaking.

'What a poor crabbed old creature!' Egremont exclaimed, as they walked
away. 'I should feel relieved if I knew that she went off at once to
the warmth of the public-house opposite.'

'Yes, she hasn't a very cheerful home.'

'Oh, but it can be made a very different house. It has fallen into such
neglect. Wait till spring sunshine and the paperhangers invade the
place.'

They issued into a main street, and after a little further talk, shook
hands and parted.

That night, and through the Sunday that followed, Gilbert continued to
suffer even more than his wont from mental dreariness; Mrs. Grail was
unable to draw him into conversation.

About four o'clock she said:

'May I ask Lydia and Thyrza to come and have tea with us, Gilbert?'

He looked up absently.

'But they were here last Sunday.'

'Yes, my dear, but I think they like to come, and I'm sure I like to
have them.'

'Let us leave it till next Sunday, mother. You don't mind? I feel I
must be alone to-night.'

It was a most unusual thing for Gilbert to offer opposition when his
mother had expressed a desire for anything. Mrs. Grail at once said:

'I dare say you're right, my dear. Next Sunday 'll be better.'

The next morning he went to his work through a fog so dense that it was
with difficulty he followed the familiar way. Lamps were mere lurid
blotches in the foul air, perceptible only when close at hand; the
footfall of invisible men and women hurrying to factories made a
muffled, ghastly sound; harsh bells summoned through the darkness, the
voice of pitiless taskmasters to whom all was indifferent save the hour
of toil. Gilbert was racked with headache. Bodily suffering made him as
void of intellectual desire as the meanest labourer then going forth to
earn bread; he longed for nothing more than to lie down and lose
consciousness of the burden of life.

Then came Christmas Eve. The weather had changed; to-night there was
frost in the air, and the light of stars made a shimmer upon the black
vault. Gilbert always gave this season to companionship with his
mother. About seven o'clock they were talking quietly together of
memories light and grave, of Gilbert's boyhood, of his sister who was
dead, of his father who was dead. Then came a pause, whilst both were
silently busy with the irrecoverable past.

Mrs. Grail broke the silence to say:

'You're a lonely man, Gilbert.'

'Why no, not lonely, mother. I might be, but for you.'

'Yes, you're lonely, my dear. It's poor company that I can give you. I
should like to see you with a happier look on your face before I die.'

Gilbert had no reply ready.

'You think too poorly of yourself,' his mother resumed, 'and you always
have done. But there's people have a better judgment of you. Haven't
you thought that somebody looks always very pleased when you read or
talk, and sits very quiet when you've nothing to say, and always says
good-night to you so prettily?'

'Mother, mother, don't speak like that! I've thought nothing of the
kind. Put that out of your head; never speak of it again.'

His voice was not untender, but very grave. The lines of his face
hardened. Mrs. Grail glanced at him timidly, and became mute.

A loud double knock told that the postman had delivered a letter at the
house. Whilst the two still sat in silence Mrs. Jarmey tapped at their
door and said:

'A letter for you, Mr. Grail.'

'From Mr. Egremont,' said Gilbert, as he resumed his seat and opened
the envelope. 'More about the library I expect.'

He read to himself.


'My dear Grail,--I have decided to take the school building on a lease
of seven years, after again carefully examining it and finding it still
to my mind. It will be free at the end of March. By that time I hope to
have sketched out something of a rudimentary catalogue, and before
summer the library should be open.

'I asked you to come and look over this place with me because I had a
project in my mind with reference to the library which concerns
yourself. I lay it before you in a letter, that you may think it over
quietly and reply at your leisure. I wish to offer you the position of
librarian: I am sure I could not find anyone better suited for the
post, and certainly there is no man whom I should like so well to see
occupying it. I propose that the salary be a hundred pounds a year,
with free tenancy of the dwelling-house at present so dolorously
occupied--I am sure it can be made a comfortable abode--and of course,
gas and fuel. I should make arrangements for the necessary cleaning,
&c., with some person of the neighbourhood; your own duties would be
solely those of librarian and reading-room superintendent.

'The library should be open, I think, from ten to ten, for I want to
lose no possibility of usefulness. If one loafer be tempted to come in
and read, the day's object is gained. These hours are, of course, too
long for you alone; I would provide you with an assistant, so that you
could assure for yourself, let us say, four hours free out of the
twelve. But details would be easily arranged between us. By-the-by,
Sunday must _not_ be a day of closing; to make it so would be to
deprive ourselves of the greatest opportunity. Your freedom for one
entire day in the week should be guaranteed.

'I offer this because I should like to have you working with me, and
because I believe that such work would be more to your taste than that
in which you are now occupied. It would, moreover, leave you a good
deal of time for study; we are not likely to be overwhelmed with
readers and borrowers during the daytime. But you will consider the
proposal precisely as you would do if it came from a stranger, and will
accept or reject it as you see fit.

'I leave town to-day for about a week. Will you write to me at the end
of that time?--Always yours, my dear Grail,

'WALTER EGREMONT.'


Mrs. Grail showed no curiosity about the letter; the subject of the
interrupted conversation held her musing. When Gilbert had folded the
sheets, and, in the manner of one who receives few letters, returned it
to its envelope, he said:

'Yes, it's about the library. He's taken the house for seven years.'

His mother murmured an expression of interest. For another minute the
clock on the mantel-piece ticked loud; then Gilbert rose, and without
saying anything, went out.

He entered his bedroom. The darkness was complete, but he moved with
the certainty of habit to a chair by the head of the bed, and there
seated himself. Presently he felt a painful surging in his throat, then
a gush of warm tears forced its way to his eyes. It cost him a great
effort to resist the tendency to sob aloud. He was hot and cold
alternately, and trembled as though a fever were coming upon him.

In a quarter of an hour he lit the candle, and, after a glance at
himself in the glass, bathed his face. Then he took down his overcoat
from the door, and put it on. His hat, too, he took, and went to the
parlour.

'I have to go out, mother,' he said, standing at the door. 'I'll be
back by supper-time.'

'Very well, my dear,' was the quiet reply.

He walked out to the edge of the pavement, and stood a moment, as if in
doubt as to his direction. Then he looked at the upper windows of the
house, as we saw him do one night half a year ago. There was a light
this time in the sisters' room.

He turned towards Lambeth Walk. The market of Christmas Eve was flaring
and clamorous; the odours of burning naphtha and fried fish were
pungent on the wind. He walked a short distance among the crowd, then
found the noise oppressive and turned into a by-way. As he did so, a
street organ began to play in front of a public-house close by. Grail
drew near; there were children forming a dance, and he stood to watch
them.

Do you know that music of the obscure ways, to which children dance?
Not if you have only heard it ground to your ears' affliction beneath
your windows in the square. To hear it aright you must stand in the
darkness of such a by-street as this, and for the moment be at one with
those who dwell around, in the blear-eyed houses, in the dim burrows of
poverty, in the unmapped haunts of the semi-human. Then you will know
the significance of that vulgar clanging of melody; a pathos of which
you did not dream will touch you, and therein the secret of hidden
London will be half revealed. The life of men who toil without hope,
yet with the hunger of an unshaped desire; of women in whom the
sweetness of their sex is perishing under labour and misery; the laugh,
the song of the girl who strives to enjoy her year or two of youthful
vigour, knowing the darkness of the years to come; the careless
defiance of the youth who feels his blood and revolts against the lot
which would tame it; all that is purely human in these darkened
multitudes speaks to you as you listen. It is the half-conscious
striving of a nature which knows not what it would attain, which
deforms a true thought by gross expression, which clutches at the
beautiful and soils it with foul hands.

The children were dirty and ragged, several of them barefooted, nearly
all bare-headed, but they danced with noisy merriment. One there was, a
little girl, on crutches; incapable of taking a partner, she stumped
round and round, circling upon the pavement, till giddiness came upon
her and she had to fall back and lean against the wall, laughing aloud
at her weakness. Gilbert stepped up to her, and put a penny into her
hand; then, before she had recovered from her surprise, passed onwards.

He came out at length by Lambeth parish church, which looks upon the
river; the bells were ringing a harsh peal of four notes, unchangingly
repeated. Thence he went forward on to Lambeth Bridge.

Unsightliest of all bridges crossing Thames, the red hue of its iron
superstructure, which in daylight only enhances the meanness of its
appearance, at night invests it with a certain grim severity; the
archway, with its bolted metal plates, its wire-woven cables,
over-glimmered with the yellowness of the gas-lamps which it supports,
might be the entrance to some fastness of ignoble misery. The road is
narrow, and after nightfall has but little traffic.

Gilbert walked as far as the middle of the bridge, then leaned upon the
parapet and looked northwards. The tide was running out; it swept
darkly onwards to the span of Westminster Bridge, whose crescent of
lights it repeated in long unsteady rays. Along the base of the Houses
of Parliament the few sparse lamps contrasted with the line of
brightness on the Embankment opposite. The Houses themselves rose
grandly in obscure magnitude; the clock-tower beaconed with two red
circles against the black sky, the greater tower stood night-clad, and
between them were the dim pinnacles, multiplied in shadowy grace.
Farther away Gilbert could just discern a low, grey shape, that
resting-place of poets and of kings which to look upon filled his heart
with worship.

In front of the Embankment, a few yards out into the stream, was moored
a string of barges; between them and the shore the reflected lamp-light
made one unbroken breadth of radiance, blackening the mid-current. From
that the eye rose to St. Thomas's Hospital, spreading block after
block, its windows telling of the manifold woe within. Nearer was the
Archbishop's Palace, dark, lifeless; the roofs were defined against a
sky made lurid by the streets of Lambeth. On the pier below signalled
two crimson lights.

The church bells kept up their clangorous discord, softened at times by
the wind. A steamboat came fretting up the stream; when it had passed
under the bridge, its spreading track caught the reflected gleams and
flung them away to die on unsearchable depths. Then issued from beneath
a barge with set sail, making way with wind and tide; in silence it
moved onwards, its sail dark and ghastly, till the further bridge
swallowed it.

The bells ceased. Gilbert bent his head and listened to the rush of the
water, voiceful, mysterious. Sometimes he had stood there and wished
that the dread tide could whelm him. His mood was far other now; some
power he did not understand had brought him here as to the place where
he could best realise this great joy that had befallen him.

But the wind blew piercingly, and when at length he moved from the
parapet, he found that his arms were quite numb; doubtless he had stood
longer than he thought. Instead of returning by the direct way, he
walked along the Embankment It was all but deserted; the tread of a
policeman echoed from the distance. But in spite of the bitter sky, two
people were sitting together on one of the benches--a young man and a
work-girl; they were speaking scarcely above a whisper. Gilbert averted
his face as he passed them, and for the moment his eyes had their
pain-stricken look.

Issuing into Westminster Bridge Road, he found himself once more amid a
throng. And before he had gone far he recognised a figure that walked
just ahead of him. It was Ackroyd; he was accompanied by a girl of whom
Gilbert had no knowledge--Miss Totty Nancarrow. They were talking in a
merry, careless way: Ackroyd smoked a cigar, and Totty walked with her
usual independence, with that swaying of the haunches and swing of the
hands with palm turned outwards which is characteristic of the London
work-girl. Her laugh now and then rose to a high note; her companion
threw back his head and joined in the mirth. Clearly Ackroyd was in a
way to recover his spirits.

At the junction of two ways they stopped. Gilbert stopped too, for he
did not care to pass them and be recognised. He crossed the road, and
from the other side watched them as they stood talking. Now they were
taking leave of each other. Ackroyd appeared to hold the girl's hand
longer than she liked; when she struggled to get away, he suddenly bent
forward and snatched a kiss. With a gesture of indignation she escaped
from him.

Gilbert had a desire to join Ackroyd, now that the latter was alone.
But as he began to recross the street, the young man moved on and
turned into a public-house. Gilbert again stopped, and, disregarding
the crowds about him, lost himself in thought. He determined at length
to go his way.

Mrs. Grail had supper ready, with some mince pies of her own making.

'Each lot I make,' she said, as they sat down, 'I say to myself they'll
be the last.'

'No, no, mother; we shall eat a good many together yet,' Gilbert
replied, cheerily. The wind had brought a touch of colour to his cheeks
and made his eyes glisten.

'Have you taken any upstairs?' he asked presently.

'No, my dear. Do you think I may?'

'Oh, I should think so.'

The old lady looked at him and grew thoughtful.

There was no work to rise to on the morrow. With a clear conscience
Gilbert could sit on into the still hours which were so precious to
him. And again, before going to rest, he stepped quietly from the house
to look at the upper windows.




CHAPTER X

TEMPTING FORTUNE


Thyrza continued to be far from well. The day-long darkness encouraged
her natural tendency to sad dreaming. When alone, in Lydia's absence at
the work-room, she sometimes had fits of weeping; it was a relief to
shed tears. She could have given no explanation of the sufferings which
found this outlet; her heart lay under a cold weight, that was all she
knew.

Lydia pursued her course with the usual method and contentment, yet, in
these days just before Christmas, with a perceptible falling off in the
animation which was the note of her character. Perhaps she too was
affected by the weather; perhaps she was anxious about Thyrza; one
would have said, however, that she had some trouble distinct from these.

On Christmas Eve she ran round to Paradise Street, to make arrangements
for the next day. Evidently it would not be wise for Thyrza to leave
home; that being the ease, it was decided that Mr. Boddy should come
and have tea with the girls in their own room. Lydia talked over these
things with Mary in the kitchen below the shop, where odours of
Christmas fare were already rife. The parlour was full of noisy people,
amid whom Mr. Bower was holding weighty discourse; the friends had gone
below for privacy.

'So I shall keep the coat till he comes, Lydia said. 'I know Thyrza
would like to see his poor old face when he puts it on. And you might
come round yourself, Mary, just for an hour.'

'I'll see if I can.'

'I suppose you'll have people at night?'

'I don't know, I'm sure. I'd much rather come and sit with you, but
mother may want me.'

Lydia asked:

'Has Mr. Ackroyd been here lately?'

'I haven't seen him. I hope not.'

'Why do you say that, Mary?' asked Lydia impatiently.

'I only say what I think, dear.'

Lydia for once succeeded in choosing wiser silence. But that look which
had no place upon her fair, open countenance came for a moment, a
passing darkness which might be forecast of unhappy things.

At four o'clock on the following afternoon--this Christmas fell on a
Friday--everything was ready in Walnut Tree Walk for Mr. Boddy's
arrival. The overcoat, purchased by Lydia after a vast amount of
comparing and selecting, of deciding and rejecting and redeciding, was
carefully hidden, to be produced at a suitable moment. The bitter
coldness of the day gladdened the girls now that they knew the old man
would go away well wrapped up. This coat had furnished a subject for
many an hour of talk between them, and now as they waited they amused
themselves with anticipation of what Mr. Boddy would say, what he would
think, how joyfully he would throw aside that one overcoat he did
possess--a garment really too far gone, and with no pretence of warmth
in it. Thyrza introduced a note of sadness by asking:

'What 'll happen, Lyddy, if he gets that he can't earn any thing?'

'I sometimes think of that,' Lydia replied gravely. 'We couldn't expect
the Bowers to keep him there if he couldn't pay his rent. But I always
hope that we shall be able to find what he needs. It isn't much, poor
grandad! And you see we can always manage to save something, Thyrza.'

'But it wouldn't be enough--nothing like enough for a room and meals,
Lyddy.'

'Oh, we shall find a way Perhaps'--she laughed--'we shall have more
money some day.'

Two rings at the bell on the lower landing announced their visitor's
arrival. Lydia ran downstairs and returned with the old man, whose face
was very red from the raw air. He had a muffler wrapped about his neck,
but the veteran overcoat was left behind, for the simple reason that
Mr. Boddy felt he looked more respectable without it. His threadbare
black suit had been subjected to vigorous brushing, with a little
exercise of the needle here and there. A pair of woollen gloves, long
kept for occasions of ceremony, were the most substantial article of
clothing that he wore. A baize bag, of which Lydia had relieved him,
contained his violin.

'I thought you'd maybe like a little music, my dear,' he said as he
kissed Thyrza. 'It's cheerin' when you don't feel quite the thing. I
doubt you can't sing though.'

'Oh, the cold's all gone,' replied Thyrza. 'We'll see, after tea.'

They made much of him, and it must have been very sweet to the poor old
fellow to be so affectionately tended by these whom he loved as his own
children.

Mary Bower came not long after tea, then Mr. Boddy took out his violin
from the bag and played all the favourite old tunes, those which
brought back their childhood to the two girls. To please Mary, Lydia
asked for a hymn-tune, one she had grown fond of in chapel. Mary began
to sing it, so Lydia got her hymn-book and asked Thyrza to sing with
them. The air was a sweet one, and Thyrza's voice gave it touching
beauty as she sang soft and low. Other hymns followed; Mary Bower fell
into her gentler mood and showed how pleasant she could be when nothing
irritated her susceptibilities. The hours passed quickly to nine
o'clock, then Mary said it was time for her to go.

'Do you want to stay a little longer, Mr. Boddy,' she said, 'or will
you go home with me?'

'I'd rather walk home in good company than alone, Miss Mary,' he
replied. 'I call it walking, but it's only a stump-stump.'

'But it would be worse if you couldn't walk at all,' Mary said.

'Right, my dear, as you always are. I've no call to grumble. It's a bad
habit as grows on me, I fear. If Lyddy 'ad only tell me of it, both
together you might do me good. But Lyddy treats me like a spoilt child.
It's her old way.'

'Mary shall take us both in hand,' said Lydia. 'She shall cure me of my
sharp temper and you of grumbling, grandad; and I know which 'll be the
hardest job!'

Laughing with kindly mirth, the old man drew on his woollen gloves and
took up his hat and the violin-bag. Then he offered to say good-bye.

'But you're forgetting your top-coat, grandad,' said Lydia.

'I didn't come in it, my dear.'

'What's that, then? I'm sure _we_ don't wear such things.'

She pointed to a chair, on which Thyrza had just artfully spread the
gift. Mr. Boddy looked in a puzzled way; had he really come in his coat
and forgotten it? He drew nearer.

'That's no coat o' mine, Lyddy,' he said.

Thyrza broke into a laugh.

'Why, whose is it, then?' she exclaimed. 'Don't play tricks, grandad;
put it on at once!'

'Now come, come; you're keeping Mary waiting,' said Lydia, catching up
the coat and holding it ready.

Then Mr. Boddy understood. He looked from Lydia to Thyrza with dimmed
eyes.

'I've a good mind never to speak to either of you again,' he said in a
tremulous voice. 'As if you hadn't need enough of your money! Lyddy,
Lyddy! And you're as bad, Thyrza; a grown-up woman like you, you ought
to teach your sister better. Why there; it's no good; I don't know what
to say to you. Now what do you think of this, Mary?'

Lydia still held up the coat, and at length persuaded the old man to
don it. The effect upon his appearance was remarkable; conscious of it,
he held himself more upright and stumped to the little square of
looking-glass to try and regard himself. Here he furtively brushed a
hand over his eyes.

'I'm ready, Mary, my dear; I'm ready! It's no good saying anything to
girls like these. Good-bye, Lyddy; good-bye, Thyrza. May you have a
many happy Christmas, children! This isn't the first as you've made a
happy one for me.'

Lydia went down to the door and watched the two till they were lost in
darkness. Then she returned to her sister with a sigh of gladness. For
the moment she had no trouble of her own.

Upon days of festival, kept in howsoever quiet and pure a spirit, there
of necessity follows depression; all mirth is unnatural to the
reflective mind, and even the unconscious suffer a mysterious penalty
when they have wrested one whole day from fate. On the Saturday Lydia
had no work to go to, and the hours dragged. In the course of the
morning she went out to make some purchases. She was passing Mrs.
Bower's without intention of entering, when Mary appeared in the
doorway and beckoned her. Mrs. Bower was out; Mary had been left in
charge of the shop.

'You were asking me about Mr. Ackroyd,' she said, when they had gone
into the parlour. 'Would you like to know something I heard about him
last night?'

Lydia knew that it was something disagreeable; Mary's air of
discharging a duty sufficiently proved that.

'What is it?' she asked coldly.

'They were talking about him here when I came back last night. He's
begun to go about with that girl Totty Nancarrow.'

Lydia cast down her eyes. Mary keeping silence, she said:

'Well, what if he has?'

'I think it's right you should know, on Thyrza's account.'

'Thyrza has nothing to do with Mr. Ackroyd; you know that, Mary.'

'But there's something else. He's begun to drink, Lydia. Mr. Raggles
saw him in a public-house somewhere last night, and he was quite tipsy.'

Lydia said nothing. She held a market bag before her, and her white
knuckles proved how tightly she clutched the handles.

'You remember what I once said,' Mary continued. There was absolutely
no malice in her tone, but mere satisfaction in proving that the
premises whence her conclusions had been drawn were undeniably sound.
She was actuated neither by personal dislike of Ackroyd nor by
jealousy; but she could not resist this temptation of illustrating her
principles by such a noteworthy instance. 'Now wasn't I right, Lydia?'

Lydia looked up with hot cheeks.

'I don't believe it!' she said vehemently. 'Who's Mr. Raggles? How do
you know he tells the truth?--And what is it to me, whether it's true
or not?'

'You were so sure that it made no difference what any one believed,
Lydia,' said the other, with calm persistency.

'And I say the same still, and I always will say it? You're _glad_ when
anybody speaks against Mr. Ackroyd, and you'd believe them, whatever
they said. I'll never go to chapel again with you, Mary, as long as I
live! You're unkind, and it's your chapel-going that makes you so!
You'd no business to call me in to tell me things of this kind. After
to-day, please don't mention Mr. Ackroyd's name; you know nothing at
all about him.'

Without waiting for a reply she left the parlour and went on her way.
Mary was rather pale, but she felt convinced of the truth of what she
had reported, and she had done her plain duty in drawing the lesson.
Whether Lydia would acknowledge that seemed doubtful. The outburst of
anger confirmed Mary in strange suspicions which had for some time
lurked in her mind.

On Sunday evening Lydia dressed as if to go to chapel, and left the
house at the usual hour. She had heard nothing from Mary Bower, and her
resentment was yet warm. She did not like to tell Thyrza what had
happened, but went out to spend the time as best she could.

Almost as soon as her sister was gone Thyrza paid a little attention to
her dress and went downstairs. She knocked at the Grails' parlour; it
was Gilbert's voice that answered.

'Isn't Mrs. Grail in?' she asked timidly, looking about the room.

'Yes, she's in, Miss Trent, but she doesn't feel very well. She went to
lie down after tea.'

'Oh, I'm sorry.'

She hesitated, just within the door.

'Would you like to go to her room?' Gilbert asked.

'Perhaps she's asleep; I mustn't disturb her. Would you lend me another
book, Mr. Grail?'

'Oh, yes! Will you come and choose one?'

She closed the door and went forward to the bookcase, on her way
glancing at Gilbert's face, to see whether he was annoyed at her
disturbing him. It was scarcely that, yet unmistakably his countenance
was troubled. This made Thyrza nervous; she did not look at him again
for a few moments, but carried her eyes along the shelves. Poor little
one, the titles were no help to her. Gilbert knew that well enough, but
he was watching her by stealth, and forgot to speak.

'What do you think would do for me, Mr. Grail?' she said at length. 'It
mustn't be anything very hard, you know.'

Saying that, she met his eyes. There was a smile in them, and one so
reassuring, so--she knew not what--that she was tempted to add:

'You know best what I want. I shall trust you.'

Something shook the man from head to foot. The words which came from
him were involuntary; he heard them as if another had spoken.

'You trust me? You believe that I would do my best to please you?'

Thyrza felt a strangeness in his words, but replied to them with a
frank smile:

'I think so, Mr. Grail.'

He was holding his hand to her; mechanically she gave hers. But in the
doing it she became frightened; his face had altered, it was as if he
suffered a horrible pain. Then she heard:

'Will you trust your life to me, Thyrza?'

It was like a flash, dazzling her brain. Never in her idlest moment had
she strayed into a thought of this. He had always seemed to her
comparatively an old man, and his gravity would in itself have
prevented her from viewing him as a possible suitor. He seemed so
buried in his books; he was so unlike the men who had troubled her with
attentions hitherto. Yet he held her hand, and surely his words could
have but one meaning.

Gilbert saw how disconcerted, how almost shocked, she was.

'I didn't mean to say that at once,' he continued hurriedly, releasing
her hand. 'I've been too hasty. You didn't expect that. It isn't fair
to you. Will you sit down?'

He still spoke without guidance of his tongue. He was impelled by a
vast tenderness; the startled look on her face made him reproach
himself; he sought to soothe her, and was incoherent, awkward. As if in
implicit obedience, she moved to a chair. He stood gazing at her, and
the love which had at length burst from the dark depths seized upon all
his being.

'Mr. Grail--'

She began, but her voice failed. She looked at him, and he was smitten
to the heart to see that there were tears in her eyes.

'If it gives you pain,' he said in a low voice, drawing near to her,
'forget that I said anything. I wouldn't for my life make you feel
unhappy.'

Thyrza smiled through her tears. She saw how gentle his expression had
become; his voice touched her. The reverence which she had always felt
for him grew warmer under his gaze, till it was almost the affection of
a child for a father.

'But should I be the right kind of wife for you, Mr. Grail?' she asked,
with a strange simplicity and diffidence. 'I know so little.'

'Can you think of being my wife?' he said, in tones that shook with
restrained emotion. 'I am so much older than you, but you are the first
for whom I have ever felt love. And'--here he tried to smile--'it is
very sure that I shall love you as long as I live.'

Her breast heaved; she held out both her hands to him and said quickly:

'Yes, I will marry you, Mr. Grail. I will try my best to be a good wife
to you.'

He stood as if doubting. Both her hands were together in his he
searched her blue eyes, and their depths rendered to him a sweetness
and purity before which his heart bowed in worship. Then he leaned
forward and kissed her forehead.

Thyrza reddened and kept her eyes down.

'May I go now?' she said, when, after kissing her hands, he had
released them at the first feeling that they were being drawn away.

'If you wish to, Thyrza.'

'I'll stay if you like, Mr. Grail, but--I think--'

She had risen. The warmth would not pass from her cheeks, and the
sensation prevented her from looking up; she desired to escape and be
alone.

'Will you come down and speak to mother in the morning?' Gilbert said,
relieving her from the necessity of adding more. 'She will have
something to tell you.'

'Yes, I'll come. Good-night, Mr. Grail.'

Both had forgotten the book that was to have been selected. Thyrza gave
her hand as she always did when taking leave of him, save that she
could not meet his eyes. He held it a little longer than usual, then
saw her turn and leave the room hurriedly.

An hour later, when Mrs. Grail came into the parlour, Gilbert drew from
its envelope and handed to her the letter he had received from Egremont
on Christmas Eve. She read it, and turned round to him with
astonishment.

'Why didn't you tell me this, child? Well now, if I didn't _think_
there was something that night! Have you answered? Oh no, you're not to
answer for a week.'

'What's your advice?'

'Eh, how that reminds me of your father!' the old lady exclaimed. 'I've
heard him speak just with that voice and that look many a time. Well,
well, my dear, it's only waiting, you see; something comes soon or late
to those that deserve it. I'm glad I've lived to see this, Gilbert.'

He said, when they had talked of it for a few minutes:

'Will you show this to Thyrza to-morrow morning?'

She fixed her eyes on him, over the top of her spectacles, keenly.

'To be sure I will. Yes, yes, of course I will.'

'She's been here for a few minutes since tea. I told her if she'd come
down in the morning you'd have something to tell her.'

'She's been here? But why didn't you call me? I must go up and speak.'

'Not to-night, mother. It was better that you weren't here. I had
something to say to her--something I wanted to say before she heard of
this. Now she has a right to know.'

Lydia returned shortly after eight o'clock. She had walked about
aimlessly for an hour and a half, avoiding the places where she was
likely to meet anyone she knew. She was chilled and wretched.

Thyrza said nothing till her sister had taken off her hat and jacket
and seated herself.

'When did you see Mr. Ackroyd last?' she inquired.

'I'm sure I don't know,' was the reply. 'I passed him in the Walk about
a week ago.'

'But, I mean, when did you speak to him?'

'Oh, not for a long time,' said Lydia, smoothing the hair upon her
forehead. 'Why?'

'He seems to have forgotten all about me, Lyddy.'

The other looked down into the speaker's face with eyes that were
almost startled.

'Why do you say that, dear?'

'Do you think he has?'

'He may have done,' replied Lydia, averting her eyes. 'I don't know.
You said you wanted him to, Thyrza.'

'Yes, I did--in that way. But I asked him to be friends with us, I
don't see why he should keep away from us altogether.'

'But it's only what you had to expect,' said Lydia, rather coldly. In a
moment, however, she had altered her voice to add: 'He couldn't be
friends with us in the way you mean, dear. Have you been thinking about
him?'

She showed some anxiety.

'Yes,' said Thyrza, 'I often think about him--but not because I'm sorry
for what I did. I shall never be sorry for that. Shall I tell you why?
It's something you'd never guess if you tried all night. You could no
more guess it than you could--I don't know what!'

Lydia looked inquiringly.

'Put your arm round me and have a nice face. As soon as you'd gone to
chapel, I thought I'd go down and ask Mr. Grail to lend me a book. I
went and knocked at the door, and Mr. Grail was there alone. And he
asked me to come and choose a book, and we began to talk, and--Lyddy,
he asked me if I'd be his wife.'

Lydia's astonishment was for the instant little less than that which
had fallen upon Thyrza when she felt her hand in Grail's. Her larger
experience, however, speedily brought her to the right point of view;
in less time than it would have taken her to express surprise, her wits
had arranged a number of little incidents which remained in her memory,
and had reviewed them all in the light of this disclosure. This was the
meaning of Mr. Grail's reticence, of his apparent coldness at times.
Surely she was very dull never to have surmised it. Yet he was so much
older than Thyrza; he was so confirmed a student; no, she had never
suspected this feeling.

All this in a flash of consciousness, whilst she pressed her sister
closer to her side. Then:

'And what did you say, dear?'

'I said I would, Lyddy.'

The elder sister became very grave. She bit first her lower, then her
upper lip.

'You said that at once, Thyrza?'

'Yes. I felt I must.'

'You felt you must?'

Thyrza could but inadequately explain what she meant by this. The words
involved a truth, but one of which she had no conscious perception.
Gilbert Grail was a man of strong personality, and in no previous
moment of life had his being so uttered itself in look and word as when
involuntarily he revealed his love. More, the vehemence of his feeling
went forth in that subtle influence with which forcible natures are
able to affect now an individual, now a crowd. Thyrza was very
susceptible of such impression; the love which had become all-potent in
Gilbert's heart sensibly moved her own. Ackroyd had had no power to
touch her so; his ardour had never appealed to her imagination with
such constraining reality. Grail was the first to make her conscious of
the meaning of passion. It was not passion which rose within her to
reply to his, but the childlike security in which she had hitherto
lived was at an end; love was henceforth to be the preoccupation of her
soul.

She answered her sister:

'I couldn't refuse him. He said he should love me as long as he lived,
and I felt that it was true. He didn't try to persuade me, Lyddy. When
I showed how surprised I was, he spoke very kindly, and wanted me to
have time to think.'

'But, dearest, you say you were surprised. You hadn't thought of such a
thing--I'm sure I hadn't. How could you say "yes" at once?'

'But have I done wrong, Lyddy?'

Lydia was again busy with conjecture, in woman's way rapidly reading
secrets by help of memory and intuition. She connected this event with
what Mary Bower had reported to her of Ackroyd. If it were indeed true
that Ackroyd no longer made pretence of loyalty to his old love, would
not Grail's knowledge of that change account for his sudden abandonment
of disguise? The two were friends; Grail might well have shrunk from
entering into rivalry with the younger man. She felt a convincing
clearness in this. Then it was true that Ackroyd had begun to show an
interest in Totty Nancarrow; it was true, she added bitterly,
connecting it closely with the other fact, that he haunted
public-houses. Something of that habit she had heard formerly, but
thought of it as long abandoned. How would he hear of Thyrza's having
pledged herself! Assuredly he had not forgotten her. She knew him; he
could not forget so lightly; it was Thyrza's disregard that had driven
him into folly.

Her sister was repeating the question.

'Oh, why couldn't you feel in the same way to--to the other, Thyrza?'
burst from Lydia. 'He loved you and he still loves you. Why didn't you
try to feel for him? You don't love Mr. Grail.'

Thyrza drew a little apart.

'I feel I shall be glad to be his wife,' she said firmly. 'I felt I
must say "yes," and I don't think I shall ever be sorry. I could never
have said "yes" to Mr. Ackroyd, Lyddy!' She sprang forward and held her
sister again. 'You know why I couldn't! You can't keep secrets from me,
though you could from any one else. You know why I could never have
wished to marry him!'

They held each other in that unity of perfect love which had hallowed
so many moments of their lives. Lydia's face was hidden. But at length
she raised it, to ask solemnly:

'It was not because you thought this that you promised Mr. Grail?'

'No, no, no!'

'Blue-eyes, nobody 'll ever love me but you. And I don't think I shall
ever have a sad minute if I see that you're happy. I do hope you've
done right.'

'I'm sure I have, Lyddy. You must tell Mary to-morrow. And
grandad--think how surprised they'll be! Of course, everybody'll know
soon. I shall go to work to-morrow, you know I'm quite well again. And
Lyddy, when I'm Mrs. Grail of course, Mr. Ackroyd 'll come and see us.'

Lydia made no reply to this. She could not tell what had happened
between herself and Mary Bower, and the mention of Ackroyd's name was
now a distress to her. She moved from her seat, saying that it was long
past supper-time.

Thyrza went down to see Mrs. Grail next morning just before setting out
for work. The piece of news was communicated to her, and she hastened
with it to her sister. But Gilbert had requested that they would as yet
speak of it to no one; it was better to wait till Mr. Egremont had
himself made the fact known among the members of his class. Lydia was
much impressed with Gilbert's behaviour in keeping that good fortune a
secret in the interview with Thyrza. It heightened her already high
opinion of him, and encouraged her to look forward with hope. Yet hope
would not come without much bidding; doubts and anxieties knocked only
too freely at her heart.

One evening Lydia, returning from making a purchase for Mrs. Grail, met
Ackroyd. It was at the Kennington Road end of Walnut Tree Walk. He
seemed to be waiting. He raised his hat; Lydia bent her head and walked
past; but a quick step sounded behind her.

'Miss Trent! Will you stop a minute?'

She turned. Luke held out his hand.

'It's a long time since we spoke a word,' he said, with friendliness.
'But we're not always going to pass each other like that, are we?'

Lydia smiled; it was all she could do. She did not know for certain
that he had yet heard the news.

'I want you,' he continued 'to give your sister my good wishes. Will
you?'

'Yes, I will, Mr. Ackroyd.'

'Grail came and told me all about it. It wasn't pleasant to hear, but
he's a good fellow and I'm not surprised at his luck. I haven't felt I
wanted to quarrel with him, and I think better of myself for that. And
yet it means a good deal to me--more than you think, I dare say.'

'You'll soon forget it, Mr. Ackroyd,' Lydia said, in a clear, steady
voice.

'Well, you 'll see if I do. I'm one of the unlucky fellows that can
never show what they feel. It all comes out in the wrong way. It
doesn't matter much now.'

Lydia had a feeling that this was not wholly sincere. He seemed to take
a pleasure in representing himself as luckless. Combined with what she
had heard, it helped her to say:

'A man doesn't suffer much from these things. You'll soon be cheerful
again. Good-bye, Mr. Ackroyd.'

She did not wait for anything more from him.




CHAPTER XI

A MAN WITH A FUTURE


Mr. Dalmaine first turned his attention to politics at the time when
the question of popular education was to the front in British politics.
It was an excellent opportunity for would-be legislators conscious of
rhetorical gifts and only waiting for some safe, simple subject whereon
to exercise them. Both safe and simple was the topic which all and
sundry were then called upon to discuss; it was impossible not to have
views on education (have we not all been educated?), and delightfully
easy to support them by prophecy. Never had the vaticinating style of
oratory a greater vogue. Never was a richer occasion for the utterance
of wisdom such as recommends itself to the British public.

Mr. Dalmaine understood the tastes and habits of that public as well as
most men of his standing. After one abortive attempt to enter
Parliament, he gained his seat for Vauxhall at the election of 1874,
and from the day of his success he steadily applied himself to the
political profession. He was then two-and-thirty; for twelve years he
had been actively engaged in commerce and now held the position of
senior partner in a firm owning several factories in Lambeth. Such a
training was valuable; politics he viewed as business on a larger
scale, and business, the larger its scale the better, was his one
enthusiasm. His education had not been liberal; he saw that that made
no difference, and wisely pursued the bent of his positive mind where
another man might have wasted his time in the attempt to gain culture.
He saw that his was the age of the practical. Let who would be an
idealist, the practical man in the end got all that was worth having.

He worked. You might have seen him, for instance, in his study one
Sunday morning in the January which the story has now reached; a glance
at him showed that he was no idler in fields of art or erudition;
blue-books were heaped about him, hooks bound in law calf lay open near
his hand, newspapers monopolised one table. He was interested in all
that concerns the industrial population of Great Britain; he was making
that subject his speciality; he meant to link his name with factory
Acts, with education Acts, with Acts for the better housing of the
work-folk, with what not of the kind. And the single working man for
whom he veritably cared one jot was Mr. James Dalmaine.

He was rather a good-looking fellow, a well-built, sound, red-bearded
Englishman. His ears were not quite so close against his head as they
should be; his lips might have had a more urbane expression; his hand
might have been a trifle less weighty; but when he stood up with his
back to the fire and looked musingly along the cornice of the room, one
felt that his appearance on a platform would conciliate those
right-thinking electors who desire that Parliament should represent the
comely, beef-fed British breed. He was fairly well-to-do, though some
held that he had speculated a little rashly of late; he felt very
strongly, however, that his pedestal must be yet more solid before he
could claim the confidence of his countrymen with the completeness that
he desired. Of late he had given thought to a particular scheme, and
not at all a disagreeable one, for enhancing his social, and therefore
political, credit. He was thinking of her--the scheme, I would say--at
present.

These chambers of his were in Westminster; they were spacious,
convenient; he had received deputations from his constituents here.
Lambeth was only just over the water; he liked to be near, for it was
one of his hobbies, one of the very few that he allowed himself, to
keep thoroughly cognisant of the affairs of his borough--which, as you
are aware, includes the district of Lambeth--even of its petty affairs.
Some day, he said to himself, he would in this way overlook Great
Britain--would have her statistics at his finger-ends, would change
here, confirm there, guide everywhere. In the meantime he satisfied
himself with this section. He knew what was going on in workmen's
clubs, in places of amusement, in the market streets. There is a
pleasure in surveying from a height the doing and driving of ordinary
mortals; a member for Vauxhall studying his borough in this spirit
naturally comes to feel himself a sort of Grand Duke.

It was one o'clock. There came a knock at the door, followed by the
appearance of a middle-aged man who silently proclaimed himself a
secretary. This was Mr. Tasker; he had served Mr. Dalmaine thus for
three years, prior to which he had been employed as a clerk at the
works in Lambeth. Mr. Dalmaine first had his attention drawn to Tasker
eight or nine years before, by an instance of singular shrewdness in
the latter's discharge of his duties. From that day he kept his eye on
him--took Opportunities of advancing him. Tasker was born with a love
of politics and with a genius for detail; Mr. Dalmaine discovered all
this, and, when the due season came, raised him to the dignity of his
private scribe. Tasker regarded his employer as his earthly Providence,
was devoted to him, served him admirably. It was the one instance of
Mr. Dalmaine's having interested himself in an individual; he had no
thought of anything but his own profit in doing so, but none the less
he had made a mortal happy. You observe the beneficence that lies in
practicality.

Before going to luncheon on a Sunday it was Mr. Dalmaine's practice to
talk of things in general with his secretary. To-day, among other
questions, he asked, with a meaning smile:

'What of young Egremont's lectures? Has he recommenced?'

'The first of the new course is to-night,' replied Mr. Tasker, who sat
bending a paper-cutter over his leg. Mr. Dalmaine, knowing his
secretary, encouraged him to be on easy terms. In truth, he had a
liking for Tasker. Partly it reciprocated the other's feeling, no
doubt; and then one generally looks with indulgence on a man whom one
has discovered and developed.

'Does he go on with his literature?'

'No. The title is, "Thoughts for the Present."'

Mr. Dalmaine leaned back and laughed. It was a hearty laugh.

'I foresaw it, I foresaw it! And how many hearers has he?'

'Six only.'

'To be sure.'

'But there is something more. Mr. Egremont is going to present Lambeth
with a free public library. He has taken a building.'

'A fact? How do you know that, Tasker?'

'I heard it at the club last night. He has informed the members of his
class.'

'Ha! He is really going to bleed himself to prove his sincerity?'

They discussed the subject a little longer. Then Mr. Dalmaine dictated
a letter or two that he wished to have off his mind, and after that
bade Tasker good-day.

At half-past four in the afternoon he drove up to a house at Lancaster
Gate, where he had recently been a not infrequent visitor. The servant
preceded him with becoming stateliness to the drawing-room, and
announced his name in the hearing of three ladies, who were pleasantly
chatting in the aroma of tea. The eldest of them was Mrs. Tyrrell; her
companions were Miss Tyrrell and a young married lady paying a call.

Mrs. Tyrrell was one of those excellently preserved matrons who testify
to the wholesome placidity of woman's life in wealthy English homes.
Her existence had taken for granted the perfection of the universe;
probably she had never thought of a problem which did not solve itself
for the pleasant trouble of stating it in refined terms, and certainly
it had never occurred to her that social propriety was distinguishable
from the Absolute Good. She was not a dull woman, and the opposite of
an unfeeling one, but her wits and her heart had both been so subdued
to the social code, that it was very difficult for her to entertain
seriously any mode of thought or action for which she could not recall
a respectable precedent. By nature she was indulgent, of mild
disposition, of sunny intelligence; so endowed, circumstances had
bidden her regard it as the end of her being to respect conventions, to
check her native impulse if ever it went counter to the opinion of
Society, to use her intellect for the sole purpose of discovering how
far it was permitted to be used. And she was a happy woman, had always
been a happy woman. She had known a little trouble in relation to her
favourite sister's marriage with Mr. Newthorpe, for she foresaw that it
could not turn out very well, and she had been obliged to censure her
sister for excessive devotion to the pleasures of Society; it grieved
her, on the other hand, to think of her poor niece being brought up in
a way so utterly opposed to all the traditions. But these were only
little ripples on the smooth flowing surface. You knew that she would
never be smitten down with a great sorrow. She was of those whom Fate
must needs respect, so gracefully and sweetly do they accept happiness
as their right.

Mr. Dalmaine joined these ladies with the manner of the sturdy Briton
who would make himself agreeable yet dreads the _petit maitre_. His
voice would have been better if a little more subdued; he seated
himself with perhaps rather more of ease than of grace; but on the
whole Society would have let him pass muster as a well-bred man.

'You are interested in all that concerns your constituency, Mr.
Dalmaine,' said Mrs. Tyrrell; 'we were speaking of Mr. Egremont's plan
of founding a library in Lambeth. You have heard of it?'

'Oh yes.'

'Do you think it will be a good thing?'

'I am very doubtful. One doesn't like to speak unkindly of such
admirable intentions, but I really think that in this he is working on
a wrong principle. I so strongly object to _giving_ anything when it's
in the power of people to win it for themselves with a little wholesome
exertion. Now, there's the Free Library Act; if the people of Lambeth
really want a library, let them tax themselves and adopt the statutory
scheme. Sincerely, I believe that Mr. Egremont will do more harm than
good. We must avoid anything that tends to pauperise the working
classes.'

'How amusing!' exclaimed Paula. 'It's almost word for word what mamma's
just been saying.'

Paula was dressed in the prettiest of tea-gowns; she looked the most
exquisite of conservatory flowers. Her smile to Mr. Dalmaine was very
gracious.

'That really is how I felt,' said Mrs. Tyrrell. 'But Mr. Egremont will
never be persuaded of that. He is so wholehearted in his desire to help
these poor people, yet, I'm afraid, so very, very unpractical.'

The young married lady observed:

'Oh, no one ought _ever_ to interfere with philanthropy unless they
have a _very_ practical scheme. Canon Brougham was so emphatic on that
point this morning. So _much_ harm may be done, when we mean everything
for the best.'

'Yes, I feel that very strongly,' said Dalmaine, his masculine accent
more masculine than ever after the plaintive piping. 'I even fear that
Mr. Egremont is doing wrong in making his lectures free. We may be sure
they are well worth paying to hear, and it's an axiom in all dealing
with the working class that they will never value anything that they
don't pay for.'

'Oh, but Mr. Dalmaine,' protested Paula, 'you couldn't ask Mr. Egremont
to take money at the door!'

'It sounds shocking, Miss Tyrrell, but if Mr. Egremont stands before
them as a teacher, he ought to charge for his lessons. I assure you
they would put a far higher value on his lectures. I grieve to hear
that his class has fallen off. I could have foreseen that. The basis is
not sound. To put it in plain, even coarse, language, all social reform
must be undertaken on strictly commercial principles.'

'How I should like to hear you say that to Mr. Egremont!' remarked
Paula. 'Oh, his face!'

'Mr. Egremont is an idealist,' said Mrs. Tyrrell, smiling.

'Surely the very _last_ kind of person to attempt social reform!'
exclaimed the young married lady.

The conversation drew off into other channels. Mr. Dalmaine was
supplied with the clearest opinions on every topic, and he had a way of
delivering them which was most effective with persons of Mrs. Tyrrell's
composition. In everything he affected sobriety. If he had to express a
severe judgment, it was done with gentlemanly regret. If he commended
anything, he did so with a judicial air. In fact, it would not have
been easy to imagine Mr. Dalmaine speaking with an outburst of natural
fervour on any topic whatsoever. His view was the view of common sense,
and he enunciated the barrenest convictions in a tone which would have
suited profound originality.

A week later there was a dinner party at the Tyrrells, and Egremont was
among the bidden. He had persisted in his tendency to hold aloof from
general society, in spite of many warnings from Mrs. Ormonde, but he
could not, short of ingratitude, wholly absent himself from his friends
at Lancaster Gate. Mrs. Tyrrell was no exception to the rule in her
attitude to Egremont; as did all matronly ladies, she held him in very
warm liking, and sincerely hoped that a young man so admirably fitted
for the refinements of social life would in time get rid of his
extravagant idealism. A little of that was graceful; Society was
beginning to view it with favour when confined within the proper
bounds; but to carry it into act, and waste one's life in wholly
unpractical--nay, in positively harmful--enterprise was a sad thing.
She had reasoned with him, but he showed himself so perverted in his
sense of the fitness of things that the task had to be abandoned as
hopeless. And yet the good lady liked him. She had hoped, and not so
long ago, that he might some day desire to stand in a nearer relation
to her than that of a friend, but herein again she felt that her wish
was growing futile. Paula indulged in hints with reference to her
cousin Annabel, and Mrs. Tyrrell began to fear that the strangely
educated girl might be the cause of Walter's extreme aberrations.

Egremont arrived early on the evening of the dinner. Only one guest had
preceded him. With Mrs. Tyrrell and Paula were Mr. Tyrrell and the son
of the house, Mr. John, the Jack Tyrrell of sundry convivial clubs in
town. Mr. Tyrrell senior was a high-coloured jovial gentleman of three
score, great in finance, practical to the backbone, yet with wit and
tact which put him at ease with all manner of men, even with social
reformers. These latter amused him vastly; he failed to see that the
world needed any reforming whatever, at all events beyond that which is
constitutionally provided for in the proceedings of the British
Parliament. He had great wealth; he fared sumptuously every day; things
shone to him in a rosy after-dinner light. Not a gross or a selfish
man, for he was as good-natured as he was contented, and gave very
freely of his substance; it was simply his part in the world to enjoy
the product of other men's labour and to set an example of glorious
self-satisfaction. Egremont, in certain moods, had tried to despise Mr.
Tyrrell, but he never quite succeeded. Nor indeed was the man
contemptible. Had you told him with frank conviction that you deemed
him a poor sort of phenomenon, he would have shaken the ceiling with
laughter and have admired you for your plain-speaking. For there was a
large and generous vigour about him, and adverse criticism could only
heighten his satisfaction in his own stability.

Something of the cold dignity in which she had taken refuge at
Ullswater was still to be remarked in Paula's manner as she received
Egremont. She held her charming head erect, and let her eyelids droop a
little, and the few words which she addressed to him were rather
absently spoken. With others, as they arrived, she was sportively
intimate. Her bearing had gained a little in maturity during the past
half year, but it was still with a blending of _naivete_ and capricious
affectation that she wrought her spell. Her dress was a miracle, and
inseparably a part of her; it was impossible to picture her in any
serious situation, so entirely was she a child of luxury and frivolous
concern. Exquisite as an artistic product of Society, she affected the
imagination not so much by her personal charm as through the perfume of
luxury which breathed about her. Egremont, with his radical tendencies
of thought, found himself marvelling as he regarded her; what a life
was hers! Compare it with that of some little work-girl in Lambeth,
such as he saw in the street--what spaces between those two worlds! Was
it possible that this dainty creation, this thing of material
omnipotence, would suffer decay of her sweetness and in the end die?
The reason took her side and revolted against law; it would be an
outrage if time or mischance laid hold upon her.

Yet there was something in Paula which he did not recognise. Since she
could formulate desires, few had found impression on her lips which
were not at once gratified; an exception caused her at first rather
astonishment than impatience. Such astonishment fell upon her when she
understood that Egremont's coming to Ullswater was not on her account.
In truth, she wished it had been, and from that moment the fates were
kind enough to notice Paula's poor little existence, and bid her
remember she was mortal. She took the admonition ill, and certainly it
was impertinent from her point of view. She had slight philosophy, but
out of that disappointment Paula by degrees drew an understanding that
she had had a glimpse of a strange world, that something of moment had
been at stake.

Egremont, standing in the rear of a chatting group, had all but dreamed
himself into oblivion of the present when he heard loud announcement of
'Mr. Dalmaine.' It was some time since he had met the Member for
Vauxhall. Looking upon the politician's well-knit frame, his
well-coloured face with its expression of shrewd earnestness, he for a
moment seemed to himself to shrink into insignificance. After sitting
opposite Dalmaine for an hour at the dinner-table, he was able to
regard the man again in what he deemed a true light. But the impression
made upon one by an object suddenly presented when the thought is busy
with far other things will as a rule embody much essential truth. As a
force, Egremont would not have weighed in the scale against Dalmaine.
Putting himself in conscious opposition to such a man, he had but his
due in a sense of nullity.

Mr. Tyrrell was kind to him in the assignment of a partner. A pretty,
gentle, receptive maiden, anxious to show interest in things of the
mind--with such a one Walter was at his best, because his simplest and
happiest. He put away thought of Lambeth--which in truth was beginning
to trouble his mind like a fixed idea--and talked much as he would have
done a couple of years ago, with bright intelligence, with natural
enjoyment of the hour. It was greatly his charm in such conversation
that had made him a favourite with pleasant people of the world. In
withdrawing himself from the sphere of these amenities he was opposing
the free growth of his character, which in consequence suffered. He was
cognisant of that; he knew that he was more himself to-night than he
had been for some months. But the fixed idea waited in the background.

When the ladies were gone, he saw Dalmaine rise and come round the
table towards him.

'I'm glad to see you again,' Dalmaine began, depositing his wine-glass
and refilling it. 'Pray tell me something about your lectures. You have
resumed since Christmas, I think?'

Egremont had no mind to speak of these things. It cost him an effort to
find an answer.

'Yes, I still have a few hearers.'

And at once he was angry with himself for falling into this confession
of failure. Dalmaine was the last man before whom he would affect
humility.

'I am sure,' observed the politician, 'everyone who has the good of the
working classes at heart must feel indebted to you. It's so very seldom
that men of culture care to address audiences of that kind. Yet it must
be the most effectual way of reaching the people. You address them on
English Literature, I think?'

Egremont did not care to explain that he had now a broader subject. He
murmured an affirmative. Dalmaine had hoped to elicit some of the
'Thoughts for the Present,' and felt disappointment.

'An excellent choice, it seems to me,' he continued, making his glass
revolve on the table-cloth. 'They are much too ignorant of the best
wealth of their country. They have so few inducements to read the great
historians, for instance. If you can bring them to do so, you make them
more capable citizens, abler to form a judgment on the questions of the
day.'

Egremont smiled.

'My one aim,' he remarked, 'is to persuade them to forget that there
are such things as questions of the day.'

Dalmaine also smiled, and with a slight involuntary curling of the lip.

'Ah, I remember our discussions on the Atlantic. I scarcely thought you
would apply those ideas in their--their fulness, when you began
practical work. You surely will admit that, in a time when their
interests are engaging so much attention, working men should--for
instance--go to the polls with intelligent preparation.'

'I'd rather they didn't go to the polls at all,' Walter replied. He
knew that this was exaggeration, but it pleased him to exaggerate. He
enjoyed the effect on the honourable member's broad countenance.

'Come, come!' said Dalmaine, laughing with appearance of entering into
the joke. 'At that rate, English freedom would soon be at an end. One
might as well abolish newspapers.'

'In my opinion, the one greatest boon that could be granted the working
class. I do my best to dissuade them from the reading of newspapers.'

Dalmaine turned the whole matter into a jest. Secretly he believed that
Egremont was poking contemptuous fun at him, but it was his principle
to receive everything with good-humour. They drew apart again, each
feeling more strongly than ever the instinctive opposition between
their elements. It amounted to a reciprocal dislike, an irritation
provoked by each other's presence. Dalmaine was beginning to suspect
Egremont of some scheme too deep for his fathoming; it was easier for
him to believe anything, than that idealism pure and simple was at the
bottom of such behaviour. Walter, on the other hand, viewed the
politician's personality with something more than contempt. Dalmaine
embodied those forces of philistinism, that essence of the vulgar
creed, which Egremont had undertaken to attack, and which, as he
already felt, were likely to yield as little before his efforts as a
stone wall under the blow of a naked hand. Two such would do well to
keep apart.

On returning to the drawing-room, Egremont kept watch for a vacant
place by Paula. Presently he was able to move to her side. She spread
her fan upon her lap, and, ruffling its edge of white fur, said
negligently:

'So you decided to waste an evening, Mr. Egremont.'

'I decided to have an evening of rest and enjoyment.'

'I suppose you are working dreadfully hard. When do you open your
library?'

'Scarcely in less than four or five months.'

'And will you stand at the counter and give out books, like the young
men at Mudie's?'

'Sometimes, I dare say. But I have found a librarian.'

'Who is he?'

'A working man in Lambeth. One of the most sympathetic natures I have
ever met; a man who might have gone on all his life making
candles--that is how things are arranged.'

'Making candles? What a funny change of occupation! And you really
think you are doing good in that disagreeable place?'

'I can only hope.'

'You are quite sure you are not doing harm?'

'Does it seem to you that I am?'

Paula assumed an air of wisdom.

'Of course I have no right to speak of such things, but it is my
opinion that you are destroying their sense of self-respect. I don't
think they ought to have things _given_ them; they should be encouraged
to help themselves.'

He examined her face. It was obvious that this profound sentiment had
not taken birth in Paula's charming little head, and he guessed from
whom she had derived it.

'I have no doubt Mr. Dalmaine would agree with you,' he said smiling.
'I believe I have heard him say something of the kind.'

'I'm glad to hear it. Mr. Dalmaine is an authority in such matters.'

'And I, the very reverse of one?'

'Well, I really do think, Mr. Egremont, that you are taking up things
for which you are not--not exactly suited, you know.'

She said it with the prettiest air of patronage, looking at him for a
moment, then, as usual, letting her eyes wander about the room.

'Miss Tyrrell,' he replied, with gravity that was half genuine, 'tell
me for what I _am_ exactly suited, and you will do me a vast kindness.'

She reflected.

'Oh, there are lots of things you do very nicely indeed. I've seen you
play croquet beautifully. But I've always thought it a pity you weren't
a clergyman.'

Walter laughed.

'Well, a local preacher is next to it.'

Both were at once carried back to the evening at Ullswater. Paula kept
silence; her eyes were directed towards Dalmaine, who almost at the
same moment looked towards her. She played with her fan.

'You know that my uncle has been ill?' she said.

'No, I have heard nothing of that.'

Paula looked surprised.

'Don't you hear from--from them?'

'I have a letter from Mr. Newthorpe very occasionally But surely the
illness has not been serious?'

'Mamma heard this morning about it. I don't know what's been the
matter. I shouldn't wonder if they come to London before long.'

Egremont shortly changed his place, and saw that Dalmaine took the
vacant seat by Paula. The two seemed to get on very well together.
Paula was evidently exerting herself to be charming; Dalmaine was doing
his best to trifle.

He sought more information from Mrs. Tyrrell regarding Mr. Newthorpe.
She seemed to fear that her brother-in-law might have been in more
danger than Annabel in her letter admitted.

'They certainly must come south,' she said. 'They are having a terrible
winter, and it has evidently tried Mr. Newthorpe beyond his strength.
You have influence with him, I believe, Mr. Egremont. Pray join me in
my efforts to bring them both back to civilisation.'

'I fear my influence will effect nothing if yours fails,' said Walter.
'But Mr. Newthorpe should certainly not risk his health.'

He next had a chat with Mr. John Tyrrell, junior. Paula's brother was
two-and-twenty, a frankly sensual youth, of admirable temper, great in
turf matters, with a genius for conviviality. Jack's health was
perfect, for he had his father's habit of enjoying life without excess,
and his stamina allowed a wide limit to the term moderation. Like the
rest of his family, he had the secret of conciliating goodwill; there
was no humbug in him, and one respected him as a fine specimen of the
young male developed at enormous expense. For Egremont he had a certain
reverence: a man who habitually thought was clearly, he admitted, of a
higher grade than himself, and he had no objection whatever to proclaim
his own inferiority. Egremont, talking with him, was half disposed to
envy Jack Tyrrell. What a simple thing life was with limitless cash, a
perfect digestion, and good-humour in the place of brains!

His room seemed very cold and lonely when he got back to it shortly
before midnight. The fire had been let out; the books round the walls
had a musty appearance; there was stale tobacco in the air. He paced
the floor, thinking of Annabel, wondering whether she would soon be in
London, longing to see her. And before he went to bed, he wrote a
letter to Mr. Newthorpe, expressing the anxiety with which he had heard
of his illness. Of himself he said little; the few words that came to
his pen concerning the Lambeth crusade were rather lifeless.

He was being talked of meanwhile in the Tyrrells' drawing-room. The
last guests being gone, there was chat for a few minutes between the
members of the family.

'Egremont isn't looking quite up to the mark,' said Mr. Tyrrell, as he
stood before the fire, hands in pockets.

'I thought the same,' said his wife. 'He seems worried. What a
deplorable thing it is, to think that he will spend large sums of money
on this library scheme!'

Mr. Tyrrell made inarticulate noises, and at length laughed.

'He must amuse himself in his own way.'

'But after all, papa,' said Paula, whose advocacy went much by the rule
of contraries, 'it must be a good thing to give people books to read. I
dare say it prevents them from going to the public-house.'

'Shouldn't wonder if it does, Paula,' he replied, with a benevolent
gaze.

'Then what's your objection?'

'I don't object to the library in particular. It's only that Egremont
isn't the man to do these kind of things. It is to be hoped that he'll
get tired of it, and find something more in his line.'

'What _is_ his line?'

'Ah, that's the question! Very likely he hasn't one at all. It seems to
me there's a good many young fellows in that case nowadays. They have
education, they have money, and they don't know what the deuce to do
with either one or the other. They're a cut above you, Mr. Jack; it
isn't enough for them to live and enjoy themselves. So they get it into
their heads that they're called upon to reform the world--a nice handy
little job, that'll keep them going. The girls, I notice, are beginning
to have the same craze. I shouldn't wonder if Paula gets an idea that
she'll be a hospital-nurse, or go district-visiting in Bethnal Green.'

'I certainly should if I thought it would amuse me,' said Paula. 'But
why shouldn't Mr. Egremont do work of this kind? He's in earnest; he
doesn't only do it for fun.'

'Of course he's in earnest, and there's the absurdity of it. Social
reform, pooh! Why, who are the real social reformers? The men who don't
care a scrap for the people, but take up ideas because they can make
capital out of them. It isn't idealists who do the work of the world,
but the hard-headed, practical, selfish men. A big employer of labour
'll do more good in a day, just because he sees profit 'll come of it,
than all the mooning philanthropists in a hundred years. Nothing solid
has ever been gained in this world that wasn't pursued out of
self-interest. Look at Dalmaine. How much do you think he cares for the
factory-hands he's always talking about? But he'll do them many a good
turn; he'll make many a life easier; and just because it's his business
to do so, because it's the way of advancing himself. He aims at being
Home Secretary one of these days, and I shouldn't wonder if he is.
There's your real social reformer. Egremont's an amateur, a dilettante.
In many ways he's worth a hundred of Dalmaine, but Dalmaine will
benefit the world, and it's well if Egremont doesn't do harm.'

In all which it is not impossible that Mr. John Tyrrell hit the nail on
the head. Much satisfied with his little oration, he went off to don a
jacket and enjoy a cigar by his smoking-room fire.

A couple of days later, Mr. Dalmaine called at the house before
luncheon. After speaking with Mrs. Tyrrell, he had a private interview
with Paula. The event was referred to in a letter Paula addressed to
her cousin Annabel in the course of the ensuing week.


'Dear Bell,--We are much relieved by your letter. It is of course
impossible to stay among those mountains for the rest of the winter; I
hope uncle will very soon be well enough to come south. The plan of
living at Eastbourne for a time is no doubt a good one. You'll have
Mrs. Ormonde to talk to. She is very nice, though I've generally found
her a little serious: but then she's like you in that. I think it's a
pity people trouble themselves about things that only make them gloomy.

'I have a little piece of news for you. It really looks as if I was
going to be married. In fact, I've said I would be, and I think it
likely I shall keep my word. My name will be Mrs. Dalmaine. Don't you
remember Mr. Egremont speaking of Mr. Dalmaine and calling him names?
From that moment I made up my mind that he must be a very nice man, and
when we made his acquaintance I found that I wasn't so far wrong. You
see, poor Mr. Egremont so hates everything and everybody that's
practical. Now I'm practical, as you know, so it's right I should marry
a practical man. Papa has the highest opinion of Mr. Dalmaine's
abilities; he thinks he has a great future in politics. Wouldn't it be
delightful if one's husband really became Prime Minister or something
of the kind!

'Do you know, it really _is_ a pity that Mr. Egremont is going on in
this way! He's going to spend enormous sums of money in establishing a
library in Lambeth. It's very good of him, of course, but we are all so
sure it's a mistake. Shall I tell you _my own_ view? Mr. Egremont is an
idealist, and idealists are _not_ the people to do serious work of this
kind. The real social reformers are the hard-headed, practical men, who
at heart care only for their own advancement. If you think, I'm sure
you'll find this is true. You see that I am beginning to occupy myself
with serious questions. It will be necessary in the wife of an active
politician. But if you _could_ hint to Mr. Egremont that he is going
shockingly astray! He dined with us the other night, and doesn't look
at all well. I am so afraid lest he is doing all this just because you
tell him to. Is it so?

'But I have fifty other letters to write. My best love to uncle; tell
him to get well as quickly as possible. I wonder that dreadful lonely
place hasn't killed you both. I shall be so glad to see you again, for
I do really like you, Bell, and I know you are awfully wise and good.
Think of me sometimes and hope that I shall be happy.--Yours
affectionately,

'PAULA TYRRELL'




CHAPTER XII

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS


Egremont's face, it was true, showed that things were not altogether
well with him. It was not ill-health, but mental restlessness, which
expressed itself in the lines of his forehead and the diminished
brightness of his eyes. During the last two months of the year he had
felt a constant need of help, and help such as would alone stead him he
could not find.

It was no mere failing of purpose. He prepared his lectures as
thoroughly as ever, and delivered them with no less zeal than in the
first weeks; indeed, if anything, his energy grew, for, since his
nearer acquaintance with Gilbert Grail, the latter's face before him
was always an incentive. There was much to discourage him. More than
half his class fell from lukewarmness to patent indifference; they
would probably present themselves until the end of the course, but it
was little likely that they would recommence with him after Christmas.
He was obliged to recognise the utter absence of idealism from all save
Grail--unless Bunce might be credited with glimmerings of the true
light. Yet intellectually he held himself on firm ground. To have
discovered one man such as Grail was compensation for failure with many
others, and the project of the library was at all times a vista of
hope. But Egremont was not of those who can live on altruism. His life
of loneliness irked him, irked him as never yet. The dawn was a
recurrence of weariness; the long nights were cold and blank.

The old unrest, which he had believed at an end when once 'the task of
his life' was discovered, troubled him through many a cloud-enveloped
day. Had he been free, it would have driven him on new travels. Yet
that was no longer a real resource. He did not desire to see other
lands, but to make a home in his own. And no home was promised him. The
longer he kept apart from Annabel, the dimmer did the vision of her
become; he held it a sign that he himself was seldom if ever in her
mind. Did he still love her? Rather he would have said that there lay
in him great faculty of love, which Annabel, if she willed it, could at
a moment bring into life; she, he believed, in preference to any woman
he had known. It was not passion, and the consciousness that it was
not, often depressed him. One of his ideals was that of a passion
nurtured to be the crowning glory of life. He did not love Annabel in
that way; would that he could have done!

This purely personal distress could not but affect his work. A month
before the end of the year he came to the resolve to choose a new
subject for the succeeding course of lectures. Forgetting all the sound
arguments by which he had been led to prefer the simple teaching of a
straightforward subject to any more ambitious prophecy, he was now
impelled to think out a series of discourses on--well, on things in
general. He got hold of the title, 'Thoughts for the Present,' and the
temptation to make use of it proved too great. English literature did
not hold the average proletarian mind. It had served him to make an
acquaintance with a little group of men; now he must address them in a
bolder way, reveal to them his personality. Had he not always
contemplated such revelation in the end? Yes, when he found his class
fit for it. But he was growing impatient with this slow progress--if
indeed it could be called progress at all. He would strike a more
significant note.

Walter was in danger, as you very well understand. There is no need at
this time of day to remind ourselves of teachers who have fallen into
the fatal springe of apostolicism. Men would so fain be prophets, when
once they have a fellow mortal by the ear. Egremont could have exposed
this risk to you as well as any, yet he deliberately ignored it in his
own case--no great novelty that. 'Have I not something veritably to
say? Are not thoughts of and for the present surging in my mind?
Whereto have we language if not for the purpose of uttering the soul
within us?' So he fell to work on his introductory lecture, and for a
few days had peace--nay, lived in enthusiasm once more.

His week of absence at Christmas, of which we have heard, was spent
again in Jersey. To the roaring music of the Channel breakers he built
up his towers and battlements of prophecy. More, he wrote a poem, and
for a day wondered whether it might be well to read it to his audience
as preface. A friendly sprite whispered in his ear, and saved him from
too utter folly. The sprite had not yet forsaken him; woe to him if
ever it should! He wrapped the poem in a letter to Mr. Newthorpe, and
had a very pleasant reply, written, as he afterwards heard, only a day
or two before Mr. Newthorpe fell ill. Annabel sent her message; 'the
verses were noble, and pure as the sea-foam.'

On returning to town, he sent a note to Grail, asking him to come in
the evening to Great Russell Street or, if that were inconvenient, to
appoint a time for a meeting in Walnut Tree Walk. Gilbert accepted the
invitation, and came for the first time to Egremont's rooms.

Things were not ill with him, Gilbert Grail. You saw in the man's
visage that he had put off ten years of haggard life. His dark, deep
eyes spoke their meanings with the ardour of soul's joy; his cheeks
seemed to have filled out, his brows to have smoothed. It was joy of
the purest and manliest. His life had sailed like some battered,
dun-coloured vessel into a fair harbour of sunlight and blue, and hands
were busy giving to it a brave new aspect. He could scarce think of all
his happiness at once; the coming release from a hateful drudgery, and
the coming day which would put Thyrza's hand in his, would not go into
one perspective. Sometimes he would all but forget the one in thinking
of the other. Now let the early mornings be dark and chill as they
would, let the sky lower in its muddy gloom, let weariness of the flesh
do its worst--those two days were approaching. Why, was he not yet
young? What are five-and-thirty years behind one, when bliss
unutterable beckons forward? It should all be forgotten, that grimy
past poisoned through and through with the stench of candles. Books,
books, and time to use them, and a hearth about which love is
busy--what more can you offer son of man than these?

He had written his acceptance, had endeavoured to write his thanks. The
words were ineffectual.

Egremont received him in his study with gladness. This man had
impressed him powerfully, was winning an ever larger place in his
affection. He welcomed him as he would have done an old friend, for
whose coming he had looked with impatience.

'Do you smoke?' he asked.

No, Gilbert did not smoke. The money he formerly spent on this had long
been saved for the purchase of books. Egremont's after-dinner coffee
had to suffice to make cheer. It was a little time before Grail could
speak freely. He had suffered from nervousness in undertaking this
visit, and his relief at the simplicity of Egremont's rooms, by
allowing him to think of what he wished to say, caused him to seem
absent.

'I've already begun to jot down lists of obvious books,' Egremont said.
'I have a good general catalogue here, and I mean to go through it
carefully.'

Gilbert was at length able to speak his thought.

'I ought to have said far more than I did in my letter, Mr. Egremont. I
tried to thank you, but I felt I might as well have left it alone. I
don't know whether you have any idea what this change will mean to me.
It's more than saving my life, it's giving me a new one such as I never
dared to hope for.'

'I'm right glad to hear it!' Walter replied, with his kindest look. 'It
comes to make up to me for some little disappointment in other things.
I'm afraid the lectures have been of very slight use.'

'I don't think that. I don't think any of the class 'll forget them.
It's likely they'll have their best effect in a little time; the men
'll think back upon them. Now Bunce has got much out of them, I
believe.'

'Ah, Bunce! Yes, I hoped something from him. By-the-by, he is rather a
violent enemy of Christianity, I think?'

'I've heard so. I don't know him myself, except for meeting him at the
lectures. Yes, I've heard he's sometimes almost mad about religious
subjects.'

Egremont told the story about Bunce's child, which he had had from Mrs.
Ormonde. And this led him on to speak of his purpose in this new course
of lectures. After describing his plan:

'And that matter of religion is one I wish to speak of most earnestly.
I think I can put forward a few ideas which will help a man like Bunce.
He wants to be made to see the attitude of a man who retains no dogma,
and yet is far more a friend than an enemy of Christianity. I think
that lecture shall come first.'

He had not yet made ready his syllabus. As before, he meant to send it
to those whose names were upon his list. His first evening would be at
the beginning of February.

'I shall try with Ackroyd again,' he said. 'Perhaps the subject this
time will seem more attractive to him.'

Gilbert looked grave.

'I'm anxious about Ackroyd,' he replied. 'He's had private trouble
lately, and I begin to be afraid it's driving him into the wrong road.
He isn't one that can easily be persuaded. I wish you might succeed in
bringing him to the lectures.'

Egremont tried to speak hopefully, but in secret he felt that his power
over men was not that which draws them from the way of evil and turns
them to light. For that is needed more than love of the beautiful. For
a moment he mused in misgiving over his 'Thoughts for the Present.'

They began to talk of those details in the library scheme which
Egremont had left for subsequent discussion.

'As soon as the premises are in my hands,' he said, 'I shall have the
house thoroughly repaired. I should like you to see then if any
alteration can be made which would add to your comfort. As soon as the
place can be made ready, it will be yours to take possession of. That
should be certainly by the end of April. Shall you be free to leave
your present occupation then?'

'I can at any time. But I am glad to have a date fixed. I'm going to be
married then.'

It was said with a curious diffidence which brought a smile to the
hearer's face. Egremont was surprised at the intelligence, glad at the
same time.

'That is good news,' he said. 'Of course I had thought of you living
with your mother. This will be better still. Your future wife must, of
course, examine the house; no doubt she'll be a far better judge than
you of what needs doing. When you are back from your honeymoon we shall
go to work together on arranging books. That'll be a rare time! We
shall throw up our arms, like Dominie Sampson, and cry "Prodigious!"'

He grew mirthful, indulging the boyish humour which, as a reaction from
his accustomed lonely silence, came upon him when he had a sympathetic
companion. To Gilbert this was a new phase of Egremont's character; he,
sober in happiness, answered the young man's merriment with an
expressive smile.

Grail had merely mentioned the fact of his intended marriage. When he
was alone, Egremont wondered much within himself what kind of woman
such a man might have chosen to share his life. Had he contemplated
marriage for some time, and been prevented from it by stress of
circumstances? It was not easy to picture the suitable partner for
Grail. Clearly she must be another than the thriftless, shiftless
creature too common in working-class homes. Yet it was not likely that
he had met with any one who could share his inner life. Had he,
following the example of many a prudent man, chosen a good, quiet,
modest woman, whose first and last anxiety would be to keep his home in
order and see that he lacked no comfort within her province to bestow?
It was probable. She would no doubt be past youth; suppose her thirty.
She would have a face which pleased by its homely goodness; she would
speak in a gentle voice, waiting upon superior wisdom.

A few days before that appointed for the first lecture of this new
course, Egremont received a letter of which the address surprised him.
It bore the Penrith post-mark; the writing must be Annabel's. He had
very recently written to Mr. Newthorpe, who was not yet well enough to
attempt the journey southwards; this reply by another hand might
signify ill news. And that proved to be the case. Annabel wrote:


'Dear Mr. Egremont,--Father desires me to answer your very kind letter
of a week ago. He has delayed, hoping from day to day to be able to
write himself. I grieve to say that he is suffering more than at any
time in the last month. I am very anxious, full of trouble. Mrs.
Tyrrell wishes to come to me, and I am writing by this post to say that
I shall be very glad of her presence. Our doctors say there is
absolutely no ground for fear, and gladly I give them my faith; but it
tortures me to see my dear father so overcome with pain. The world
seems to me very dark, and life a dreadful penalty.

'We read with the greatest interest of what you are doing and hoping. I
cannot tell you how we rejoiced in the happiness of Mr. Grail. That is
a glorious thing that you have done. I trust his marriage may be a very
happy one. When we are at Eastbourne and father is well again, we must
come to see your library and no less your librarian. Do not be
discouraged if your lectures seem to fail of immediate results. Surely
good work will have fruit, and very likely in ways of which you will
never know.

'The Tyrrells will have constant news of father, and I am sure will
gladly send it on to you.--I am, dear Mr. Egremont, yours sincerely,

'ANNABEL NEWTHORPE.'


It was the first letter he had received from Annabel. For some days he
kept it close at hand, and looked over it frequently; then it was laid
away with care, not again to be read until the passing of years had
given it both a sadder and a dearer significance.




CHAPTER XIII

THYRZA SINGS AGAIN


Egremont had a fear that he might seem ungrateful to the man Bower. It
was Bower to whom he had gone for help when he first sought to gather
an audience, and on the whole the help had been effectual. Yet Bower
had not borne the test of nearer acquaintance; Egremont soon knew the
vulgarity of his nature, and had much difficulty in sustaining the show
of friendly intercourse with him. One evening in mid-February, he
called the portly man to speak with him after lecture, and, with what
geniality he could, explained to him the details of his library project
and told whom he had chosen for librarian. Bower professed himself
highly satisfied with everything, and, as usual, affected Egremont
disagreeably with his subservience. The latter was not surprised to
find that Grail had kept silence on the subject; but it was time now
for the arrangements to be made public.

From the lecture-room, Mr. Bower went to a club where he was wont to
relax himself of evenings; here he discussed the library question with
such acquaintances as were at hand. He reached home just after the
closing of the shop. Mary was gone to bed. Mrs. Bower had just finished
her supper, and was musing over the second half of her accustomed pint
of ale. Her husband threw himself into a chair, with an exclamation of
scornful disgust.

'What's wrong now?' asked Mrs. Bower.

'Well, I don't know what _you'll_ call it, but _I_ call it the
damnedest bit of sneaking behaviour as I ever knew! He's given the
librarianship to that fellow Grail. There's the 'ouse at the back for
him to live in, and rent free, no doubt; and there's a good lumping
salary, _that_ you may go bail. Now what do you think o' that job?'

'And him not as much as offerin' it to you!'

'Not so much as offerin' it! How many 'ud he have got to hear his
lectures without me, I'd like to know! I shouldn't have taken it; no,
of course I shouldn't; it wouldn't a' suited me to take a
librarianship. But it was his bounden duty to give me the first offer.
I never thought he'd make one of _us_ librarian; if it had been some
stranger, I shouldn't have made so much of it. But to give it to Grail
in that sneaking, underhanded way! Why, I'd be ashamed o' myself. I've
a rare good mind never to go near his lectures again.'

'You'd better go,' said Mrs. Bower, prudently. 'He might pay you out at
the works. It 'ud be a trick just like him, after this.'

'I'll think about it,' returned the other, with dignity, sitting
upright, and gathering his broad beard into his hand.

'Why, there now!' cried his wife, struck with a sudden thought. 'If
that doesn't explain something! Depend upon it--_depend_ upon
it--that's how Grail got Thyrza Trent to engage herself to him. He'll
a' known it for some time, Grail will a' done. He's a mean fellow, or
he'd never a' gone and set her against Mr. Ackroyd, as it's easy to see
he did. He'll a' told her about the 'ouse and the salary, of course he
will! If I didn't think there was something queer in that job!'

Mr. Bower saw at once how highly probable this was.

'And that is why they've put on such hairs, her an' Lydia,' Mrs. Bower
pursued. 'It's all very well for Mary to pretend as there's nothing
altered. It's my belief Mary's got to know more than she'll tell, and
Lydia's quarrelled with her about it. It's easy enough to see as they
_have_ fell out. Lydia ain't been to chapel since Christmas, an' you
know yourself it was just before Christmas as Egremont went to the
'ouse to see Mr. Grail. If she'd been a bit sharper, she'd never a'
told Mary that. I ain't surprised at Thyrza doin' of under-handed
things; I've never liked her over-much. But I thought better of Lydia.'

'I've not quarrelled with _them_,' said Mr. Bower, magnanimously. 'And
girls must look out for themselves, and do the best for themselves they
can. But that soft-spoken, sneaking Hegremont! You should a' seen him
when he had the cheek to tell me about it; you'd a' thought he was
going to give me a five-pound note.'

'Now, you'll see,' said Mrs. Bower, 'they'll take off old Boddy to live
with them.'

'So much the better. He can't earn his living much longer, and who was
to pay us for his lodging and keep, I'd like to know?'

Thus did the worthy pair link together conjectural cause and effect, on
principles which their habit of mind dictated.

On one point Mrs. Bower was right. Mary and Lydia had not come together
since the former's triumph over her friend. Lydia still visited the
shop to see Mr. Boddy, but generally at the times when Mary was away at
prayer-meetings.

There was no sign that she suffered at all, the good Lyddy; the trouble
of those days before Christmas was lost in the anticipation of the
great change that was soon to come upon her sister's life. To that she
had resolved to look forward cheerfully; the better she came to know
Gilbert, the warmer grew her affection for him. They were made to be
friends; in both were the same absolute honesty of character, the same
silent depths of tenderness, the same stern self-respect. Brother and
sister henceforth, with the bond of a common love which time, whether
it brought joy or sorrow, could but knit closer.

From the first there was, of course, an understanding that the marriage
should take place as soon as the house was ready for Gilbert's tenancy.
Thyrza went secretly and examined the dwelling from the outside, more
than once. That Lydia would come and live there went without saying.
She pretended to oppose this plan at first; said she must be
independent.

'Very well,' said Thyrza, crossing her hands on her lap, 'then I shan't
be married at all, Lyddy, and Mr. Grail had better be told at once.'

There was laughing, and there were kind words.

'I don't think you ought still to call him Mr. Grail,' said Lydia.

'Gilbert? I shall have to say it to myself for a few days. Still, it's
a nice name, isn't it?'

Yes, that point needed no discussion; where Thyrza abode, there abode
Lydia, until--but sadness lay that way. Mrs. Grail was equally clear as
to the arrangements concerning herself; she would keep two rooms and
continue to live in Walnut Tree Walk. Thyrza thought this would be
unkindness to the old lady, but Mrs. Grail had a store of wisdom and
was resolute. In practice, she said, she would not at all feel the
loneliness; she could often be at the house, and it had occurred to her
that her son in the Midlands would be glad to send one of his two girls
to live with her for, say, half a year at a time. Gilbert understood
the good sense of this disposition.

The weather continued doleful, until at length, in the last week of
February, there came a sudden change. A rioting east wind fell upon the
murky vapours of the lower sky, broke up the league of rain and
darkness, and through one spring-heralding day drove silver fleece over
deeps of clear, cold blue. The streets were swept of mire; eaves ceased
to distil their sooty rheum; even in the back-ways of Lambeth there was
a sunny gleam on windows and a clear ring in all the sounds of life.

It was Saturday. Between Egremont and Grail it had been decided that
the latter should to-day take Thyrza to inspect the house. Egremont had
gained the surly compliance of the caretaker--the most liberal
treatment made no difference in the strange old woman's moroseness--and
Grail, promising himself pleasure from Thyrza's surprise, said nothing
more than that he wished to see her at three in the afternoon.

The sisters did not come home together from their work, Lydia had an
engagement with Mrs. Isaacs, of whom we have heard, and went to snatch
a pretence of a dinner in a little shop to which she resorted when
there was need. Thyrza, leaving the work-room at half-past one, did not
take the direct way to Walnut Tree Walk; the sun and the keen air
filled her with a spirit of glad life, and a thought that it would be
nice to see how her future home looked under the bright sky came to her
temptingly. The distance was not great; she soon came to Brook Street
and, with some timidity, turned up the narrow passage, meaning to get a
glimpse of the house and run away again. But just as she reached the
entrance to the rear-yard, she found herself face to face with someone
whom she at once knew for the caretaker whom Gilbert had described to
her. The old woman's eye held her. She was half frightened, yet in a
moment found words.

'Please,' she said--it seemed to her the only way of explaining her
intrusion--'is there any one in the school now?'

The old woman examined her, coldly, searchingly.

'No, there ain't,' she replied. 'Is it you as is a-goin' to live here?'

This was something like witchcraft to Thyrza.

'Yes, I am,' fell from her lips.

'All right. You can go in and look about. I ain't get nothink to hide
away.'

Thyrza was in astonishment, and a little afraid. Yet she dearly wished
to see the interior of the house. The old woman turned, and she
followed her.

'There ain't no need for me to go draggin' about with you,' said the
caretaker, when they were within the door. 'I've plenty o' work o' my
own to see to.'

'May I look into the rooms, then?'

'Didn't I say as you could? What need o' so many words?'

Thyrza hesitated; but, the old creature having begun to beat a
door-mat, she resolved to go forward boldly. She peeped into all the
cheerless chambers, then returned to the door.

'Don't you want to see the school-rooms?' the old woman asked. 'Go
along that passage, and mind the step at the end.'

Thyrza was bolder now. The aspect of the house had not depressed her,
for she knew that it was to be thoroughly repaired and furnished, and
she was predisposed to like everything she saw. It would be her home,
hers and Lyddy's; the dignity of occupying a whole house would have
compensated for many little discomforts. Thanking the old woman for her
direction she went along the dark passage, and came into the large
school-room. And this was to be filled with books! She looked at the
maps and diagrams for a few moments; though it was so bright a day, the
place still kept much of its chill and gloom. Gilbert had told her of
the rooms up above, and she thought she might as well complete her
knowledge of the building by seeing them. At the first landing on the
staircase she came to a window by which the sun streamed in
brilliantly: the rays gladdened her. It was nice that the old woman had
remained behind; the sense of being quite alone, together with the
sudden radiance, affected her with a desire to utter her happiness, and
as she went on she sang in a sweet undertone, sang without words, pure
music of her heart.

In one of the two rooms above, Egremont happened to be taking certain
measurements. Impatient to get his plans completed in detail, he had
resolved to come for half an hour on this same day which had been
appointed for Grail's visit. Curious as he was to see the woman whom
Grail was about to marry--as yet he knew nothing more of her than her
casually learnt name--delicacy prevented him from using the opportunity
this afternoon would give; the two were to arrive at three o'clock, and
long before that time he would have finished his measuring and be gone.
And now he was making his last notes, when the sound of as sweet a
voice as he had ever heard made him pause and listen. The singer was
approaching; her voice grew a little louder, though still in the
undertone of one who sings but half consciously. He caught a light
footstep, then the door was pushed open.

His hand fell. Even such a face as this would he have desired for her
whose voice had such a charm. Her dress told him her position; the
greater was his wonder at the features, which seemed to him of
faultless delicacy--more than that, of beauty which appealed to him as
never beauty had yet. Thyrza stood in alarm; the murmur had died
instantly upon her lips, and for a moment she met his gaze with
directness. Then her eyes fell; her cheeks recovered with interest the
blood which they had lost. She turned to retreat.

But Egremont stepped rapidly forward, saying the first words that came
to him.

'Pray don't let me be in your way! I'm this moment going--this moment.'

From her singing, he concluded that she was accustomed to be here.
Thyrza again met his look. She guessed who this must be. The kindness
of his face as he stood before her caused her to speak the words she
was thinking:

'Are you Mr. Egremont, sir?'

Then she was shocked at her boldness; she did not see the smile with
which he replied:

'Yes, that is my name.'

'I am Miss Trent. Perhaps you have--perhaps Mr. Grail has told you--'

This, Miss Trent? This, Gilbert Grail's wife? His astonishment scarcely
allowed him to relieve her promptly.

'Oh then, we already know each other, by name at least. You have come
to look at the building. Mr. Grail is downstairs?'

'No, sir. I came in alone. I thought I should like to see--'

'Of course. You have been over the house?'

He wondered rather at her coming alone, but supposed that Grail was
withheld by some business.

'Yes, sir,' she answered.

'I'm afraid you think it doesn't look very promising. But I'm sure we
can do a great deal to improve it.'

'I think it's very nice,' Thyrza said, not at all out of politeness,
but because she did indeed think so.

'I will do my best to make it so, as soon as it is vacant. These two
rooms,' he added, loth to take leave at once, 'we shall use for
lectures. Have you been into the other one?'

He led the way, taking up his hat from the desk. Thyrza was overcoming
her timidity. All she had ever heard of Egremont prepared her to find
him full of gentleness and courtesy and good-humour; already she
thought that far too little had been said in his praise. His singular
smile occupied her imagination; she wished to keep her eyes on his
face, for the pleasure of following its changes. Indeed, like her own,
his features were very mobile, and the various emotions now stirring
within him animated his look. She kept at a little distance from him,
and listened with the keenest interest to all he said. When he paused,
after telling her the number of books he had decided to begin with, she
said:

'Mr. Grail does so look forward to it. I'm sure nothing could have made
him so happy.'

Egremont was pleased with a note of sincerity, of self forgetfulness in
these words. He replied:

'I am very glad. I know he'll be at home among books. Are you fond of
reading?'

'Yes, sir. Mr. Grail lends me books, and explains what I don't
understand.'

'No doubt you will find plenty of time.'

'Yes, sir. I shan't go to work then. But of course there'll be the
house to look after.'

Egremont glanced towards the windows and murmured an assent. Thyrza
moved a little nearer the door.

'I think I'll go, now I've seen everything.'

'I am going myself.'

She preceded him down the stairs. He watched her ungloved hand touch
place after place on the railing, watched her slightly bent head with
its long braid of gold and the knot of blue ribbon. At the turning to
the lower flight, he caught a glimpse of her profile, and felt that he
would not readily forget its perfectness. At the foot he asked:

'Do you wish to pass through the house? If not, this door is open.'

'I'll go this way, sir.'

She just raised her face.

'Good-bye, Miss Trent,' he said, offering his hand.

'Good-bye, sir.'

Then he opened the door for her. After standing for a few moments in
the vestibule, he went to speak a word to the caretaker.

Thyrza walked home, looking neither to right nor to left. There was a
little spot of colour on each cheek which would not melt away. Reaching
the room upstairs, she sat down without taking off her things. She
ought to have prepared her dinner, but did not think of it, and at
length she was startled by hearing a clock strike three.

She ran down to the Grails' room. Gilbert and his mother had just
finished their meal. The latter gossiped for a moment, then went out.

'I want you to go somewhere with me,' Gilbert said.

'Yes, I'm quite ready; but--'

'But--'

'I have something to tell you, Gilbert. I wonder whether you'll be
cross.'

'When was I cross last, Thyrza?'

'No, but I'm not sure whether I ought to have done something. As I was
coming home, I thought I'd walk past the house. When I got there, I
thought I'd just go up the passage and look. And that old woman met me,
and asked me if it was me that was going to live there. How did she
know?'

Gilbert laughed.

'That's more than I can tell.'

'But that isn't all. She said I might go in and look about if I liked.
And I thought I would--did I do wrong?'

She saw a shade of disappointment on his face. But he said:

'Not at all. Did you go over all the rooms?'

'Yes. But there's something else. I went into those school-rooms
upstairs, never thinking there was any one there, because the old woman
told me there wasn't. But there _was_--and it was Mr. Egremont.'

'Really? Did he knew who you were?'

'I told him, Gilbert.'

He laughed again, and there was a look of pride in his eyes.

'Well, there's nothing very dreadful yet. And did he speak nicely?'

'Yes, very nicely. And when I went away, he shook hands.'

'It's a very queer thing that you happened to go just today. That's
exactly where I meant to take you this afternoon. I'm rather
disappointed.'

'I'm very sorry. But couldn't I go with you again? We shall be alone
this time: Mr. Egremont said he was just going.'

'It won't tire you?'

'Oh, but I should like to go! I made up my mind which'll be Lyddy's
room. I wonder whether you'll guess the same.'

'Come along, then!'




CHAPTER XIV

MISTS


Paula Tyrrell was married at Easter. Convenience dictated this
speed--in other words, Paula resolved to commence the season as Mrs.
Dalmaine and in a house of her own. Mr. Dalmaine had pointed out the
advantage of using the Easter recess. As there was scarcely time to
select and make ready an abode for permanence, it was decided to take a
house in Kensington, which friends of the Tyrrells desired to let for
the year.

Annabel was not present at the wedding. It was the second week in March
before Mr. Newthorpe felt able to leave Ullswater, and Annabel had
little mind to leave him for such a purpose immediately after their
establishment at Eastbourne. Indeed, she would rather not have attended
the wedding under any circumstances.

Her father had been gravely ill. There was organic disease, and there
was what is vaguely called nervous breakdown; it was too clear that Mr.
Newthorpe must count upon very moderate activity either of mind or body
henceforth. He himself was not quite unprepared for this collapse; he
accepted it with genial pessimism. Fate had said that his life was to
result in nothing--nothing, that is, from the point of view of his
early aspirations. Yet there was Annabel, and in her the memory of his
life's passion. As he lay in silence through the days when spring
combated with winter, he learned acquiescence; after all, he was among
the happier of men, for he could look back upon a few days of great
joy, and forward without ignoble anxiety.

He felt that the abandonment of Ullswater was final, yet would not say
so to Annabel. Mrs. Ormonde had made ready a house at a short distance
from her own, and here the two would live at all events into the
summer; beyond that, all must hinge on circumstances. They broke the
journey for a couple of days in London, staying with their relatives.
During those days Paula behaved very prettily. A certain affection had
grown up between her and her uncle whilst she was at Ullswater, and the
meeting under these dolefully changed conditions touched her best
feelings. Yet with her cousin she was reserved; her behaviour did not
bear out the evidence of latent tenderness and admiration contained in
that letter of hers which we saw. Annabel had looked for something
more. Just now she was longing for affection and sympathy, and Paula
was the only girl friend she had. But Paula would only speak of Mr.
Dalmaine and, absurdest thing, of politics. Annabel retired into
herself. She was glad to reach at length the quiet house by the sea,
glad to be near Mrs. Ormonde.

The circumstances of Annabel's early life had worked happily with her
inherited disposition. Her father, had he been free to choose, would
have planned her training differently, but in all likelihood with less
advantage than she derived from the compromise between her parents.
Though at the time of her mother's death she still waited for formal
recognition as a member of Society, being but sixteen, she was of riper
growth than the majority of young ladies who in that season were being
led forth for review and to perfect themselves in arts of civilisation.
From her mother she had learnt, directly or indirectly, much of that
little world which deems the greater world its satellite; from her
father she received love of knowledge and reverence for the nobler
modes of life. She was marked by a happy balance of character; all that
came to her from without she seemed naturally to assimilate in due
proportions; her tastes were those of an imaginative temper, tending to
joyousness but susceptible of grave impressions. She relished books,
yet never allowed them to hold her from bodily exercise; she knew the
happiness of solitude, yet could render welcomest companionship; at one
time she conversed earnestly with those older and wiser than herself,
at another she was the willing playmate of laughing girls. She was
loved by those who could by no possibility have loved one another, and
in turn she seemed to discover with sure insight what there was of
strength and beauty in the most diverse characters. With this breadth
of sympathy she developed a self-consciousness of the kind to which
most women never attain; habitually studying herself, and making
comparison of herself with others, she cultivated her understanding and
her emotions simultaneously.

Her time of serious study only began when she exchanged London for the
mountain solitude. Henceforth her father's influence exerted itself
freely, and Annabel had just reached the age for profiting most by it.
Her bringing up between a brilliant drawing-room and a well-stocked
library had preserved her from the two dangers to which English girls
of the free-born class are mainly exposed: she escaped Puritanism, yet
was equally withheld from frivolous worldliness. But it was well that
this balance, admirably maintained thus far, should not be submitted to
the risks of such a life as awaited her, if there had come no change of
conditions. She would be a beautiful woman, and was not unaware of it;
her social instincts, which Society would straightway do its best to
abuse, might outweigh her spiritual tendencies. But a year of life by
Ullswater consolidated her womanhood. She bent herself to books with
eagerness. The shock of sorrow compelled her to muse on problems which
as yet she had either not realised, or had solved in the light of
tradition, childwise. Her mind was ripe for those modern processes of
thought which hitherto had only been implicit in her education.

To her father Annabel's companionship was invaluable. She repaid richly
out of the abundance of her youthful life that anxious guidance which
he gave to her thoughts. Her loving tact sweetened for him many an hour
which would else have been spent in profitless brooding: when the signs
of which she had become aware warned her that he needed to be drawn
from himself, she was always ready with her bright converse, her
priceless sympathy. Without her he would seldom have exerted himself to
wander far from the house, but Annabel could at any time lead him over
hill and valley by pretending that she had need of a holiday. Their
communion was of a kind not frequently existing between father and
daughter; fellowship in Study made them mental comrades, and respect
for each other's intellectual powers was added to their natural love.
What did they not discuss? From classical archaeology to the fire-new
theories of the day in art and science, something of all passed at one
time or another under their scrutiny.

Yet there was the limit imposed by fine feeling. Mr. Newthorpe never
tried to pass the sacred bound which parts a father's province from
that of a mother. There was much in the girl's heart that he would
gladly have read, yet could not until she should of herself reveal it
to him. For instance, they did not very often speak of Egremont. When a
letter arrived from him, Mr. Newthorpe always gave it to Annabel to
read; at other times that was a subject on which he spoke only when she
introduced it. After Walter's departure there had been one conversation
between them in which Annabel told what had come to pass; she went so
far as to speak of a certain trouble she had on Paula's account.

'I think you must use your philosophy with regard to Paula,' her father
replied. 'Of course I know nothing of the circumstances, but,' he
smiled not unkindly, 'the child I think I know pretty well. Don't be
troubled. I have confidence in Egremont.'

'I have the same feeling in truth, father,' Annabel said, 'and--I feel
nothing more than that.'

'Then let it rest, dear. I certainly have no desire to lose you.'

So much between them. Thereafter, both spoke of Egremont, when at all,
in an unconstrained way. Annabel showed frank interest in all that
concerned him, but, as far as Mr. Newthorpe could discern, nothing more
than the interest of friendliness. As the months went on, he discerned
no change. Her life was as cheerful and as steadily industrious as
ever; nothing betrayed unsettlement of the thought. If her father by
chance entered the room where she studied, he found her bent over
books, her face beautiful in calm zeal.

The first grave symptoms of illness in her father opened a new chapter
of Annabel's life. It was time to lay aside books for a little; the
fated scheme of her existence required at this point new experiences.
The student's habit does not readily reconcile itself to demands for
practical energy and endurance, and when the first strain of
fear-stricken love was relaxed, Annabel fell for a few days into
grievous weakness of despondency; summoned from her study to all the
miseries of a sick-room, it was mere nervous force that failed her.
When her father had his relapse, she was able to face the demand upon
her more sternly. But the trial through which she was passing was a
severe one. With the invalid she could keep a bright face, and make her
presence, as ever, a blessing to him. Alone, she cared no longer for
her books, nor for the beauty that was about her home. You remember
that passage in her letter to Egremont: 'The world seems to me very
dark, and life a dreadful penalty.' She could have uttered much on that
text to one from whom she had had no secret.

One day, when Mr. Newthorpe was again recovering strength, there came a
letter from Mrs. Tyrrell which announced the date of Paula's marriage.
Annabel received the letter to read. As she was sitting with her father
a little later, he said, with a return of his humorous mood:

'I wonder on what footing Egremont will be in the new household?'

'I suppose,' Annabel replied, 'his acquaintance with Mr. Dalmaine will
continue to be of the slightest.'

He paused a little, then, quietly:

'I am glad of this marriage.'

Annabel said nothing.

'It proves,' he continued, 'that we did well in not thinking too
gravely of a certain incident.'

Annabel led the conversation away. She had singular thoughts on this
subject. Paula's letter, first announcing the engagement, made mention
of Egremont in a curious way; and it was at least a strange hap that
Paula should be about to marry the man against whom Egremont had
expressed such an antipathy.

Her father said no more, but Annabel had a new care for her dark mood
to feed upon. She felt that the words 'I am glad of this marriage'
concerned herself. They meant that her father was glad of the removal
of what was perchance one barrier between Egremont and herself. And in
these long weeks in which she was anguished by the spectacle of
suffering, it had become her first desire to be of comfort to the
sufferer. Her ideal of a placid life was shattered; the things which
availed her formerly now seemed weak to rely upon. In so dark a world,
what guidance was there save by the hand of love?

With Egremont she was in full intellectual sympathy, and the thought of
becoming his wife had no painful associations; but could she bring
herself to abandon that ideal of love which had developed with her own
development? Must she relinquish the hope of a great passion, and take
the hand of a man whom she merely liked and respected? It was a
question she must decide, for Walter, when they again met, might again
seek to win her. The idealism which she derived from her father would
not allow her yet to regard life as a compromise, which women are so
skilled in doing practically, though the better part in them to the end
revolts. Yet who was she, that life should bestow its highest blessing
upon her?

When at the Tyrrells' house in London, she feared lest Egremont should
come. Mrs. Tyrrell spoke much of him the first evening, lamenting that
he had so withdrawn himself from his friends. But he did not come.

At Eastbourne, Mr. Newthorpe's health began to improve. Even in a week
the change was very marked. He seemed to have taken a resolve to
restore the old order of things by force of will. Doubtless his
conversations with Mrs. Ormonde about Annabel were an incentive to
effort; relieved from the weight of suffering, he could see that the
girl was not herself. On Paula's marriage day, he said, in the course
of conversation with Annabel:

'Your aunt desires very much to have you with her for a part of the
season. What do you think of it? Would you care to go up in May?'

Annabel did not at once reject the idea.

'It is my opinion that you need some such change,' her father
continued. 'The last quarter of a year has done you harm. In a month I
hope to be sound enough.'

'I will think of it,' she said. And there the subject rested.

The town was secretly attracting her. The odour of the Tyrrells' house
had exercised a certain seduction. Though she saw but one or two old
acquaintances there, the dining-room, the drawing-room, brought the
past vividly back to her. She was not so wholly alien to her mother's
blood that the stage-life of the world was without appeal to her, and
circumstances were favourable to a revival of that element in her
character which I touched upon when speaking of her growth out of
childhood. It is a common piece of observation that studious gravity in
youth is succeeded by a desire for action and enjoyment. Annabel's
disposition to study did not return, though quietness was once more
restored to her surroundings. And thus, though the settlement at
Eastbourne seemed a relief, she soon found that it did not effect all
she hoped. Her father began to take up his books again, though in a
desultory, half-hearted way. Annabel could not do even that. A portion
of each day she spent with Mrs. Ormonde; often she walked by herself on
the shore; a book was seldom in her hand.

Two or three days before the end of March, Mr. Newthorpe spoke of
Egremont.

'I should like to see him. May I ask him to come and spend a day with
us, Annabel?'

'Do by all means, father,' she answered. 'Mrs. Ormonde heard from him
yesterday. He came into possession of his library-building the other
day.'

'I will write, then.'

This was Monday; on Wednesday morning Egremont came. The nine months or
so which had passed since these three met had made an appreciable
change in all of them. When Egremont entered the room where father and
daughter were expecting him, he was first of all shocked at the wasting
and ageing of Mr. Newthorpe's face, then surprised at the difference he
found in Annabel--this, too, of a kind that troubled him. He thought
her less beautiful than she had been. With no picture of her to aid
him, he had for long periods been unable to make her face really
present to his mind's eye--one of the sources of his painful debates
with himself. When it came, as faces do, at unanticipated moments, he
saw her as she looked in walking back with him from the lake-side, when
she declared that the taste of the rain was sweet. Is it not the best
of life, that involuntary flash of memory upon instants of the eager
past? Better than present joy, in which there is ever a core of
disappointment; better, far better, than hope, which cannot warm
without burning. Annabel was surpassingly beautiful as he knew her in
that brief vision. Beautiful she still was, but it was as if a new type
of loveliness had come between her and his admiration; he could regard
her without emotion. The journey from London had been one incessant
anticipation, tormented with doubt. Would her presence conquer him
royally, assure her dominion, convert his intellectual fealty to
passionate desire? He regarded her without emotion.

Yet Annabel was not so calm as she wished to be. Only by force of will
could she exchange greetings without evidence of more than friendly
pleasure. This irritated her, for up to an hour ago she had said that
his coming would in no way disturb her. When, after an hour's talk, she
left her father and the guest together, and went up to her room, the
first feeling she acknowledged to herself was one of disappointment.
Egremont had changed, and not, she thought, for the better. He had lost
something--perchance that freshness of purpose which had become him so
well. He seemed to talk of his undertakings less spontaneously, and in
a tone--she could not quite say what it was, but his tone perhaps
suggested the least little lack of sincerity. And her agitation when he
entered the room? It had meant nothing, nothing. Her nerves were weak,
that was all.

She wished she could shed tears. There was no cause for it, surely
none, save a physical need. Such a feeling was very strange to her.

They had luncheon; then, as his custom was, Mr. Newthorpe went apart to
rest for a couple of hours. Mrs. Ormonde was coming to dine; the hour
of the meal would be early, to allow of Egremont's return to town. In
the meantime the latter obtained Annabel's consent to a walk. They took
the road ascending to Beachy Head.

'You still have opportunity of climbing,' Egremont said.

'On a modest scale. But I am not regretting the mountains. The sea, I
think, is more to me at present.'

They were not quite at ease together. Conversation turned about small
things, and was frequently broken. The day was not very bright, and
mist spoiled the view landwards. The sea was at ebb, and sluggish.

Annabel of her own accord reverted to Lambeth.

'You must have had many pleasures arising from your work,' she said,
'but one above all I envy you. I mean that of helping poor Mr. Grail so
well.'

'Yes, that is a real happiness,' he answered, thoughtfully. 'The idea
of making him librarian came to me almost at the same moment as that of
establishing the library. I didn't know then all that it would mean to
him. I was fortunate in meeting that man, one out of thousands.'

'He must be deeply grateful to you.'

'We are good friends. I respect him more than I can tell you. I don't
think you could find a man, in whatever position, of more sterling
character. His love of knowledge touches me as something ideal. It is
monstrous to think that he might have spent all his life in that candle
factory.'

Annabel reflected for a moment. Then a look of pleasure fighted her
face, and she spoke with a revival of the animation which had used to
appeal so strongly to his sympathies.

'See what one can do! You become a sort of providence to a man. Indeed,
you change his fate; you give him a new commencement of life. What a
strange thought that is? Do you feel it as I do?'

'Quite, I think. And can you understand that it has sometimes shamed
me? Just because I happen to have money I can do this! Isn't it a poor
sordid world? Not one man, but perhaps a hundred, could be raised into
a new existence by what in my hands is mere superfluity of means.
Doesn't such a thought make life a great foolish game? Suppose me
saying, 'Here is a thousand pounds; shall I buy a yacht to play with,
or--shall I lift a living man's soul out of darkness into light?'

He broke off and laughed bitterly. Annabel glanced at him. She noticed
that thoughts of this cast were now frequent in his mind, though
formerly they had been strange to him. He used to face problems with
simple directness, in the positive spirit or with an idealist's
enthusiasm; now he leaned to scepticism, though it was his endeavour to
conceal the tendency. She was struck with the likeness of this change
in him to that which she herself was suffering; yet it did not touch
her sympathies, and she was anxious forthwith to avoid coincidence with
him.

'You yourself offer the answer to that,' she replied. 'The very fact
that you have exerted such power, never mind by what means, puts you in
a relation to that man which is anything but idle or foolish. Isn't it
rather a great and moving thing that one can be a source of such vast
blessing to another? Money is only the accident. It is the kindness,
the human feeling, that has to be considered. You show what the world
might be, if all men were human. If I could do one act like that, Mr.
Egremont, I should cry with gratitude!'

He looked at her, and found the Annabel of his memory. With the
exception of Mrs. Ormonde, he knew no woman who spoke thus from heart
and intellect at once. The fervour of his admiration was rekindled.

'It is to you one should come for strength,' he said, 'when the world
weighs too heavily.'

Annabel was sober again.

'Do you often go and see him at his house?' she asked, speaking of
Grail.

'I am going on Friday night. I have not been since that one occasion
which I mentioned in a letter to Mr. Newthorpe. I had to write to him
yesterday about the repair of the house he is going to live in, and in
his reply this morning he asked me to come for an hour's talk.'

'You were curious, father told me, about the wife he had chosen. Have
you seen her yet?'

'Yes. She is quite a young girl.'

He was looking at a far-off sail, and as he replied his eyes kept the
same direction. Annabel asked no further question. Egremont laughed
before he spoke again.

'How absurdly one conjectures about unknown people I suppose it was
natural to think of Grail marrying someone not quite young and very
grave.'

'But I hope she is grave enough to be his fitting companion?'

He opened his lips, but altered the words he was about to speak.

'I only saw her for a few minutes--a chance meeting. She impressed me
favourably.'

They walked in a leisurely way for about half an hour, then turned,
Mists were creeping westward over Pevensey, and the afternoon air was
growing chill. There was no sound from the sea, which was divided
lengthwise into two tracts of different hue, that near the land a pale
green, that which spread to the horizon a cold grey.

Nothing passed between them which could recall their last day together,
nothing beyond that one exclamation of Egremont's, which Annabel hardly
appeared to notice. Neither desired to prolong the conversation. Yet
neither had ever more desired heart-sympathy than now.

Annabel said to herself: 'It is over.' She was spared anxious
self-searching. The currents of their lives were slowly but surely
carrying them apart from each other. When she came into the
drawing-room to offer tea, her face was brighter, as if she had
experienced some relief.

Mrs. Ormonde had not seen Egremont for some six weeks. The tone of the
one or two letters she had received from him did not reassure her
against misgivings excited at his latest visit. To her he wrote far
more truly than to Mr. Newthorpe, and she knew, what the others did
not, that he was anything but satisfied with the course he had taken
since Christmas in his lecturing. 'After Easter,' was her advice,
'return to your plain instruction. It is more fruitful of profit both
to your hearers and to yourself.' But Egremont had begun to doubt
whether after Easter he should lecture at all.

'Mr. Bunce's little girl is coming to me again,' she said, in the talk
before dinner. 'You know the poor little thing has been in hospital for
three weeks?'

'I haven't heard of it,' Egremont replied. 'I'm sorry that I haven't
really come to know Bunce. I had a short talk with him a month ago, and
he told me then that his children were well. But he is so reticent that
I have feared to try further, to get his confidence.'

'Why, Bunce is the aggressive atheist, isn't he?' said Mr. Newthorpe.

Mrs. Ormonde smiled and nodded.

'I fear he is a man of misfortunes,' she said. 'My friend at the
hospital tells me that his wife was small comfort to him whilst she
lived. She left him three young children to look after, and the eldest
of them--she is about nine--is always ill. There seems to be no one to
tend them whilst their father is at work.'

'Who will bring the child here?' Egremont asked.

'She came by herself last time. But I hear she is still very weak;
perhaps someone will have to be sent from the hospital.'

During dinner, the library was discussed. Egremont reported that
workmen were already busy in the school-rooms and in Grail's house.

'I'm in correspondence,' he said, 'with a man I knew some years ago, a
scientific fellow, who has heard somehow of my undertakings, and wrote
asking if he might help by means of natural science. Perhaps it might
be well to begin a course of that kind in one of the rooms. It would
appeal far more to the Lambeth men than what I am able to offer.'

This project passed under review, then Egremont himself led the talk to
widely different things, and thereafter resisted any tendency it showed
to return upon his special affairs. Annabel was rather silent.

An hour after dinner, Egremont had to depart to catch his train. He
took leave of his friends very quietly.

'We shall come and see the library as soon as it is open,' said Mr.
Newthorpe.

Egremont smiled merely.

Mr. Newthorpe remarked that Egremont seemed disappointed with the
results of his work.

'I should uncommonly like to hear one of these new lectures,' he said.
'I expect there's plenty of sound matter in them. My fear is lest they
are over the heads of his audience.'

'I fear,' said Mrs. Ormonde, 'it is waste both of his time and that of
the men. But the library will cheer him; there is something solid, at
all events.'

'Yes, that can scarcely fail of results.'

'I think most of Mr. Grail,' put in Annabel.

'A true woman,' said Mrs. Ormonde, with a smile. 'Certainly, let the
individual come before the crowd.'

And all agreed that in Gilbert Grail was the best result hitherto of
Egremont's work.




CHAPTER XV

A SECOND VISIT TO WALNUT TREE WALK


The man of reserve betrays happiness by disposition for companionship.
Surprised that the world all at once looks so bright to his own eyes,
he desires to learn how others view it. The unhappy man is intensely
subjective; his own impressions are so inburnt that those of others
seem to him unimportant--nay, impertinent. And what is so bitter as the
spectacle of alien joy when one's own heart is waste!

Gilbert Grail was no longer the silent and lonely man that he had been.
The one with whom he had formed something like a friendship had gone
apart; in the nature of things Ackroyd and he could never again
associate as formerly, though when need was they spoke without show of
estrangement; but others whom he had been wont to hold at a distance by
his irresponsiveness were now of interest to him, and, after the first
surprise at the change in him, they met his quiet advances in a
friendly way. Among his acquaintances there were, of course, few fitted
to be in any sense his associates. Two, however, he induced to attend
Egremont's lectures, thus raising the number of the audience to eight.
These recruits were not enthusiastic over 'Thoughts for the Present;'
one of them persevered to the end of the course, the other made an
excuse for absenting himself after two evenings.

Gilbert held seriously in mind the pledge he had given to Egremont to
work for the spread of humane principles. One of those with whom he
often spoke of these matters was Bunce--himself a man made hard to
approach by rude experiences. Bunce was a locksmith; some twelve years
ago he had had a little workshop of his own, but a disastrous marriage
brought him back to the position of a journeyman, and at present he was
as often out of work as not. Happily his wife was dead; he found it a
hard task to keep his three children. The truth was that his domestic
miseries had, when at their height, driven him to the public-house, and
only by dint of struggles which no soul save his own was aware of was
he gradually recovering self-confidence and the trust of employers. His
attendance at Egremont's lectures was part of the cure. Though it was
often hard to go out at night and leave his little ones, he did so that
his resolve might not suffer. He and they lived in one room, in the
same house which sheltered Miss Totty Nancarrow.

On the evening which Egremont spent at Eastbourne, Grail came across
Bunce on the way home from the factory. They resumed a discussion
interrupted a day or two before, and, as they passed the end of Newport
Street, Bunce asked his companion to enter for the purpose of looking
at a certain paper in which he had found what seemed to him cogent
arguments. They went up the dark musty staircase, and entered the room
opposite to Totty's.

'Hollo!' Bunce cried, finding no light. 'What's up? Nellie! Jack!'

It was usual, since the eldest child was at the hospital, for the
landlady to come and light a lamp for the two little ones when it grew
dusk. Bunce had an exaggerated fear of giving trouble, and only sheer
necessity had compelled him to request this small service.

'They'll be downstairs, I suppose,' he muttered, striking a match.

The hungry room had no occupants. On the floor lay a skeleton doll, a
toy tambourine, a whipping-top, and a wried tin whistle. There was one
bedstead, and a bed made up on a mattress laid on the floor. On a round
clothless table stood two plates, one with a piece of bread and butter
remaining, and two cups and saucers. The fire had died out.

A shrill voice was calling from below stairs.

'Mr. Bunce! Mr. Bunce! Your children is gone out with Miss Nancarrow as
far as the butcher's. They won't be more than five minutes, I was to
say, if you came in.'

'Thank you, Mrs. Ladds,' Bunce replied briefly.

He came in and closed the door.

'That's a new thing,' he said, as if doubtful whether to be satisfied
or not. 'I hope she won't begin taking 'em about. Still, she isn't a
bad lot, that girl. Do you know anything of her?'

'Why, yes. I've heard of her often from Miss Trent. Isn't she a good
deal with Ackroyd?'

'Can't say. She's not a bad lot. She's going to take my Bessie down to
Eastbourne at the end of the week.'

'But why don't you go yourself? It would do you good.'

Bunce shrugged his shoulders.

'No, I can't go myself. Just for the child's sake, I have to put up
with that kind of thing, but I don't like it. It's charity, after all,
and I couldn't face those people at the home.'

'What home is it?' Grail asked. He knew, but out of delicacy wished the
explanation to come from Bunce.

'I don't know as it has any name. It seems to be in connection with the
Children's Hospital. The matron, or whatever you call her, is a Mrs.
Ormonde.'

'Oh, I know about her!' Gilbert exclaimed. 'She's a friend of Mr.
Egremont's. He's spoken of her once or twice to me. You needn't be
afraid of meeting _her_. She's a lady who has given up her own house
for this purpose: as good a woman, I believe, as lives.'

'Well,' said Bunce, doggedly, 'I'm thankful to her, but I can't face
her. What's this, I'd like to know?'

His eye caught something that looked like a small pamphlet lying near
the fireplace. He stooped to pick it up.

'If they're beginning to throw my papers about--'

The sudden silence caused Gilbert to look at him. Bunce was not a
well-favoured man, but ordinarily a rugged honesty helped the
misfortunes of his features, a sort of good-humour, too, which seemed
unable to find free play. But of a sudden his face had become
ferocious, startling in its exasperated surprise, its savage wrath. His
eyes glared blood-shot, his teeth were uncovered, his jaws protruded as
if in an animal impulse to rend.

'How's this got here?' he almost roared. 'Who brings things o' this
kind into my room? Who's put this into my children's hands?'

'What on earth is it?' Gilbert asked in amazement.

'What is it? Look at that! Look at that, I say! If this is the
landlady's work, I'll find a new room this very night!'

Gilbert tried to take the paper, but Bunce's hand, which trembled
violently, held it with such a grip that there was no getting
possession of it. With difficulty Grail perceived that it was a
religious tract.

'Why, there's no great harm done,' he said. 'The children can't read,
can they?'

'Jack can! The boy can! I'm teaching him myself.'

He raved. The sight of that propagandist document affected him, to use
the old simile, as scarlet does a bull. Gilbert knew the man's
prejudices, but, in his own more cultured mind, could not have
conceived such frenzy of hatred as this piece of Christian doctrine
excited in Bunce. For five minutes the poor fellow was possessed; sweat
covered his face; he was shaken as if by bodily anguish. He read scraps
aloud, commenting on them with scornful violence. Last of all he flung
the paper to the ground and trampled it into shreds. Gilbert had at
first difficulty in refraining from laughter; then he sat down and
waited with some impatience for the storm to spend itself.

'Come, come, Bunce,' he said, when he could make himself heard,
'remember Mr. Egremont's lecture on those things. I think pretty much
as you do about Christianity--about the dogmas, that is; but we've no
need to fear it in this way. Let's take what good there is in it, and
have nothing to do with the foolish parts.'

Bunce seated himself, exhausted. Not a few among the intelligent
artisans of our time are filled with that spirit of hatred against all
things Christian; in him it had become a mania. Egremont's eirenicon
had been a hard saying to him; he had tried to think it over, because
of his respect for the teacher, but as yet it had resulted in no
sobering. His mind was not sufficiently prepared for lessons of wisdom;
had Egremont witnessed this scene, he might well have groaned in spirit
over the ineffectualness of his prophesying.

Gilbert spoke with earnestness. To him his friend's teaching had come
as true and refreshing, and he could not lose such an opportunity as
this of pushing on the work. He insisted on the beauty there was in the
Christian legend, on its profound spiritual significance, on the
poverty of all religious schemes which man had devised to replace it.

'We want no religion!' cried Bunce angrily. 'It's been the curse of the
world. Look at the Inquisition! Look at the religious wars! Look at the
Jesuits!'

He was primed with such historic instances out of books and pamphlets
spread broadcast by the contemporary apostles of 'free thought.' Of
history proper he of course knew nothing, but these splinters of
quasi-historic evidence had run deep into his flesh. Despise him, if
you like, but try to understand him. It was his very humaneness which
brought him to this pass; recitals of old savagery had poisoned his
blood, and the 'spirit of the age' churned his crude acquisitions into
a witch's cauldron. Academic sweetness and light was a feeble antidote
to offer him.

Gilbert soothed his companion for the time. He knew where to stop, and
promised himself to find a fitter season for pursuing the same subject.
Just as he had reverted to the topic of conversation which brought him
here, there came a knock at the door.

'Come in!' growled Bunce.

Totty Nancarrow appeared. One of her hands led a little fellow of
seven, a bright lad, munching a 'treacle-stick;' the other, a little
girl a year younger, who exclaimed as she entered:

'Been a walk with Miss Nanco!'

'We've been to the butcher's with Miss Nancarrow, father,' declared the
boy, consciously improving on his sister's report.

Totty had drawn back a step at the sight of Grail. He and she knew each
other by sight, but had not yet exchanged words.

'I found them in the dark, Mr. Bunce,' she said, half laughing. 'Mrs.
Ladds was out, and couldn't get back in time to light the lamp for
them. I hope you don't mind. I thought a little bit of a walk 'ud do
them good.'

Bunce always softened at the sight of his little ones.

'I'm much obliged to you, Miss Nancarrow,' he said.

'Miss Nanco bought me sweets,' remarked little Nelly, when her father
had drawn her between his knees. And she exhibited a half-sucked
lollipop. Her brother hid away his own delicacy, feeling all at once
that it compromised his masculine superiority.

'Then I'm very angry with Miss Nanco,' replied Bunce. 'I hope she'll
never do anything o' the kind again.'

Totty laughed and drew back into the passage. Thence she said:

'Could I speak to you a minute, Mr. Bunce?'

He went out to her, and half closed the door behind him. Totty led him
a step or two down the stairs, then whispered:

'I'm so sorry, Mr. Bunce, but I find I can't very well go on Saturday.
But I've just seen Miss Trent, the one that's going to marry Mr. Grail,
you know; and she says she'd be only too glad to go, that is if Mr.
Grail 'll let her, and she's quite sure he will. Would you ask Mr.
Grail? Thyrza--that's Miss Trent, I mean--was so anxious; she's never
been to the seaside. Will you just ask him?'

'Oh yes, I will.'

'I'm sorry I've had to draw back, Mr. Bunce, after offering--'

'It don't matter a bit, Miss Nancarrow. Miss Trent 'll do just as well,
if she really don't mind the trouble.'

'Trouble! Why, she'd give anything to go! Please get Mr. Grail to let
her.'

Bunce returned to his room and closed the door. Gilbert had taken Nelly
on his knee, and was satisfying her by tasting the remnant of lollipop.

'I say, Jack!' cried the father, his eye again catching sight of the
bruised tract on the floor. 'Who brought that here?'

'I did, father,' answered the youngster stoutly, though he saw
displeasure in his father's face.

'Where did you get it, eh?' was asked sharply.

'A lady gave it me at the door.'

'Then I'd thank ladies to mind their own business. And you never take
anything else at the door; do you understand that, Jack?'

'Yes, father.'

Bunce turned to Gilbert, who was waiting to depart.

'Miss Nancarrow tells me she can't go to Eastbourne on Saturday. But
she says Miss Trent's very anxious to go instead of her. What do you
think of it?'

Grail reflected. The plan pleased him on the whole, though he had just
a doubt whether Thyrza ought to travel by herself.

'I see no reason why she shouldn't,' he said. 'It'll be a pleasure to
her, and I shall be glad to have her do you the kindness.'

'Then could I see her before Saturday?'

'Come in to-morrow night, will you?'

The second course of lectures was at an end. Egremont had only
delivered one a week since Christmas, and even so it cost him no little
effort to spread his 'Thoughts for the Present' over the three months,
Latterly he had blended a good deal of historical disquisition with his
prophecy: the result was to himself profoundly unsatisfactory. He
sighed with relief as he dismissed his poor little audience for the
last time. For the future he had made no promises, beyond saying that
in his library-building there were two rooms which were to be devoted
to lectures. The library itself was now his chief care. This was
something solid; it would re-establish him in his self-confidence.

Yes; 'Thoughts for the Present' had been a failure.

The first lecture was far away the best. It dealt with Religion.
Addressed to an audience ready for such philosophical views, it would
have met with a flattering reception. Egremont's point of view was,
strictly, the aesthetic; he aimed at replacing religious enthusiasm, as
commonly understood, by aesthetic. The loveliness of the Christian
legend--from that he started. He dealt with the New Testament very much
as he had formerly dealt with the Elizabethan poets. He would have no
appeal to the vulgar by aggressive rationalists. Let rationalism filter
down in the course of time; the vulgar were not prepared for it as yet.
It was bad that they should be superstitious, but worse, far worse,
that they should be brutally irreverent, and brutal irreverence
inevitably came of atheism preached at the street corner. The men who
preached it were themselves the very last to guide human souls; they
were of coarsest fibre, without a note of music in them, fit only for
the world's grosser purposes. And they presumed to attack the ministry
of Christ! It was good, all that he had to say on that point, the
better that it made two or three of his hearers feel a little sore and
indignant. Yet, as a whole, the lecture appealed to but one of the
audience. Gilbert Grail heard it with emotion, and carried it away in
his heart. To the others it was little more than the sounding of brass
and the tinkling of cymbals.

To-night--Friday--he was going to Grail's. Of course no ceremonious
preparation was necessary, yet he wasted a couple of hours previous to
his time for setting forth. He could not apply himself to anything; he
paced his room. Indeed, he had paced his room much of late. Week by
week he seemed to have grown more unsettled in mind. He had said to
himself that all would be well when he had seen Annabel. He had seen
her, and his trouble was graver than before.

At the hour when Egremont set out for Lambeth Lydia was busy dressing
her sister's hair. Perhaps such a thing had never happened before, as
that Thyrza's hair should have needed doing twice in one day. She had
begged it this evening.

'You won't mind, Lyddy? I feel it's rough, and I think I ought to look
nice--don't you?'

'You're a vain little thing!'

'I don't think I am, Lyddy. It's only natural.'

A moment or two, and Thyrza said:

'Lyddy, I think you ought to come down as well.'

'I've told you that I shan't, so do have done!'

'Well, dear, it's only because I want you to see Mr. Egremont.'

'I've seen him, and that's enough. If you're going to be a lady and
make friends with grand people, that's no reason why I should.'

'You'll have to some day.'

'I don't think I shall,' said Lydia, as she began the braiding. 'You
and me are very different, dear. I shall go on in my own way. _Do_ keep
still! _How_ am I to tie this ribbon?'

'Kiss me, Lyddy! Say that you love me!'

'I don't think I shall.'

'Lyddy, dear.'

It was said so gravely that Lydia, having finished her task, came round
before the chair and looked in her sister's face.

'What?'

'I think I should die if I hadn't someone to love me.'

'I don't think you'll ever want that, Thyrza.'

The other drew a profound sigh, so profound that it left her bosom
trembling. And for a few moments she sat in a dream.

Then she proceeded to change her dress and make ready for her formal
appearance downstairs on the occasion of Egremont's visit. She had
never been so anxious to look well. Lydia affected much impatience with
her, but in truth was profoundly happy in her sister's happiness. She
looked often at the beautiful face, and thought how proud Gilbert must
be.

'Do you think I ought to shake hands with Mr. Egremont?' Thyrza asked.

'If he offers to, you must,' was Lydia's opinion. 'But not if he
doesn't.'

'He did when he said good-bye at the school.'

Before long they heard the expected double knock at the house-door.
They had left their own door ajar that they might not miss this signal.
Thyrza sprang to the head of the stairs and listened. She heard Gilbert
admit his visitor, and she heard the latter's voice. It was now a month
since the meeting at the school, but the voice sounded so exactly as
she expected that it brought back every detail of that often-recalled
interview, and made her heart throb with excitement.

She was now to wait a whole quarter of an hour.

'Sit down and read,' said Lydia, who had herself begun to sew in the
usual methodical way.

Thyrza pretended to obey. For two minutes she sat still, then asked how
they were to know when a quarter of an hour had passed.

'I'll tell you,' said the other. 'Sit quiet, there's a good baby, and
I'll buy you a cake next time we go out.'

Thyrza drew in her breath--and somehow the time was lived through.

'Now I think you may go,' Lydia said.

Thyrza seemed to have become indifferent. She turned over a page of her
book, and at length rose very slowly. Lydia watched her askance; she
thought she saw signs of timidity. But Thyrza presently moved to the
door and went downstairs with her lightest step.

Gilbert had told her not to knock. Her hand was on the knob some
moments before she ventured to turn it. She heard Egremont
laughing--his natural laugh which was so attractive--and then there
fell a silence. She entered.

No, Gilbert had not seated his visitor in the easy chair; that must be
reserved for someone of more importance. Egremont rose with a look of
pleasure.

'You know Miss Trent already?' Gilbert said to him.

Thyrza drew near. She did not hear very distinctly what Egremont was
saying, but certainly he was offering to shake hands. Then Gilbert
placed the easy chair in a convenient position, and she did her best to
sit as she always did. Her manner was not awkward--it was impossible
for her to be awkward--but she was afraid of saying something that
'wasn't grammar,' and to Egremont's agreeable remarks she replied
shortly. Yet even this only gave her an air of shyness which was itself
a grace. When Grail had entered into the conversation she was able to
collect herself.

Gilbert said presently: 'Miss Trent is going to take Bunce's child to
Eastbourne to-morrow, to Mrs. Ormonde's.'

'Indeed!' Egremont exclaimed. 'I was there on Wednesday and heard that
the child was coming. But this arrangement hadn't been made then, I
think?'

'No. Somebody else was to have gone, but she has found she can't.'

'You will be glad to know Mrs. Ormonde, I'm sure,' Egremont said to
Thyrza.

'And I'm glad to go to the seaside,' Thyrza returned. 'I've never seen
the sea.'

'Haven't you? How I wish I could have your enjoyment of to-morrow,
then!'

Mrs. Grail was knitting. She said: 'I think you have voyaged a great
deal, sir?'

It led to talk of travel. Egremont was drawn into stories of East and
West. Ah, how good it was to get out of the circle of social prophecy!
It was like breathing the very mid Atlantic sky to talk gaily and
freely of things wherein no theory was involved, which left aside every
ideal save that of joyous living. Thyrza listened. He--he before
her--had trodden lands whereof the names were to her like echoes from
fairy tales; he had passed days and nights on the bosom of the great
sea, which she looked forward to beholding almost with fear; he had
seen it in tempest, and the laughing descriptions he gave of vast green
rolling mountains made to her inward sight an awful reality.

'You never thought of going to one of the Colonies?' Egremont asked of
Gilbert.

'Yes, years ago,' was the reply, in the tone of a man who sees the
trouble of life behind him. 'I think at one time my mother rather
despised me because I couldn't make up my mind to go and seek my
fortune.'

'I never despised you, my dear,' said the old lady, 'but that was when
some friends of ours were sending wonderful news from Australia, sir,
and I believe I did half try to persuade Gilbert to go. His health was
very bad, and I thought it might have done him good in all ways.'

'By-the-by,' remarked Gilbert, 'Ackroyd talks of going to Canada.'

'Ackroyd?' said Egremont. 'I'm not surprised to hear that.'

Thyrza had looked at Gilbert anxiously.

'Who told you that?' she asked.

'He told me himself, Thyrza, last night.'

She saw that Egremont was gazing at her; her eyes fell, and she became
silent.

Egremont, in the course of the talk, wondered at his position in this
little room. He knew that it was one of very few houses in Lambeth in
which he could have been at his ease; perhaps there was not another. It
seemed to him that he had thrown off a great deal that was artificial
in behaviour and in habits of speech, that he had reverted to that self
which came to him from his parents, and he felt better for the change.
The air of simplicity in the room and its occupants was healthful; of
natural refinement there was abundance, only affectation was missing.
Would it have been a hardship if his father had failed to amass money,
and he had grown up in such a home as this? He knew well enough that by
going, say, next door he could pass into a domestic sphere of a very
different kind, to the midst of a life compact of mean slavery, of
ignorance, of grossness. This was enormously the exception. But his own
home would have been not unlike this. Poverty could not have taken away
his birthright of brains, and perhaps some such piece of luck might
have fallen to him as had now to Gilbert Grail. Perhaps, too--why not,
indeed!--he would have known Thyrza Trent. Certainly he would have seen
her by chance here or there in Lambeth, and he--the young workman he
might have been--assuredly would not have let her pass and forget her.
Why, in that case, perchance he might have--

He had lost himself for a moment. Thyrza was standing before him with a
cup of tea: he noticed that the cup shook a little in the saucer.

'Will you have some tea, sir?' she said.

Mrs. Grail had been perturbed somewhat on the question of refreshments.
Gilbert decided that to offer a cup of tea would be the best thing;
Egremont, he knew, dined late, and would not want anything to eat.

'Thank you, Miss Trent.'

She brought him sugar and milk. This was quite her own idea. 'Some
people don't take sugar, some don't take milk; so you ought to let them
help themselves to such things.' He took both. She noticed his hand,
how shapely it was, how beautiful the finger-nails were. And then he
looked at her with a smile of thanks, not more than of thanks. Could
anyone convey thanks more graciously?

'I hope,' Egremont said, turning to Gilbert as he stirred his tea,
'that we shall get our first books on the shelves by the first day of
next month.'

Grail made no reply, and all were silent for a little.

The visitor did not remain much longer. To the end he was animated in
his talk, making his friends feel as much at their ease as he was
himself. When he was about to depart, he said to Thyrza:

'I hope you will have a fine day to-morrow. There is promise of it.'

'Oh, I think it'll be fine,' she replied. 'It would be too cruel if it
wasn't!'

Surely--thought Egremont as he smiled--to you if to any one the sky
should show a glad face. How many a time thereafter did he think of
those words--'It would be too cruel!' She could not believe that
fortune would be unkind to her; she had faith in the undiscovered day.




CHAPTER XVI

SEA MUSIC


Returning to the upper room, Thyrza sat down as if she were very tired.

'No, I don't want anything to eat,' she said to Lydia. 'I shall go to
bed at once. We must be up very early in the morning.'

Still she made no preparations. Her mirth and excitement were at an
end. Her eyelids drooped heavily, and one of her hands hung down by the
side of the chair. Lydia showed no extreme desire for an account of the
proceedings below. Yes, Thyrza said, she had enjoyed herself. And
presently:

'Mr. Egremont says he wants to begin putting up the books by the first
of May.'

'Did he say when the house would be ready?'

Thyrza shook her head. Then:

'He told us about foreign countries. He's been everywhere.'

'Gilbert told me he had been to America.'

'Lyddy, is Canada the same as America?'

'I believe it is,' said the other doubtfully. 'I think it is a part.
America's a very big country, you know.'

'What do you think Gilbert says? He says Mr. Ackroyd told him last
night that he was going to Canada.'

Lydia gave no sign of special interest.

'Is he?'

'I don't think he means it.'

'Perhaps he'll take Totty Nancarrow with him,' remarked Lydia, with a
scarcely noticeable touch of irony.

The other did not reply, but she looked pained. Then Lydia declared
that she too was weary. They talked little more, though it was a long
time before either got to sleep.

Thyrza saw Grail in the breakfast hour next morning, and received his
advice for the day. Bunce had already conveyed the little box of
Bessie's clothing to the hospital; thence Thyrza and the child would go
in a cab to Victoria.

She was at the hospital by nine o'clock. Bessie, a weakly, coughing
child, who seemingly had but a short term of suffering before her, was
at first very reticent with Thyrza, but when they were seated together
in the train at Victoria, she brightened in the expectation of renewing
her experiences of Mrs. Ormonde's home, and at length talked freely.
Bessie was very old; she had long known the difficulties of a pinched
home, and of her own ailments she spoke with a curious gravity as
little child-like as could be.

'It's my chest as is weak,' she said. 'The nurse says it'll get
stronger as I get older, but it's my belief that it's just the other
way about. You never had a weak chest, had you, Miss Trent? You haven't
that look. I dessay you're always well; I shouldn't mind if I was the
same.' She laughed, and made herself cough. 'I can't see why everybody
shouldn't be well. Father says the world's made wrong, and it seems to
me that's the truth. Perhaps it looks different to you, Miss Trent.'

'You had better call me Thyrza, Bessie. That's my name.'

'Is it? Well, I don't mind, if _you_ don't. I never knew anybody called
Thyrza. But I dessay it's a lady's name. You're a lady, ain't you?'

'No, I'm not a lady. I go to work with Miss Nancarrow. You know her?'

'I can't say as I know her. She lives in the next room to us, but we
don't often speak. But I remember now; I've seen yea on the stairs.'

'Miss Nancarrow has made friends with your brother and sister whilst
you've been in the hospital.'

'Have she now! They didn't tell me about that when they come to see me
last time. I suppose things is all upside down. By rights I'd ought to
have gone home for a day or two, just to see that the room was clean.
Mrs. Larrop comes in wunst a week, you know, she's a charwoman. But I
haven't much trust in her; she's such a one for cat-licking. The
children do make such a mess; I always tell them they'd think twice
about coming in with dirty shoes if only they had the cleaning to see
after.'

Then she began to talk of Mrs. Ormonde, and Thyrza encouraged her to
tell all she could about that lady.

'I tell you what, Thyrza,' said Bessie, confidentially, 'when Nelly
gets old enough to keep things straight and look after father, do you
know what I shall do? I mean to go to Mrs. Ormonde and ask to be took
on for a housemaid. That's just what 'ud suit me. My chest ain't so bad
when I'm there, and I'd rather be one of Mrs. Ormonde's servants than
work anywhere else. But then I perhaps shan't live long enough for
that. It's a great thing for carrying people off, is a weak chest.'

Both grew excited as the train neared their destination. Bessie
recalled the stations, and here and there an object by the way. It was
Thyrza who felt herself the child.

The train entered the station. Bessie had her head at the window. She
drew it back, exclaiming:

'There's Mrs. Ormonde! See, Thyrza! the lady in black!'

Thyrza looked timidly; that lady's face encouraged her. Mrs. Ormonde
had seen Bessie, and was soon at the carriage door.

'So here you are again!' was her kindly greeting. 'Why, Bessie, you
must have been spending all your time in growing!'

She kissed the child, whose thin face was coloured with pleasure.

'This is Miss Trent, mum,' said Bessie, pointing to her companion, who
had descended to the platform. 'She's been so kind as to take care of
me.'

Mrs. Ormonde turned quickly round.

'Miss Trent?' She viewed the girl with surprise which she found it
impossible to conceal at once. Then she said to Thyrza: 'Arc you the
young lady of whom I have heard as Mr. Grail's friend?'

'Yes, ma'am,' Thyrza replied modestly.

'Then how glad I am to see you! Come, let us get Bessie's box taken to
the carriage.'

Mrs. Ormonde was not of those philanthropists who, In the midst of
their well-doing, are preoccupied with the necessity of preserving the
distinction between classes. She always fetched the children from the
station in her own unpretending carriage. Her business was to make them
happy, as the first step to making them well, and whilst they were with
her she was their mother. There are plenty of people successfully
engaged in reminding the poor of the station to which Providence has
called them: the insignificant few who indulge a reckless warmth of
heart really cannot be seen to do appreciable harm.

'Mrs. Ormonde, mum,' whispered Bessie, when they were seated in the
carriage.

'What is it, Bessie?'

'Would you take us round by the front road? Miss Trent hasn't never
seen the sea, and she'd like to as soon as she can; it's only natural.'

Mrs. Ormonde had cast one or two discreet glances at Thyrza. As she did
so her smile subdued itself a little; a grave thought seemed to pass
through her mind. She at once gave an order to the coachman in
compliance with Bessie's request.

'Mr. Grail is quite well, I hope?' she said, feeling a singular
embarrassment in addressing Thyrza.

Thyrza replied mechanically. To ride in an open carriage with a lady,
this alone would have been an agitating experience; the almost painful
suspense with which she waited for the first glimpse of the sea
completed her inability to think or speak with coherence. Her eyes were
fixed straight onwards. Mrs. Ormonde continued to observe her,
occasionally saying something in a low voice to the child.

The carriage drove to the esplanade, and turned to pass along it in the
westerly direction. The tide was at full; a loud surge broke upon the
beach; no mist troubled the blue line of horizon. Mrs. Ormonde looked
seawards, and her vision found a renewal in sympathy with the thought
she had read on Thyrza's face.

You and I cannot remember the moment when the sense of infinity first
came upon us; we have thought so much since then, and have assimilated
so much of others' thoughts, that those first impressions are become as
vague as the memory of our first love. But Thyrza would not forget this
vision of the illimitable sea, live how long she might. She had
scarcely heretofore been beyond the streets of Lambeth. At a burst her
consciousness expanded in a way we cannot conceive. You know that she
had no religion, yet now her heart could not contain the new-born
worship. Made forgetful of all else by the passionate instinct which
ruled her being, she suddenly leaned forward and laid her hand on Mrs.
Ormonde's. The latter took and pressed it, smiling kindly.

Bessie, happy in her superior position, looked about her with a
satisfied air. She sat with Mrs. Ormonde on the fore-seat; presently
she leaned aside to look westward, and informed Thyrza that the
promontory visible before them was Beachy Head. Thyrza had no response
to utter.

The carriage turned inland again. Thyrza lost sight of the sea. As if
she cared to look at nothing else, her eyes fell.

When they arrived at The Chestnuts, Mrs. Ormonde led her companions to
an upper room, where Mrs. Mapper sat talking with two or three children.

'I think Bessie can have her old bed, can't she?' she said, after
introducing Thyrza. 'I wonder whether she knows any of our children
now? I dare say Miss Trent would like to rest a little.'

A few words were spoken to the matron apart, and Mrs. Ormonde withdrew.
Half an hour later, Thyrza, after seeing the children and all that
portion of the house which was theirs, was led by Mrs. Mapper to the
drawing-room. The lady of the house was there alone; she invited her
guest to sit down, and began to talk.

'Are you obliged to be home to-night? Couldn't you stay with us till
to-morrow?'

Thyrza checked a movement.

'I promised Mr. Grail to be back before dark,' she said.

'Oh, but that will scarcely leave you any time at all. Is there any
other need for you to return to-day? Suppose I telegraphed to say that
I was keeping you--wouldn't Mr. Grail forgive me?'

'I think I might stay, if I could be back to-morrow by tea-time. I must
go to work on Monday morning.'

Mrs. Ormonde sighed involuntarily. That work, that work: the consumer
of all youth and joy!

'Unfortunately there's no train to-morrow that would help us.'

Thyrza longed to stay; the other could read her face well enough.

'There's an early train on Monday morning,' she continued doubtfully.
'Do you live with parents?'

'Oh, no, ma'am. My parents died a long time ago. I live with my sister.
We two have a room to ourselves; it's in the same house where Mr. Grail
lives: that's how I got to know him.'

'And is your sister older than yourself?'

'Yes, ma'am; four years older. Her name's Lydia. We've always kept
together. When I'm married, she's coming to live with us.'

Mrs. Ormonde listened with ever deepening interest. She formed a
picture of that elder sister. The words 'We've always kept together,'
touched her inexpressibly; they bore so beautiful a meaning on Thyrza's
lips.

'And would your sister Lydia scold me very much if I made you lose your
Monday morning's work?' she asked, smiling.

'Oh, it's always the other way, ma'am. Lyddy's always glad when I get a
holiday. But I never like her to have to go to work alone.'

'Well now, I shall telegraph to Lyddy, and then tomorrow I shall write
a letter to her and beg her to forgive me. If I do so, do you think you
could stay?'

'I--I think so, ma'am.'

'And Mr. Grail?'

'He's just as kind to me as Lyddy is.'

'Then I think we won't be afraid. The telegram shall go at once, so
that if there were real need for your return, they would have time to
reply.'

The message despatched, they talked till dinner-time. Fulfilment of joy
soon put an end to Thyrza's embarrassment; she told all about her life
and Lydia's, about their work, about Mr. Boddy, about Gilbert and his
books. Mrs. Ormonde led her gently on, soothed by the music.

In the afternoon she decided to drive with Thyrza to the top of Beachy
Head; on the morrow the sky might not be so favourable to the view. The
children would go out in the usual way; she preferred to be alone with
her visitor for a while.

'Will they have the telegraph yet?' Thyrza asked, as she again seated
herself in the carriage.

'Oh, long since. We could have had an answer before now.'

Thyrza sighed with contentment, for she knew that Lyddy was glad on her
behalf.

So now the keen breath of the sea folded her about and made warmth
through her whole body; it sang in her ears, the eternal sea music
which to infinite generations of mortals has been an inspiring joy.
Upward, upward, on the long sweep of the climbing road, whilst landward
the horizon retired from curve to curve off the wild Downs, and on the
other hand a dark edge against the sky made fearful promise of
precipitous shore. The great snow-mountains of heaven moved grandly on
before the west wind, ever changing outline, meeting to incorporate
mass with mass, sundering with magic softness and silence. The bay of
Pevensey spread with graceful line its white fringe of breakers now low
upon the strand, far away to the cliffs of Hastings.

'Hastings!' Thyrza exclaimed, when Mrs. Ormonde had mentioned the name.
'Is that where the battle of Hastings was?'

'A little further inland. You have read of that?'

'Gilbert--Mr. Grail is teaching me history. Yes, I know about Hastings.'

'And what country do you think you would come to, if you went right
over the sea yonder?'

'That must be--really?--where William the Conqueror came from? That was
Normandy, in France.'

'Yes, France is over there.'

'France? France?'

No, it was too hard to believe. She murmured the name to herself.
Gilbert had shown it her on the map, but how difficult to transfer that
dry symbol into this present reality!

They left the carriage near the Coastguard's house, and walked forward
to the brow of the great cliffs. Mrs. Ormonde took Thyrza's hand as
they drew near. They stood there for a long time.

Two or three other people were walking about the Head. In talking, Mrs.
Ormonde became aware that someone had approached her; she turned her
head, and saw Annabel Newthorpe.

They shook hands quietly. Thyrza drew a little away.

'Are you alone?' Mrs. Ormonde asked.

'Yes, I have walked.'

'Who do you think this is?' Mrs. Ormonde murmured quickly. 'Mr. Grail's
future wife. She has just brought one of my children down; I am going
to keep her till Monday. Come and speak; the most loveable child!'

Thyrza and Annabel were presented to each other with the pleasant
informality which Mrs. Ormonde so naturally employed. Each was
impressed with the other's beauty; Thyrza felt not a little awe, and
Annabel could not gaze enough at the lovely face which made such a
surprise for her.

'Why did Mr. Egremont give me no suggestion of this?' she said to
herself.

She had noticed, in drawing near, how intimately her friend and the
stranger were talking together. Her arrival had disturbed Thyrza's
confidence; she herself did not feel able to talk quite freely. So in a
few minutes she turned and went by the footway along the edge of the
height. Just before descending into a hollow which would hide her, she
cast a look back, and saw that Thyrza's eyes were following her.

'But how could he speak of her and yet tell me nothing?'

His delicacy explained it, no doubt. He had not liked to say of the
simple girl whom Grail was to marry that she was very beautiful.
Annabel felt that most men would have been less scrupulous: it was
characteristic of Egremont to feel a subtle propriety of that kind.

Annabel was at all times disposed to interpret Egremont's motives in a
higher sense than would apply to the average man.

On her return, Thyrza had tea with Mrs. Mapper and the children, then
went with them to the large room upstairs in which evenings were spent
till the early bedtime. It was an ideal nursery, with abundant
picture-books, with toys, with everything that could please a child's
eye and engage a child's mind. There was a piano, and on this Mrs.
Mapper sometimes played the kind of music that children would like. She
taught them songs, moreover, and a singing evening was always much
looked forward to. Saturday was always such; when the little choir had
got a song perfect, Mrs. Ormonde was wont to come up and hear them sing
it, making them glad with her praise.

It happened that to-night there was to be practising of a new song;
Mrs. Mapper had chosen 'Annie Laurie,' and she began by playing over
the air. One or two of the children knew it, but not the words; these,
it was found, were always very quickly learnt by singing a verse a few
times over.

'Do you know 'Annie Laurie,' Miss Trent?' Mrs. Mapper asked.

It was one of old Mr. Boddy's favourites; Thyrza had sung it to him
since she was seven years old.

'Let us sing it together then, will you?'

They began. Thyrza was already thoroughly at home, and this music was
an unexpected delight. After a line or two, Mrs. Mapper's voice sank.
Thyrza stopped and looked inquiringly, meeting a wonder in the other's
eyes. Mrs. Mapper was a woman of much prudence; she merely said:

'I find I've got a little cold. Would you mind singing it alone?'

So Thyrza sang the song through. A moment or two of quietness followed.

'Now I think you'll soon know it, children,' said Mrs. Mapper. 'Lizzie
Smith, I see you've got it already. Miss Trent will be kind enough to
sing the first verse again; you sing with her, Lizzie--and you too,
Mary. That's a clever girl! Now we shall get on.'

The practising went on till all were able to join in fairly well. After
that, Mrs. Mapper played the favourite dance tunes, and the children
danced merrily. Whilst they were so enjoying themselves, Mrs. Ormonde
came into the room. She had dined, and wanted Thyrza to come and sit
with her, for she was alone. But first she had five minutes of real
laughter and play with the children. They loved her, every one of them,
and clung to her desperately when she said sue could stay no longer.

'Good-bye!' she said, waving her hand at the door.

'No, no!' cried several voices. 'There's 'good-night' yet, Mrs.
Ormonde!'

'Why, of course there is,' she laughed; 'but that's no reason why I
shouldn't say good-bye.'

She took Thyrza's hand and led her down.

'You shall have some supper with me afterwards,' she said 'The little
ones have theirs now; but it's too early for you.'

If the drawing-room had been a marvel to Thyrza in the daylight, it was
yet more so now that she entered it and found two delicately shaded
lamps giving a rich uncertainty to all the beautiful forms of furniture
and ornaments. She had thought the Grails' parlour luxurious. And the
dear old easy-chair, now so familiar to her, how humble it was compared
with this in which Mrs. Ormonde seated her! These wonders caused her no
envy or uneasy desire. In looking at a glorious altarpiece, one does
not feel unhappy because one cannot carry it off from the church and
hang it up at home. Thyrza's mood was purely of admiration, and of joy
in being deemed worthy to visit such scenes. And all the time she kept
saying to herself, 'Another whole day! I shall be by the sea again
tomorrow! I shall sleep and wake close by the sea!'

Presently Mrs. Ormonde had to absent herself for a few minutes.

'You heard what the children said about 'good-night.' I always go and
see them as soon as they are tucked up in bed. I don't think they'd
sleep if I missed.'

The kind office over, she spoke with Mrs. Mapper about the evening's
singing.

'Did you know,' the latter asked, 'what a voice Miss Trent has?'

'She sings? I didn't know.'

'I was so delighted that I had to stop singing myself. I'm sure it's a
wonderful voice.'

'Indeed! I must ask her to sing to me.'

She found Thyrza turning over the leaves of a volume of photographs.
Without speaking, she sat down at the piano, and began to play gently
the air of 'Annie Laurie.' Thyrza looked up, and then came nearer.

'You are fond of music?' said Mrs. Ormonde.

'Very fond. How beautiful your playing is!'

'To-morrow you shall hear Miss Newthorpe play; hers is much better.
Will you sing this for me?'

When it was sung, she asked what other songs Thyrza knew. They were
all, of course, such as the people sing; some of them Mrs. Ormonde did
not know at all, but to others she was able to play an accompaniment.
Her praise was limited to a few kind words. On leaving the piano, she
was thoughtful.

At ten o'clock Mrs. Mapper came to conduct Thyrza to her bedroom.

'We have breakfast at half-past eight to-morrow,' Mrs. Ormonde said.

'If I am up in time,' Thyrza asked, 'may I go out before breakfast?'

'Do just as you like, my dear,' the other answered, with a smile. 'I
want you to enjoy your visit.'

In spite of the strangeness of her room, and of the multitude of
thoughts and feelings to which the day had given birth, Thyrza was not
long awake. She passed into a dreamland where all she had newly learnt
was reproduced and glorified. But the rising sun had not to wait long
for the opening of her eyes. She sprang from bed and to the window,
whence, however, she could only see the tall chestnuts and a
neighbouring cottage. The day was again fine; she dressed with nervous
speed--there was no Lyddy to do her hair, for the very first time in
her life--then went softly forth on to the landing. No one seemed to be
stirring; she had no watch to tell her the time, but doubtless it was
very early. Softly she began to descend the stairs, and at length
recognised the door of the drawing-room. She did not like to enter: it
was only Mrs. Ormonde's kindness that had given her a right to sit
there the evening before. But the house-door would not be open yet, she
feared. Just as she was reluctantly turning to go up and wait a little
longer in her bedroom, a sound below at once startled and relieved her.
Looking over the banisters, she saw a servant coming from one of the
rooms on the ground floor. She hurried down. The servant looked at her
with surprise.

'Good-morning!' she said. 'Can I get out of the house?'

'I'll open the door for you, Miss.'

'What time is it, please?'

'It isn't quite half-past six, Miss, You're an early riser.'

'Yes, I want to go out before breakfast. Please will you tell me which
way goes to the sea?'

The servant gave her good-natured directions, and Thyrza was soon
running along with a glimpse of blue horizon for guidance. She ran like
a child, ran till the sharp morning air made her breathless, then
walked until she was able to run again. And at length she was on the
beach, down at length by the very edge of the waves. Here the breeze
was so strong that with difficulty she stood against it, but its rude
caresses were a joy to her. Each breaker seemed a living thing; now she
approached timidly, now ran back with a delicious fear. She filled her
hands with the smooth sea-pebbles; a trail of weed with the foam fresh
on it was a great discovery. Then her eye caught a far-off line of
smoke. That must be a steamer coming from a foreign country; perhaps
from France, which was--how believe it?--yonder across the blue vast.

You have watched with interest some close-folded bud; one day all
promise is shut within those delicate sepals, and on the next, for the
fulness of time has come, you find the very flower with its glow and
its perfume. So it sometimes happens that a human soul finds its
season, and at a touch expands to wonderful new life.

Mrs. Ormonde perceived at breakfast that Thyrza desired nothing more
than to be left to pass her day in freedom. So she gave her visitor a
little bag with provision against seaside appetite, and let her go
forth till dinner-time; then again till the hour of tea. In the evening
Thyrza was again bidden to the drawing-room. She found Miss Newthorpe
there.

'Come now, and tell us what you have been doing all day long,' Mrs.
Ormonde said. 'Why, the sun and the wind have already touched your
cheeks!'

'I have enjoyed myself,' Thyrza replied, quickly, seating herself near
her new friend.

She could give little more description than that. Annabel talked with
her, and presently, at Mrs. Ormonde's request, went to the piano. When
the first notes had sounded, Thyrza let her head droop a little. Music
such as this she had not imagined. When Annabel came back to her seat,
she gazed at her, admiring and loving.

'Now will you sing us 'Annie Laurie'?' said Mrs. Ormonde. 'I'll play
for you.'

'What is that child's future?' Mrs. Ormonde asked of Annabel, when
Thyrza had left them together.

'Not a sad one, I think,' said Annabel, musingly. 'Happily, her husband
will not be an untaught working man.'

'No, thank goodness for that! I suppose they will be married in two or
three weeks. Her voice is a beautiful thing lost.'

'We won't grieve over that. Her own happiness is of more account. I do
wish father could have seen her!'

'Oh, she must come to us again some day. Your father would have alarmed
her too much. Haven't you felt all the time as if she were something
very delicate, something to be carefully guarded against shocks and
hazards? As I saw her from my window going out of the garden this
morning, I felt a sort of fear; I was on the point of sending a servant
to keep watch over her from a distance.

There was a silence, then Mrs. Ormonde murmured:

'I wonder whether she is in love with him?'

Annabel smiled, but said nothing.

'She told me that he is very kind to her. 'Just as kind as Lyddy,' she
said. Indeed, who wouldn't be?'

'We have every reason to think highly of Mr. Grail,' Annabel remarked.
'He must be as exceptional in his class as she is.'

'Yes. But the exceptional people--'

Annabel looked inquiringly.

'Never mind! The world has beautiful things in it, and one of the most
beautiful is hope.'




CHAPTER XVII

ADRIFT


It was partly out of kindness to Thyrza that Totty Nancarrow had
changed her mind about going to Eastbourne. Having seen her and
mentioned the matter, Totty saw at once how eagerly Thyrza would accept
such a chance. But it happened that within the same hour she saw Luke
Ackroyd, and Luke had proposed a meeting on Saturday afternoon. Totty
had no extreme desire to meet him, and yet--perhaps she might as well.
He talked of going up the river to Battersea Park, as the weather was
so fine.

So at three on Saturday, Totty stood by the landing-stage at Lambeth.
In fact, she was there at least five minutes before the appointed time.
But her punctuality was wasted. Ten minutes past three by Lambeth
parish church, and no Mr. Ackroyd.

'Well, I call this nice!' Totty exclaimed to herself. 'Let him come now
if he likes; he won't find _me_ waiting for him. And a lot I care!'

She went off humming a tune and swinging her hands. On the Embankment
she met a girl she knew. They went on into Westminster Bridge Road, and
there came across another friend. It was decided that they should all
go and have tea at Totty's. And before they reached Newport Street, yet
another friend joined them. The more the merrier! Totty delighted in
packing her tiny room as full as it would hold. She ran into Mrs.
Bower's for a pot of jam. Who more mirthful now than Totty Nancarrow!

With subdued gossip and laughter all ran up the narrow staircase and
into Totty's room. A fire had first of all to be lit; Totty was a deft
hand at that; not a girl in Lambeth could start a blaze and have her
kettle boiling in sharper time on a cold dark morning. But, after all,
there would not be bread enough. Tilly Roach would be off for that.
'Mind you bring the over-weight!' the others screamed after her, and
some current joke seemed to be involved in the injunction, for at once
they all laughed as only work-girls can.

Tilly was back in no time. She was a little, slim girl, with the palest
and shortest of gold hair, and a pretty face spoilt with freckles. As
at all times, she had her pocket full of sweets, and ate them
incessantly. As a rule, Tilly cannot have eaten less than a couple of
pounds of lollipops every week, and doubtless would have consumed more
had her pocket-money allowed it. The second of Totty's guests was Annie
West, whom you know already, for she was at the 'friendly lead' when
Thyrza sang; she was something of a scapegrace, constantly laughed in a
shrill note, and occasionally had to be called to order. The third was
a Mrs. Allchin, aged fifteen, a married woman of two months' date; her
hair was cut across her forehead, she wore large eardrops, and over her
jacket hung a necklace with a silver locket. Mrs. Allchin, called by
her intimates 'Loo,' had the air of importance which became her
position.

There were only two chairs in the room; the table had to be placed so
that the bed could serve for sitting. Tablecloth there was none; when
friends did her the honour of coming to tea, Totty spread a newspaper.
The tea-service was, to say the least, primitive; four cups there were,
but only two saucers survived, and a couple of teaspoons had to be
shared harmoniously. No one ever gave a thought to such trifles at
Totty Nancarrow's.

Whilst the kettle boiled, Annie West provided diversion of a literary
kind. She had recently purchased a little book in cover of yellow
paper, which, for the sum of one penny, purported to give an exhaustive
description of 'Charms, Spells, and Incantations;' on the back was the
picture of a much-bejewelled Moorish maiden, with eyes thrown up in
prophetic ecstasy; above ran the legend, 'Wonderfully mysterious and
peculiar.' The work included, moreover, 'a splendid selection of the
best love songs.'

'It's cheap at a penny,' was Miss West's opinion.

She began by reading out an infallible charm for the use of maidens who
would see in dreams their future husband. It was the 'Nine-key Charm.'

''Get nine small keys, they must all be your own by begging or purchase
(borrowing will not do, nor must you tell what you want them for),
plait a three-plaited band of your own hair, and tie them together,
fastening the ends with nine knots. Fasten them with one of your
garters to your left wrist on going to bed, and bind the other garter
round your head; then say:

  St. Peter, take it not amiss,
  To try your favour I've done this.
  You are the ruler of the keys,
  Favour me, then, if you please;
  Let me then your influence prove,
  And see my dear and wedded love.

This must be done on the eve of St. Peter's, and is an old charm used
by the maidens of Rome in ancient times, who put great faith in it.''

'When is the eve of St. Peter's?' asked Tilly Roach. 'Totty, you're a
Catholic, you ought to know.'

'Don't bother me with your rubbish!' cried Totty.

'It ain't rubbish at all,' retorted Annie West. 'Now didn't you see
your husband, Loo, with a card charm before you'd ever really set eyes
on him?'

'Course I did,' assented Mrs. Allchin, aged fifteen.

'Here's another book I'm going to get,' pursued Annie, referring to an
advertisement on the cover. 'It tells you no end of things--see here!'
'How to bewitch your enemies,' 'How to render yourself invisible,' 'How
to grow young again,' 'How to read sealed letters,' 'How to see at long
distances,' and heaps more. 'Price one and sixpence, or, post free,
twenty stamps.''

'Don't be a fool and waste your money!' was Totty's uncompromising
advice. 'It's only sillies believes things like that.'

'Totty ain't no need of charms!' piped Tilly, with sweets in her mouth.
'She knows who _she's_ going to marry.'

'Do I, miss?' Totty exclaimed, scornfully. 'Do you know as much for
yourself, I wonder?'

'Oh, Tilly's a-going to marry the p'liceman with red hair as stands on
the Embankment!' came from Mrs. Allchin; whereupon followed
inextinguishable laughter.

But they wore determined to tease Totty, and began to talk from one to
the other about Luke Ackroyd, not mentioning his name, but using signs
and symbols.

'If you two wait for husbands till I'm married,' said Totty at length
to the laughing girls, 'you've a good chance to die old maids. I prefer
to keep my earnings for my own spending, thank you.'

'When's Thyrza Trent going to be married?' asked Mrs. Allchin. 'Do you
know, Totty?'

'In about a fortnight, I think.'

'Is the bands puts up?'

'They're going to be married at the Registry Office.'

'Well, I never!' cried Annie West. 'You wouldn't catch me doing without
a proper wedding! I suppose that's why Thyrza won't talk about it. But
I believe he's a rum sort of man, isn't he?'

Nobody could reply from personal acquaintance with Gilbert Grail. Totty
did not choose to give her opinion.

'I say,' she exclaimed, 'we've had enough about marriages. Tilly, make
yourself useful, child, and cut some bread.'

For a couple of hours at least gossip was unintermittent. Then Mrs.
Allchin declared that her husband would be 'making a row' if she stayed
from home any later. Tilly Roach took leave at the same time. Totty and
Miss West chatted a little longer, then put on their hats to have a
ramble in Lambeth Walk.

They had not gone many paces from the house when they were overtaken by
some one, who said:

'Totty! I want to speak to you.'

Totty would not look round. It was Ackroyd's voice.

'I say, Totty!'

But she walked on. Ackroyd remained on the edge of the pavement. In a
minute or two he saw that Miss Nancarrow was coming towards him
unaccompanied.

'Oh, it's you, is it?' she said. 'What do you want, Mr. Ackroyd?'

'Why didn't you come this afternoon?'

'Well, I like that! Why didn't _you_ come?'

'I was a bit late. I really couldn't help it, Totty. Did you go away
before I came?'

'Why, of course I did. How long was I to wait?'

'I'm very sorry. Let's go somewhere now. I've been waiting about for
more than an hour on the chance of seeing you.'

He mentioned the chief music-hall of the neighbourhood.

'I don't mind,' said Totty. 'But I can't go beyond sixpence.'

'Oh, all right! I'll see to that.'

'No, you won't. I pay for myself, or I don't go at all. That's my rule.'

'As you like.'

The place of entertainment was only just open; they went in with a
crowd of people and found seats. The prevailing odours of the hall were
stale beer and stale tobacco; the latter was speedily freshened by the
fumes from pipes. Ackroyd ordered a glass of beer, and deposited it on
a little ledge before him, an arrangement similar to that for different
purposes in a church pew; Totty would have nothing.

Ackroyd had changed a good deal during the last few months. The coarser
elements of his face had acquired a disagreeable prominence, and when
he laughed, as he did constantly, the sound lacked the old genuineness.
To-night he was evidently trying hard to believe that he enjoyed the
music-hall entertainment; in former days he would have dismissed
anything of the kind with a few contemptuous words. When the people
about him roared at imbecilities unspeakable, he threw back his head
and roared with them; when they stamped, he raised as much dust as any
one. Totty had no need to affect amusement; her tendency to laughter
was such that very little sufficed to keep her in the carelessly merry
frame of mind which agreed with her, and on the whole it was not
disagreeable to be sitting by Luke Ackroyd; she glanced at him
surreptitiously at times.

He drank two or three glasses of beer, then felt a need of stronger
beverage. Totty remonstrated with him: he laughed, and drank on out of
boastfulness. At length Totty would countenance it no longer; after a
useless final warning, she left her place and pressed through the crowd
to the door. Ackroyd sprang up and followed her. His face was flushed,
and grew more so in the sudden night air.

'What's the matter?' he said, putting his arm through the girl's.
'You're not going to leave me in that way, Totty? Well, let's walk
about then.'

'Look here, Mr. Ackroyd,' began Totty, 'I'm surprised at you! It ain't
like a man of your kind to go muddling his head night after night, in
this way.'

'I know that as well as you do, Totty. See!' He made her stop, and
added in a lower voice, 'Say you'll marry me, and I'll stop it from
to-night.'

'I've told you already I shan't do nothing of the kind. So don't be
silly! You can be sensible enough if you like, and then I can get along
well enough with you.'

'Very well, then I'll drink for another week, and then be off to
Canada.'

'You'd better go at once, I should think.'

She had moved a little apart from him. Just then a half-drunken fellow
came along the pavement, and in a freak caught Totty about the waist.
Ackroyd was in the very mood for an incident of this kind. In an
instant he had planted so direct a blow that the fellow staggered back
into the gutter, Totty with difficulty preventing herself from being
dragged with him. The thoroughfare was crowded, street urchins ran
together with yells of anticipatory delight, and maturer loafers formed
the wonted ring even before the man assaulted had recovered himself.
Then came the play of fists; Ackroyd from the first had far the best of
it, but the other managed to hold his ground.

And the result of it was that in something less than a quarter of an
hour from his leaving the music-hall, Ackroyd found himself on the way
to the police-station, his adversary following in the care of a second
constable, all the way loudly accusing him of being the assailant.

Totty walked in the rear of the crowd; she had been frightened by the
scene of violence, and there were marks of tears on her cheeks. She
entered the station, eager to get a hearing for a plain story. Ackroyd
turned and saw her.

'It's no good saying anything now,' he said to her. 'This blackguard
has plenty more lies ready. Go to the house and tell my brother-in-law,
will you? I dare say he'll come and be bail.'

She went at once, and ran all the way to Paradise Street, so that when
in reply to her knock Mrs. Poole appeared at the door, she had to wait
yet a moment before her breath would suffice for speaking. She did not
know Mrs. Poole.

'I've got a message from Mr. Ackroyd for Mr. Poole,' she said.

The other was alarmed.

'What's happened now?' she inquired. 'I'm Mrs. Poole, Mr. Ackroyd's
sister.'

Totty lowered her voice, and explained rapidly what had come to pass.
Mrs. Poole eyed her throughout with something more than suspicion.

'And who may you be, if you please?' she asked at the end.

'I'm Miss Nancarrow.'

'I'm not much wiser. Thank you. I'll let Mr. Poole know.'

She closed the door. Totty, thus unceremoniously shut out, turned away;
she felt miserable, and the feeling was so strange to her that before
she had gone many steps she again began to cry She had understood well
enough the thought expressed in Mrs. Poole's face; it was gratuitous
unkindness, and just now she was not prepared for it. There was much of
the child in her still, for all her years of independence in the
highways and by-ways of Lambeth, and, finding it needful to cry, she
let her tears have free course, only now and then dashing the back of
her hand against the corner of her lips as she walked on. Why should
the woman be so ready to think evil of her? She had done nothing
whatever to deserve it, nothing; she had kept herself a good girl, for
all that she lived alone and liked to laugh. At another time most
likely she would have cared something less than a straw for Mrs.
Poole's opinion of her, but just now--somehow--well, she didn't know
quite how it was. Why would Luke keep on drinking in that way, and
oblige her to run out of the music-ball? It was his fault, the foolish
fellow. But he had been quick enough to defend her; a girl would not
find it amiss to have that arm always at her service. And in the
meantime he was in the police cell.

Mrs. Poole, excessively annoyed, went down to the kitchen. Her husband
sat in front of the fire, a long clay pipe at his lips, his feet very
wide apart on the fender; up on the high mantelpiece stood a half
finished glass of beer. Though he still held the pipe, he was nodding;
as his wife entered, his head fell very low.

'Jim!' exclaimed his wife, as if something had been added to her
annoyance.

'Eh? Well, Jane?--eh?'

'Then you _will_ set your great feet on the fender! The minute I turn
my back, of course! If you're too lazy to take your boots off, you must
keep your heels under the chair. I won't have my fender scratched, so I
tell you!'

He was a large-headed man, sleepy in appearance at the best of times,
but enormously good-natured. He bent down in a startled way to see if
his boots had really done any harm.

'Well, well, I won't do it again, Jenny,' he mumbled.

'Of course, I wonder how often you've said that. As it happens, it's as
well you have got your boots on still. There's a girl o' some kind just
come to say as Luke's locked up for fightin' in the street. He sent for
you to bail him out.'

'Why, there! Tut-tut-tut! What a fellow that is! Fightin'? Why now,
didn't I tell him this afternoon as he looked like pickin' a quarrel
wi' somebody? But, I say, Jane, it's a low-life kind o' thing for to go
a-fightin' in the streets.'

'Of course it is. What'll he come to next, I wonder? The sooner he gets
off to Canada, the better, I sh'd say. But he'll not go; he talks an'
talks, an' it's all just for showin' off.'

Mr. Poole had risen.

'Bail? Why, I don't know nothin' about bail, Jane! How d'you do it? I
hadn't never nothing to do with folks as got locked up.'

'I don't suppose you never had, Jim, till now.'

'Nay, hang it, Jenny, I wasn't for alludin' to that! Give me my coat.
How much money have we in the house? I've sixpence 'apenny i' my
pocket.'

'It ain't done with money; you'll have to sign something, I think.'

'All right. But I'll read it first, though. Who was it as come, did you
say?'

'Nay, I don't know. She called herself Miss Nancarrow. I didn't care to
have much to say to her.'

Mrs. Poole was a kindly disposed woman, but, like her average sisters,
found charity hard when there was ever so slight an appearance against
another of her sex. We admire this stalwart virtue, you and I,
reverencing public opinion; all the same, charity has something to be
said for it.

'Miss Nancarrow, eh?' said Poole, dragging on his big overcoat. 'Don't
know her. Kennington Road station, is it?'

'You'd better finish your beer, Jim.'

'So I will. Have a bit o' supper ready for the lad.'

Totty walked as far as the police-station. She could not bring herself
to enter and make inquiries; that look of Mrs. Poole's would be hard to
bear from men. Her tears were dry now; she stood reading the notices on
the board. A man had deserted his wife and left her chargeable to the
parish; there was a reward for his apprehension, 'That's the woman's
fault,' Totty said to herself, 'She's made his home miserable for him.
If I had a husband, I don't think he'd want to run away from _me_. If
he did, well, I should say, 'good riddance.' Catch me setting the
p'lice after him! The body of a child had been found; a woman answering
to a certain description was wanted. 'Poor thing!' thought Totty.
'She's more likely to pity than to blame. They shouldn't take her if I
could help it.' So she commented on each notice, in accordance with her
mood.

It was very cold. She had no gloves on, and her hands were getting
quite numb. Would Mr. Poole answer the summons? If not, Luke would, she
supposed, remain in the cell all night. It would be cold enough
_there_, poor fellow!

She had waited about twenty minutes, when a large-headed man in a big
overcoat came up, and, after eyeing the edifice from roof to pavement,
ascended the steps and entered.

'I shouldn't wonder if that's him,' murmured Totty. And she waited
anxiously.

In a quarter of an hour, the man appeared again, and after him came--oh
yes, it was Luke! He had his eyes on the ground. The rescuer put his
arm in Luke's, and they walked off together.

He had not seen her, and she was disappointed. She followed at a short
distance behind them. The large-headed man spoke occasionally, but
Ackroyd seemed to make brief reply, if any. Their way took them along
Walnut Tree Walk; Totty saw that, in passing the house where Lydia and
Thyrza lived, Luke cast a glance at the upper windows; probably he knew
nothing of Thyrza's absence at Eastbourne. They turned into Lambeth
Walk, then again into Paradise Street, Totty still a little distance in
the rear. At their house, they paused. Luke seemed to be going further
on, and, to the girl's surprise, he did so, whilst Mr. Poole entered.

He turned to the left, this time into Newport Street. Totty felt a
strange tightness at her chest, for all at once she guessed what his
purpose was.

It was still only half-past ten; people were moving about. Newport
Street has only one inhabited side; the other is formed by the railway
viaduct, the arches of which are boarded up and made to serve for
stables, warehouses, workshops. Moreover, the thoroughfare is very
badly lighted; on the railway side one can walk along at night-time
without risk of recognition. Totty availed herself of this gloom, and
kept nearly opposite to Luke. He stopped before her house, hesitated,
was about to approach the door. Then Totty--no stranger being
near--called softly across the street:

'Mr. Ackroyd!'

He turned at once, and came over.

'Why, is that you?' he said. 'What are you doing there, Totty?'

'Oh, nothing. So they've let you go?'

She spoke indifferently. It had been on her tongue to say that she had
followed from the police-station, but the other words came instead.

'I shall have to turn up on Monday morning,' Luke replied.

'What a shame! Did they keep that man?'

'Yes. They kept us both. He kept swearing I'd an old grudge against
him, and that he'd done nothing at all. The blackguard had the
impudence to charge me with assault; so I charged him too. Then that
constable said he'd had us both in charge before for drunk and
disorderly. Altogether, it wasn't a bad lying-match.'

'Why do you run the chance of getting into such rows?'

'Well, I like that, Totty! Was I to let him insult you and just stand
by?'

'Oh, I don't mean that. But it wouldn't have happened at all but for
you going on drinking--you know that very well, Mr. Ackroyd.'

'I suppose it wouldn't. It doesn't matter. I just wanted to see you'd
got home all right. Good-night!'

'Good-night! Mind _you_ get home safe, that's all.'

She turned away. He turned away. But he was back before she had crossed
the street.

'I say, Totty!'

'What is it?'

'You haven't told me what you were doing, standing here.'

'I don't see as it matters to you, Mr. Ackroyd.'

'No, I suppose it doesn't. Well, good-night!'

'Good-night!'

Each again turned to depart; again Ackroyd came hack.

'Totty!'

'What _is_ it, Mr. Ackroyd?' she exclaimed, fretfully.

'I can't for the life of me make out what you were doing standing
there.'

'I don't see as it's any business of yours, Mr. Ackroyd.'

'Still, I'd rather you told me. I suppose you were waiting for
somebody?'

'If you _must_ know--yes, I was.'

'H'm, I thought so. Well, I won't stop to be in the way.'

'I say, Mr. Ackroyd!'

'Yes?'

'There's a notice outside the station as says a man has deserted his
wife.'

'Is there? How do you know?'

'I read it.'

'Oh, you've been waiting there, have you?'

'And another thing. It wasn't no use you looking up at Thyrza Trent's
window. She's away.'

'How do you know I looked up?'

He came nearer, a smile on his face. Totty averted her eyes.

'I suppose it wasn't me you were waiting for, Totty?' She said nothing.

'Give me a kiss, Totty.'

'I'm sure I shan't, Mr. Ackroyd!'

'Then let me take one.'

She made no resistance.

'When, Totty?' he whispered, drawing her near.

'Next Christmas, if you haven't taken a drop too much before then. If I
find out you _have_--it's no good you coming after Totty Nancarrow.'

She walked with him to the end of the street, then watched him to his
house. She was pleased; she was ashamed; she was afraid. Turning to go
home, she crossed herself and murmured something.




CHAPTER XVIII

DRAWING NEARER


Lydia had a little rule of self-discipline which deserved to be, and
was, its own reward. If ever personal troubles began to worry her she
diligently bent her thoughts upon someone for whose welfare she was
anxious, and whom she might possibly aid. The rule had to submit to an
emphatic exception; the person to be thought of must be any one _save_
that particular one whose welfare she especially desired, and whom she
might perchance have aided if she had made a great endeavour. However,
the rule itself had become established long before this exception was
dreamt of. Formerly she was wont to occupy her mind with Thyrza. Now
that her sister seemed all but beyond need of anxious guarding, and
that the necessity for applying the rule was greater than ever before,
Lydia gave her attention to Mr. Boddy.

The old man had not borne the winter very well; looking at him, Lydia
could not help observing that he stooped more than was his habit, and
that his face was more drawn. He did his best to put a bright aspect on
things when he talked with her, but there were signs that he found it
increasingly difficult to obtain sufficient work. A few months ago she
would have had no scruple in speaking freely on the subject to Mary
Bower, or even to Mrs. Bower, and so learning from them whether the old
man paid his rent regularly and had enough food. But from Mary she was
estranged--it seemed as if hopelessly--and Mrs. Bower had of late been
anything but cordial when Lydia went to the shop. The girl observed
that Mr. Boddy was now never to be found seated in the back parlour:
she always had to go up to his room. She could not bring herself to
mention this to him, or indeed to say anything that would suggest her
coolness with the Bowers. Still, it was all tacitly understood, and it
made things very uncomfortable.

She was still angry with Mary. Every night she chid herself for doing
what she had never done before--for nourishing unkindness. She shed
many tears in secret. But forgiveness would not grow in her heart. She
thought not seldom of the precepts she had heard at chapel,
and--curiously--they by degrees separated themselves from her
individual resentment; much she desired to make them her laws, for they
seemed beautiful to her conscience. Could she but receive that
Christian spirit, it would be easy to go to Mary and say, 'I have been
wrong; forgive me!' The day was not yet come.

So she had to turn over plans for helping the poor old man who long ago
had so helped her and Thyrza. Of course she thought of the possibility
of his coming to live in Thyrza's house; yet how propose that? Thyrza
had so much to occupy her; it was not wonderful that she took for
granted Mr. Boddy's well-being. And would it be justifiable to impose a
burden of this kind upon the newly-married pair? To be sure she could
earn enough to pay for the little that Mr. Boddy needed. Thyrza had
almost angrily rejected the idea that her sister should pay rent in the
new house; payment for board she would only accept because Lydia
declared that if it were not accepted she would live elsewhere. So
there would remain a margin for the old man's needs. But his presence
in the house was the difficulty. It might be very inconvenient, and in
any ease such a proposal ought to come from Gilbert first of all. The
old man, moreover, was very sensitive on the point involved; such a
change would have to be brought about with every delicacy. Still, it
must come to that before long.

Perhaps the best would be to wait until Thyrza was actually married,
and discover how the household arrangements worked. Thyrza herself
would then perhaps notice the old man's failing strength.

Lydia went to see him on Sunday afternoon. The bright day suggested to
her that she should take him out for a walk. She had waited until Mary
would be away at the school. Mr. Bower lay on the sofa snoring: the
after-smell of roast beef and cabbage was heavy in the air of the room.
Mrs. Bower would have also slept but for the necessity of having an eye
to the shop, which was open on Sunday as on other days; her drowsiness
made her irritable, and she only muttered as Lydia went through to the
staircase. Lydia had come this way for the sake of appearances; she
resolved that on the next occasion she would ring Mr. Boddy's bell at
the side door. Upstairs, the old man was reading his thumbed Bible. He
never went to a place of worship, but read the Bible on Sunday without
fail.

He was delighted to go out into the sunshine.

'And when did the little one get back?' he asked, as he drew out his
overcoat--the Christmas gift--from a drawer in which it was carefully
folded.

'Why, what do you think? She won't be back till tomorrow. Yesterday,
when I got back from work, there was a telegraph waiting for me. It was
from the lady at Eastbourne, Mrs. Ormonde, and just said she was going
to keep Thyrza till Monday, because it would do her good. How she will
be enjoying herself!

They left the house by the private door and went in the direction of
the river. Lydia ordinarily walked at a good pace; now she accommodated
her steps to those of her companion. Her tall shapely figure made that
of the old man look very decrepit. When he had anything of importance
to say, Mr. Boddy came to a stand, and Lydia would bend a little
forward, listening to him so attentively that she was quite unaware of
the glances of those who passed by. So they got to the foot of Lambeth
Bridge.

'We mustn't go too far,' Lydia said, 'or you'll be tired, grandad.
Suppose we walk a little way along the Embankment. It's too cold, I'm
afraid, to sit down. But isn't it nice to have sunshine? How that child
must be enjoying herself, to be sure! She was almost crazy yesterday
morning before she got off; I'm certain she didn't sleep not two hours
in the night. It's very kind of that lady to keep her, isn't it? But
everybody is kind to Thyrza, they can't help being.'

'No more they can, Lyddy; no more they can. But there's somebody else
as I want to see enjoying herself a little. When 'll your turn come for
a bit of a holiday, my dear? You work year in year out, and you're so
quiet over it any one 'ud forget as you wanted a rest just like other
people.'

'We shall see, grandad. Wait till the summer comes, and Thyrza's well
settled down, and then who knows but you and me may run away together
for a day at the seaside! I'm going to be rich, because they won't let
me pay anything for my room. We'll keep that as a secret to ourselves.'

'Well, well,' said the old man, chuckling from sheer pleasure in her
affection, 'there's no knowin'. I'd like to go to the seaside once
more, and I'd rather you was with me than any one else. We always find
something to talk about, I think, Lyddy. And 'taint with everybody I
care to talk nowadays. It's hard to find people as has the same
thoughts. But you and me, we remember together, don't we, Lyddy? Now,
do _you_ remember one night as there come a soldier into the shop, a
soldier as wanted to buy--'

'A looking-glass!' Lydia exclaimed. 'I know! I remember!'

'A looking-glass! And when he'd paid for it, he took up his stick an'
smashed the glass right in the middle, then walked off with it under
his arm!'

'Why, what years it must be since I thought of that, grandad! And I ran
away, frightened!'

'I was frightened myself too. And we never could understand it! Last
night, when I was lying awake, that soldier came back to me, and I
laughed so; and I thought, I'll ask Lyddy to-morrow if she remembers
that.'

They both laughed, then pursued their walk.

'Why look,' said Mr. Boddy presently, 'here's Mr. Ackroyd a-comin'
along!'

Lydia had already seen him; that was why she had become silent.

'You're not going to stop, are you, grandad?' she asked, under her
breath.

'Why no, my dear? Not if you don't wish.'

'I'd rather not.'

Ackroyd was walking with his hands in his pockets, looking carelessly
about him. He recognised the two at a little distance, and drew one
hand forth. Till he got quite near he affected not to have seen them;
then, without a smile, he raised his hat, and walked past, his pace
accelerated. Lydia, also with indifferent face, just bent to the
greeting. Mr. Boddy had given a friendly nod.

There was silence between the companions, then Lydia said:

'I've thought it better, grandad, not to--not to be quite the same with
Mr. Ackroyd as I used to be.'

'Yes, yes, Lyddy; I understand, There's a deal of talk about him. I'm
sorry. He's done me more than one good turn, and I hope he'll get
straight again yet. I'm afraid, my dear, as--you know--the
disappointment--'

Lydia interrupted with firmness.

'That's no excuse at all--not a bit! If he really felt the
disappointment so much he ought to have borne it like a man. Other
people have as much to bear. I never thought he was a man of that kind,
never! We won't say anything more about him.'

Their conversation so lightened the way that they reached Westminster
Bridge, and returned by the road which runs along the rear of the
hospital.

'You won't come in, Lyddy?' said the old man, when they were near the
shop again.

'Not to-day, grandad. I'm going to tea with Mrs. Grail and Gilbert,
because Thyrza's away.'

He acquiesced, trying to conceal the sadness he felt. Lydia kissed his
cheek, and left him.

All through tea in the Grails' parlour the talk was of Thyrza. How was
she passing her time? Was it as fine at Eastbourne as here in London?
What sort of a lady was Mrs. Ormonde? And when the three drew chairs
about the fire, Gilbert had something of moment to communicate,
something upon which he had resolved since Thyrza's departure.

'Lyddy,' he began, 'mother and I think Thyrza had better not go to work
again. As she is going to miss to-morrow morning, it'll be a good
opportunity for making the change. Isn't it better?'

Lydia did not reply at once. Such a decided step as this reminded her
how near the day was when, though they would still be near to each
other, Thyrza and she must in a sense part. The thought was always a
heavy one; she did not willingly entertain it.

'Do you think,' she asked at length, 'that Thyrza will feel she ought
to stay at home?'

'I think she will, when I've spoken to her about it. We want you both
to have your meals with us. Thyrza can help mother, and she'll have
more time for her reading. Of course you must be just as much together
as you like, but it would be pleasant if you would come down here to
meals. Will you do us that kindness, Lyddy?'

'But,' Lydia began, doubtfully. Mrs. Grail interrupted her:

'Now I know what you're going to say, my dear, It isn't nice of you,
Lyddy, if you spoil this little plan we've made. Just for the next
three weeks! After that you can be as independent as you please; yes,
my dear, just as proud as you please. There's a great deal of pride in
you, you know, and I don't like you the worse for it.'

'I don't think I'm proud at all,' said Lydia, smiling and reddening a
little. 'If Thyrza agrees, then I will. Though I--'

'There now, that's all we want,' interposed the old lady. 'That's very
good of you.'

By the first post in the morning arrived a letter addressed to 'Miss
Trent,' bearing the Eastbourne post-mark. Lydia for a moment had a
great fear, but, when she had torn the envelope open, the first lines
put her at rest. It was Mrs. Ormonde who wrote, and in words which made
Lydia feel very happy. With the exception of a line once or twice from
Mary Bower, she had never received a letter in her life; she was very
proud of the honour. Gilbert had just come home for breakfast, and all
rejoiced over the news of Thyrza.

It was hard for Lydia to sit through her morning at the workroom.
Thyrza was to be at home by twelve o'clock. As soon as the dinner-hour
struck, Lydia flung her work aside, and was in Walnut Tree Walk in less
time than it had ever before taken her. Instinct told her that the
child would be waiting upstairs alone, and not in the Grails' room. She
flew up. Thyrza rose from a chair and met her.

Not, however, with the outburst of childish rapture which Lydia had
anticipated. Their parts were reversed. When the elder sister sprang
forward, breathless with her haste, unable to utter anything but broken
terms of endearment, Thyrza folded her in her arms, and, without a
spoken word, kissed her with grave tenderness. Her cheeks had the most
unwonted colour; her eyes gleamed, and as Lydia's caresses continued,
glistened with moisture.

'Dear Lyddy!' she murmured. A tear formed upon her eyelashes, and her
voice made trembled music. 'Dear sister! You're glad to see me again?'

'It seems an age, my own darling! You can't think what Sunday was like
to me without you. And how well you look, my beautiful! See what a
letter I've had from Mrs. Ormonde. Do tell me what she's like! How did
she come to ask you if you'd stay! To think of you saying I should be
cross with her! But of course that was only fun. My dear one! And
what's the sea like? Were you on the shore again this morning?'

'How many questions does that make, I wonder, Lyddy?' Thyrza said, with
a smile still much graver than of wont. 'I shan't tell you anything
till you've had dinner. It's all ready for you downstairs.'

'You know what they want us to do?'

'Oh, I've talked it all over with Mrs. Grail. I don't think we ought to
refuse, Lyddy. And so I'm not to go to work any more? I wish it was the
same for you, dear. Shall you find it very hard to go alone?'

'Hard? Not I! Why, whatever should I do with myself if I stayed at
home? It's different with you; you must learn all you can, so as to be
able to talk to Gilbert.'

'Come to dinner!'

Lydia paused at the door.

'What has come to you, Thyrza?' she asked, looking in her sister's
face. 'You're not the same, somehow. Oh, how _did_ you manage to do
your own hair? But there's something different in you, Blue-eyes.'

'Is there? Yes, perhaps. Oh, we've a deal to talk about to-night,
Lyddy!'

'But Gilbert 'll want you to-night.'

'No. That must be to-morrow.'

And so it was. When all had sat together for an hour at Gilbert's late
meal, the sisters went up to their room. Gilbert understood this
perfectly well. The next evening would be his.

When it came, Mrs. Grail made an excuse to go and sit with Lydia.
Thyrza had her easy-chair; Gilbert was at a little distance. The
privileges he asked were very few. Sometimes, when Thyrza and he were
alone, he would bold her hand for a minute, and at parting he kissed
her, but more of acted tenderness than that he did not allow himself.
To-night, whilst she was speaking, he gazed at her continuously. He too
observed the change of which Lydia had at once become aware. Thyrza
seemed to have grown older in those two days. Her very way of sitting
was marked by a maturer dignity, and in her speech it was impossible
not to be struck with the self-restraint, the thoughtful choice of
words, which had taken the place of her former impulsiveness.

She dwelt much upon the delight she had received from Miss Newthorpe's
playing. That had clearly made a great impression upon her.

'There was something she played, Gilbert, that told just what I felt
when I first saw the sea. Do you know what I mean? Does music ever seem
to speak to you in that way? It's really as if it spoke words.'

'I understand you very well, Thyrza,' he answered, in a subdued voice.
And he added, his eyes brightening: 'Shall I take you some night to a
concert, a really good concert, at one of the large halls?'

'Will you?'

'Yes, I will. I'll find out from the newspaper, and we'll go together.'

She looked at him gratefully, but did not speak. As she remained
silent, he drew his chair nearer and held his hand for hers. She gave
it, without meeting his look.

'Thyrza, I heard from Mr. Egremont this morning. He wants to know if I
can be ready to begin at the library on May 7, that's a Monday. It
won't be opened then, but we shall be able to begin arranging the
books. The house will be ready before the end of this month. Will you
come and be married to me three weeks from to-day?'

'Yes, Gilbert, I will.'

No flush, but an extreme pallor came upon her face.

He felt a coldness in her hand.

'Then we shall go for a week to the seaside again,' he continued, his
voice uncertain, 'and be back in time to get our house in order before
the 7th of May.'

'Yes, Gilbert.'

She still did not look at him. He released her hand, and went on in a
more natural tone:

'I had a letter from my brother this morning, as well. He'll have to
come to London on business in about a month, he says; so I hope we
shall be able to have him stay with us.'

'I hope so.'

She spoke mechanically, and then followed a rather long silence. Both
were lost in thought. Nor did the conversation renew itself after this,
for Thyrza seemed to have no more to tell of her Eastbourne
experiences, and Gilbert found it enough to sit near her at times
searching her face for the meaning which was new-born in it.

She rose at length, and, when they had exchanged a few words with
regard to her occupations now that she would remain at home, Thyrza
approached him to say good-night. Instead of bending to kiss her at
once, he held her hand in both his and said:

'Thyrza, look at me.'

She did so. His hands were trembling, and his features worked nervously.

'You have never said you love me,' he continued, just above a whisper.
'Will you say that now?'

For an instant she looked down, then raised her eyes again, and
breathed:

'I love you, Gilbert.'

'I don't think words were ever spoken that sounded sweeter than those!'

She spoke again, with an earnestness unlike anything he had ever seen
in her, quite different from that which had inspired similar words when
first she pledged herself to him.

'Gilbert, I will try with all my strength to be a good wife to you! I
will!'

'And I hope, Thyrza, that the day when I fail in perfect love and
kindness to you may be the last of my life!'

She raised her face, For the first time he put his arms about her and
kissed her passionately.

Mrs. Grail said good-night and went downstairs as soon as Thyrza
appeared. Thyrza seated herself and pressed a hand against her side;
her heart beat painfully.

'Why there!' Lydia exclaimed of a sudden. 'She's left the photographs!'

'What photographs?' Thyrza asked.

Lydia took from the table an envelope which contained some dozen
cartes-de-visite. They were all the portraits which Mrs. Grail and her
son possessed, and the old lady was very fond of looking over them and
gossiping about them. She had brought them up to-night because she
anticipated an evening of especial intimacy with Lydia.

Thyrza held out her hand for them. She knew them all, including the
latest addition, which was a photograph of Walter Egremont. Egremont
had given it to Grail about three weeks ago; it was two years old. She
turned them out upon her lap.

'I think I'd better take them down now, hadn't I?' said Lydia.

'I wouldn't trouble till morning,' Thyrza answered, in a tired voice.

Two lay exposed before her: that of Gilbert, taken six years ago, and
that of Egremont. Lydia, looking over her shoulder, remarked:

'What a boy Mr. Egremont looks, compared with Gilbert!'

Thyrza said nothing.

'Come, dear, put them in the envelope, and let me take them down.'

'Oh, never mind till morning, Lyddy!'

The voice was rather impatient.

'But I'm afraid Mrs. Grail 'll remember, and have the trouble of coming
up.'

'She won't think it worth while. And I want to look at them.'

'Oh, very well, dear.'

The two unlike faces continued to lie uppermost.




CHAPTER XIX

A SONG WITHOUT WORDS


Whilst the repairs were going on in the house behind the school, the
old caretaker still lived there. Egremont found that she had in truth
nowhere else to go, and as it was desirable that someone should remain
upon the premises, he engaged her to do so until the Grails entered
into possession.

As soon as painters, plasterers, and paperhangers were out of the way,
Grail and Thyrza went to the house to decide what furniture it would be
necessary to buy. The outlay was to be as little as possible, for
indeed there was but little money to spend. Mrs. Butterfield--that was
the old woman's name--admitted them, but without speaking; when Gilbert
made some kindly-meant remark about its being disagreeable for her to
live in such a strong odour of paint, she muttered inarticulately and
withdrew into the kitchen. Thyrza presently peeped into that room. The
old woman was sitting on a low stool by the fire, her knees up to her
chin, her grizzled hair unkempt; she looked so remarkably like a witch,
and, on Thyrza's appearance, turned with a gaze of such extreme
malignity, that the girl drew back in fear.

'I suppose she takes it ill that the old state of things has been
disturbed,' Gilbert said. 'Mr. Egremont tells me he has found that she
is to have a small weekly allowance from the chapel people, so I don't
suppose she'll fall into want, and we know he wouldn't send her off to
starve; that isn't his way.'

The removal of such things as were to be brought from Walnut Tree Walk,
and the housing of the new furniture, would take only a couple of days.
This was to be done immediately before the wedding; then Lydia and Mrs.
Grail would live in the house whilst the husband and wife were away.

Egremont found that the large school-room would be ready sooner than he
had anticipated. When it was cleaned out, there was nothing to do save
to fix shelves, a small counter, and two long tables. For some time he
had been making extensive purchases of books, for the most part from a
secondhand dealer, who warehoused his volumes for him till the library
should be prepared to receive them. He had drawn up, too, a skeleton
catalogue, but this could not be proceeded with before the books were
in some sort of order upon the shelves. He was nervously impatient to
reach this stage. Since his last visit to Eastbourne he had seen no
friends in civilised London, and now that he had no longer lectures to
write, his state of mind grew ever more unsatisfactory. Loneliness,
though to so great an extent self-imposed, weighed upon him
intolerably. He believed that he was going through the dreariest time
of his life.

How often he thought with envy of the little parlour in Walnut Tree
Walk! To toil oneself weary through a long day in a candle factory, and
then come back to the evening meal, with the certainty that a sweet
young face would be there to meet one with its smile, sweet lips to
give affectionate welcome--that would be better than this life which he
led. He wished to go there again, but feared to do so without
invitation. The memory of his evening there made drawing-rooms
distasteful to him.

He had a letter from Mrs. Ormonde, in which a brief mention was made of
Thyrza's visit. He replied:

'Why do you not tell me more of the impression made upon you by Miss
Trent? It was a favourable one, of course, as you kept her with you
over the Sunday. You do not mention whether Annabel saw her. She is
very fond of music; it would have been a kindness to ask Annabel to
play to her. But I have Miss Newthorpe's promise that she and her
father will come and see the library as soon as it is open; then at all
events they will make the acquaintance of Mrs. Grail.

'She interests me very much, as you gather from my way of writing about
her. I hope she will come to think of me as a friend. It will be
delightful to watch her mind grow. I am sure she has faculties of a
very delicate kind; I believe she will soon be able to appreciate
literature. Has she not a strange personal charm, and is it not
impossible to think of her becoming anything but a beautiful-natured
woman? You too, now that you know her, will continue to be her
friend--I earnestly hope so. If she could be for a little time with you
now and then, how it would help to develop the possibilities that are
in her!'

To the letter of which this was part, Mrs. Ormonde quickly responded:

'With regard to Miss Trent,' she said, 'I beg you not to indulge your
idealistic habits of thought immoderately. I found her a pretty and
interesting girl, and it is not unlikely that she may make a good wife
for such a man as Mr. Grail--himself, clearly, quite enough of an
idealist to dispense with the more solid housewifely virtues in his
life-mate. But I add this, Walter: It certainly would not be advisable
to fill her head too suddenly with a kind of thought to which she has
hitherto been a stranger. If I had influence with Mr. Grail, I should
hint to him that he is going to marry a very young wife, and that,
under the circumstances, the balance of character to be found in sober
domestic occupation will, for some time, be what she most needs to aim
at. You see, I am _not_ an idealist, and I think commonplace domestic
happiness of more account than aspirations which might not improbably
endanger it. Forgive me for these remarks, which you will say have a
slight odour of the kitchen, or, at best, of the store-room. Never
mind; both are places without which the study could not exist.'

Egremont bit his lips over this; for the first time he was dissatisfied
with Mrs. Ormonde. He wondered on what terms she had received Thyrza.
He had imagined the girl as treated with every indulgence at The
Chestnuts, but the tone of this letter made him fear lest Mrs. Ormonde
had deemed it a duty to refrain from too much kindness. It was very
unlike her; what had she observed that made her so disagreeably prudent
all at once?

It added to his mental malaise. What change was befalling his life? Was
he about to find himself actually sundered from the friends he had made
in the sphere which his birth gave him no claim to enter? It all meant
that he was reverting to the condition wherein he was born. His attempt
to become a member of Society (with a capital) was proving itself a
failure. Very well, he would find his friends in the working world.
When he needed society of an evening, he would find it with Gilbert
Grail and his wife. He would pursue his work more earnestly than ever;
he would get his club founded, as soon as the library was ready for a
rallying-place; he would seek diligently for the working men of hopeful
character, and by force of sincerity win their confidence. Let the
wealthy and refined people go their way.

And at this point he veritably experienced a great relief. For two days
he went about almost joyously. His task was renewed before him, and his
energy at the same time had taken new life. Doubt, he said to himself,
was once more vanquished--perchance finally.

Then came another letter from Mrs. Ormonde, asking him to come and
drink the air of these delicious spring days by the shore. He replied
that it was impossible to leave London. That very day he had despatched
seven packing-cases full of volumes to the library, and he was going to
begin the work of setting the books on the shelves.

That was a Monday; a week remained before Thyrza's marriage-day. Thyrza
had not been to the new house since she went with Gilbert to see about
the furniture. Her curiosity was satisfied; her interest in the place
had strangely lessened. More than that: in walking by herself she never
chose that direction, whereas formerly she had always liked to do so.
It seemed as if she had some reason for avoiding sight of the building.

This Monday her mind changed again. She frequently went to meet her
sister at the dinner-hour, and to-day, having set forth somewhat too
early, she went round by way of Brook Street. No positive desire
impelled her; it was rather as if her feet took that turning
independently of her thoughts. On drawing near to the library she was
surprised to see a van standing before the door; two men were carrying
a wooden box into the building. She crossed to the opposite side of the
way, and went forwards slowly. The men came out, mounted to the
box-seat of the van, and drove away.

That must be a delivery of books. Who was there to receive them?

She crossed the street again, and approached the library door. She
walked past it, stopped, came back. She tried the handle, and the door
opened. There was no harm in looking in.

Amid a number of packing-oases stood Egremont. His head was uncovered,
and he had a screw-driver in his hand, as if about to open the chests.
At sight of Thyrza he came forward with a look of delight and shook
hands with her.

'So you have discovered what I'm about. I didn't wish anyone to know.
You see, the shelves are all ready, and I couldn't resist the
temptation of having books brought. Will you keep the secret?'

'I won't say a word, sir.'

Warmth on Thyrza's cheeks answered the pleasure in his eyes as he
looked at her. Perhaps neither had fully felt how glad it would make
them to meet again. When Thyrza had given her assurance, Egremont's
face showed that he was going to say something in a different tone.

'Miss Trent, will you speak to me in future as you do to your friends?
I want very much to be one of your friends, if you will let me.'

Thyrza kept her eyes upon the ground. She could not find the fitting
words for reply. He continued:

'Grail is my friend, and we always talk as friends should. Won't you
cease to think of me as a stranger?'

'I don't think of you in that way, Mr. Egremont.'

'Then let us shake hands again in the new way.'

Thyrza gave hers. She just met his eyes for a moment her own had a
smile of intense happiness.

'Yes, keep this a secret,' Egremont went on, quickly resuming his
ordinary voice. 'I'll surprise Grail in a few days, by bringing him in.
Now, how am I to get this lid off? How tremendously firm it is! I
suppose I ought to have got the men to do it, but I brought a
screw-driver in my pocket, thinking it would be easy enough. Ah,
there's a beginning! I ought to have a hammer.'

'Shall I go and ask Mrs. Butterfield if she has one?'

'Oh no, I'll go myself.'

'I'll run--it won't take me a minute!'

She went out by the door that led into the house. In the dark passage
she was startled by coming in contact with someone.

'Oh, who is that?'

A muttered reply informed her that it was the old woman. They went
forward into the nearest room. There was a disagreeable smile on Mrs.
Butterfield's thin lips.

'If you please, have you got a hammer?' Thyrza asked. 'Mr. Egremont
wants one.'

The old woman went apart, and returned with a hammer which was used for
breaking coals.

'Oh, could you just wipe it?' Thyrza said. 'The handle's so very black.'

It was done, ungraciously enough, and Thyrza hastened back. Egremont
was standing as she had left him.

'Ah, now I can manage! Thank you.'

With absorbed interest Thyrza watched the process.

'I saw them bringing the last box in,' she said; 'that's why I came to
look.'

'That was a risk I foresaw--that someone would notice the cart. But
perhaps you are the only one.'

'I hope so--as you don't want any one to know.'

She paused, then added:

'I was going to meet Lyddy--my sister. I don't go to work myself now,
Mr. Egremont. Perhaps Gilbert has told you?'

'No, he hasn't mentioned it. But I am glad to hear it.'

'I don't much like my sister going alone, but she doesn't really mind.'

'I hope I shall soon know your sister.'

He had suspended the work, and stood with one foot upon the case.
Thyrza reflected, then said:

'I hope you will like her, Mr. Egremont.'

'I am sure I shall. I know that you are very fond of your sister.'

'Yes.' Her voice faltered a little. 'I couldn't have gone to live away
from her.'

Egremont bent to his task again, and speedily raised the lid. There was
a covering of newspapers, and then the books were revealed.

'Now,' he said, 'it shall be your hand that puts the first on the
shelf.'

He took out the first volume of a copy of Gibbon, and walked with it to
the wall.

'This shall be its place, and there it shall always stay.'

'Will you tell me what the book is about, Mr. Egremont?' Thyrza asked,
timidly taking it from him. 'I should like to remember it.'

He told her, as well as he could. Thyrza stood in thought for a moment,
then just opened the pages. Egremont watched her.

'I wonder whether I shall ever be able to read that?' she said, in an
under-voice.

'Oh yes, I'm sure you will.'

'And I've to stand it here?'

'Just there. You shall put all the volumes in their place, one after
the other. There are eight of them.'

He brought them altogether, and one by one she took them from him. Then
they went back to the case again, and there was a short silence.

'Gilbert's going to take me to a concert to-night, Mr. Egremont,'
Thyrza said, looking at him shyly.

'Is he? You'll enjoy that. What concert?'

'It's at a place called St. James's Hall.'

'Oh yes! You'll hear admirable music.'

'I've never been to a concert before. But when I was at Eastbourne I
heard a lady play the piano. I _did_ enjoy that!'

Egremont started.

'Was it Miss Newthorpe?' he asked, looking at her without a smile.

'Yes, that was her name.'

She met his look. Walter half turned away, then bent down to the books
again.

'I know her,' he said. 'She plays well.'

He took a couple of volumes, and went with them to the shelves, where
he placed them, without thought, next to the Gibbon. But in a moment he
noticed the title, and moved them to another place. He had become
absent. Thyrza, remaining by the case, followed his movements with her
eyes. As he came back, he asked:

'Did you like Mrs. Ormonde?'

'Yes. She was very kind to me.'

To him it seemed an inadequate reply, and strengthened his fear that
Mrs. Ormonde had not shown all the warmth he would have desired. Yet,
as it proved, she had asked Annabel to play for Thyrza. Thyrza, too,
felt that she ought to say more, but all at once she found a difficulty
in speaking. Her thoughts had strayed.

'I think I must go now,' she said, 'or I shall miss my sister.'

'In that case, I won't delay you. I shall open one or two more of these
boxes, then go somewhere for lunch. Good-bye!'

Thyrza said good-bye rather hurriedly, and without raising her face.

It happened that just then Mr. Bower was coming along Brook Street. He
did not usually leave the works at mid-day, but to-day an exceptional
occasion took him to Paradise Street in the dinner-hour. Thyrza came
forth from the library just as he neared the corner; she did not see
him, but Bower at once observed her. There was nothing singular in her
having been there; possibly the furnishing of the house had begun. In
passing the windows of the future library, Bower looked up at them with
curiosity. Egremont stood there, gazing into the street. He recognised
Bower, nodded, and drew back.

Bower did not care to overtake Thyrza. He avoided her by crossing the
street. She in the meantime was not going straight to meet her sister;
after walking slowly for a little distance, she turned in a direction
the opposite of that she ought to have taken. Then she stopped to look
into a shop-window.

A clock showed her that by this time Lydia would be at home. Yet still
she walked away from her own street. She said to herself that
five-and-twenty minutes must pass before Gilbert would leave the house
to return to his work. The way in which she now was would bring her by
a long compass into Kennington Road. Rain threatened, and she had no
umbrella; none the less, she went on.

At home they awaited her in surprise at her unpunctuality. Mrs. Grail
could not say when she had left the house. All the morning Thyrza had
sat upstairs by herself. Just when Gilbert was on the point of
departure, the missing one appeared.

'Where _have_ you been, child?' cried Lydia. 'Why, it's begun to rain;
you're all wet!'

'I went further than I meant to,' Thyrza replied, throwing off her hat,
and at once taking a seat at the table. 'I hope you didn't wait for me.
I forgot the time.'

'That was with thinking of the concert to-night,' said Gilbert,
laughing.

'I shouldn't wonder,' assented Lydia.

Thyrza smiled, but offered no further excuse. Gilbert and Lydia left
the room and the house together. Their directions were opposite, but
Gilbert went a few steps Lydia's way.

'I want you to alter your mind and go with us to-night,' he said.

'No, really! It isn't worth the expense, Gilbert. I don't care so much
for music.'

'The expense is only a shilling. And Thyrza won't be quite happy
without you. I want her to enjoy herself without _any_ reserve. You'll
come?'

'Well. But--'

'All right. Be ready both of you by half-past six.'

They nodded a good-bye to each other.

Thyrza was making believe to eat her dinner. Mrs. Grail saw what a
pretence it was.

'Was there ever such an excitable child!' she said, affectionately.
'Now do eat something more, dear! I shall tell Gilbert he must never
let you know beforehand when he's going to take you anywhere.'

But Thyrza had no appetite. She helped the old lady to clear the table,
then ran upstairs.

It was an unspeakable relief to be alone. She had never known such a
painful feeling of guilt as whilst she sat with Gilbert and Lydia
regarding her. Yet why? Her secret, she tried to assure herself, was
quite innocent, trivial indeed. But why had she been unable to come
straight home? What had held her away, as forcibly as if a hand had
lain upon her?

She moved aimlessly about the room. It was true that these last two
days she had agitated herself with anticipation of the concert, but it
was something quite different which now put confusion into her thought,
and every now and then actually caught her breath. She did not feel
well. She wished Liddy could have remained at home with her this
afternoon, for she had a need of companionship, of a sort of help.
There was Mrs. Grail; but no, she had rather not be with Mrs. Grail
just now.

On the table were a few articles of clothing which Lydia and she had
made during the last fortnight, things she was going to take away with
her. This morning she had given them a few finishing touches of
needlework, now they could be put away. She went to the chest of
drawers. Of the two small drawers at the top, one was hers, one was
Lydia's; the two long ones below were divided in the same way. She drew
one out and turned over the linen. How some young lady about to be
married--Miss Paula Tyrrell, suppose--would have viewed with pitying
astonishment the outfit with which Thyrza was more than content. But
Thyrza had never viewed marriage as an opportunity of enriching her
wardrobe.

Having put her things away, she opened another drawer, and looked over
some of Lydia's belongings. She stroked them lightly, and returned each
carefully to its place, saying to herself, 'Lyddy wants such and such a
thing. She'll have more money to spend on herself soon. And she shall
have a really nice present on her next birthday. Gilbert 'll give me
money to buy it.'

Then she went to the mantel-piece, and played idly with a little
ornament that stood there. The trouble had been lighter for a few
minutes, now it weighed again. Her heart beat irregularly. She leaned
her elbows on the mantel-piece, and covered her face with her hands.
There was a strange heat in her blood, her breath was hot.

Was it raining still? No, the pavement had dried, and there was no very
dark cloud in the sky. She could not sit here all through the
afternoon. A short walk would perhaps remove the headache which had
begun to trouble her.

She descended the stairs very lightly, and hastened almost on tip-toe
along the passage; the front door she closed as softly as possible
behind her, and went in the direction away from Mrs. Grail's parlour
window. To be sure she was free to leave the house as often as she
pleased, but for some vague reason she wished just now not to be
observed. Perhaps Gilbert would think that she went about too much; but
she could not, she could not, sit in the room.

Without express purpose, she again walked towards Brook Street. No, she
was not going to the library again; Mr. Egremont might still be there,
and it would seem so strange of her. But she went to a point whence she
could see the building, and for some minutes stood looking at it. Was
he still within--Mr. Egremont? Those books would take him a long time
to put on the shelves. As she looked someone came out from the door;
Mr. Egremont himself. She turned and almost ran in her desire to escape
his notice.

He was going home. Even whilst hurrying, she tried to imagine how he
was going to spend his evening. From Gilbert's description she had made
a picture of his room in Great Russell Street. Did he sit there all the
evening among his books, reading, writing? Not always, of course. He
was a gentleman, he had friends to go and see, people who lived in
large houses, very grand people. He talked with ladies, with such as
Miss Newthorpe. (Thyrza did not trouble to notice where she was. Her
feet hurried her on, her head throbbed. She was thinking, thinking.)

Such as Miss Newthorpe. Yes, he knew that lady; knew her very well, as
was evident from the way in which he spoke of her. Of what did they
talk, when they met? No doubt she had often played to him, and when she
played he would look at her, and she was very beautiful.

She would not think of Miss Newthorpe. Somehow she did not feel to her
in the same way as hitherto.

When she was married, she would of course see him very often--Mr.
Egremont. He would be at the library constantly, no doubt. Perhaps he
would come sometimes and sit in their room. And when he began his
lectures in the room upstairs, would it not be possible for her to hear
him? She would so like to, just once. She could at all events creep
softly up and listen at the door. How beautiful his lectures must be!
Gilbert could never speak strongly enough in praise of them. They would
be a little hard to understand, perhaps; but then she was going to read
books more than ever, and get knowledge.

She was in the part of Lambeth Walk farthest from her own street,
having come there by chance, for she had observed nothing on the way.
She did not wish to go home yet. One end of Paradise Street joins the
Walk, and into that she turned. If only there were a chance of Totty
Nancarrow's being at home! But Totty was very regular at work. Still,
an inquiry at the door would be no harm.

Little Jack Bunce was standing in the open doorway; he had a rueful
countenance, marked with recent tears.

'Do you know whether Miss Nancarrow's in?' Thyrza asked of the little
fellow.

He regarded her, and nodded silently.

'Really? She's really in?'

'Yes, she's up in her room,' was the grave answer.

Thyrza ran upstairs. A tap at the door, and Totty's
voice--unmistakable--gave admission. The girl sat sewing; on the bed
lay a child, asleep.

Totty, looking delighted at Thyrza's coming, held up her finger to
impose quietness. Thyrza took the only other chair there was, and drew
it near to her friend.

'That's Nelly Bunce,' Totty said in a low voice, nodding to the bed.
'Just when I was going back to work, what did the child do but tumble
head over heels half down stairs, running after me. It's a wonder she
don't kill herself. I don't think there's no more harm done except a
big bump on the back of the head, but Mrs. Ladds wasn't in, and I
didn't like to go and leave the little thing; she cried herself to
sleep. So there's half a day lost!

Thyrza kept silence. She had felt that she would like to talk with
Totty, yet now she could find nothing to say.

'How's things going on?' Totty asked, smiling.

'Very well, I think.'

'So the day's coming, Thyrza.'

Thyrza played with the ends of a small boa which was about her neck.
She had no reply. Her tongue refused to utter a sound.

'What's the matter?'

Thyrza's hand fell, she touched the sewing that was on Totty's lap.
Then she touched Totty's hand.

'Will you tell me about--about Mr. Ackroyd?'

Totty drew in her lips, knitted her brows, then bent to bite off an end
of cotton.

'What is there to tell?' she asked.

'Is he doing as he promised?'

'As far as I know,' said the other, in a voice which affected
indifference.

'And do you think he'll keep right till Christmas?'

'That's a good deal more than I can say, or anybody else.'

'But you'll do your best to make him?'

'I don't know that I shall bother much. It's his own lookout. I shall
know what he means if he goes wrong again.'

'But--'

'Well? What?'

'You hope he'll keep his promise?' Thyrza said, bending a little
nearer, and dropping her eyes as soon as she had spoken.

'H'm. Yes. Perhaps I do,' said Totty, putting her head on one side. And
forthwith she began to hum a tune, which however, she checked the next
moment, remembering Nelly.

'But you speak in a queer way, Totty.'

'So do you, Thyrza. What are you bothering about?'

Again she searched Thyrza's face, this time with something very curious
in her gaze, a kind of suspicion one would have said.

'I--I like to know about you,' Thyrza said, with embarrassment.

'I've told you all there is to tell.'

'But you haven't told me really whether--Do you,' she sank her voice
still lower, 'do you love him, Totty?'

A singular flush came and went upon the other girl's face. She herself
was little disposed to use sentimental words, and it was the first time
that Thyrza had done so to her. The coarseness she heard from certain
of her companions did not abash her, but this word of Thyrza's seemed
to do so strangely. She looked up in a moment. Thyrza's face was
agitated.

'What does that matter?' Totty said, in a rather hard voice. And she
added, drawing herself up awkwardly, 'You've made your own choice,
Thyrza.'

For an instant surprise held Thyrza mute; then she exclaimed:

'But, Totty, you don't think--? I was thinking of you, dear; only of
you. You never supposed I--Oh, say you didn't think that, Totty!'

Totty relaxed her muscles a little. She smiled, shook her head, laughed
uneasily.

'I meant, dear,' Thyrza continued, 'that I hope you do love him, as
you're going to marry him. I hope you love him very much, and I hope he
loves you. I'm sorry I said that. I thought you wouldn't mind.'

'I don't mind at all, old dear. If you _must_ know--I like him pretty
well.'

'But it ought to be _more_ than that--it ought, Totty--much more than
that, dear--'

She was trembling. Totty looked at her in surprise, coldly.

'Don't go on like that,' she said. 'There, you've woke the child, of
course! Now there'll be two of you crying. See which can make most
noise. Now, Nelly! Well, I call this nice!

At the sound of the child's voice, Thyrza at once restrained herself
and rose from her chair. Totty managed to quieten her little charge,
whom she took upon her lap. She did not look at Thyrza.

'Good-bye, Totty!' said the latter, holding out her hand.

'Good-bye!' Totty returned, but without appearing to notice the hand
offered. 'I hope you'll be better before next Monday, Thyrza.'

'You're unkind to-day, Totty. I wish I hadn't come in.'

There was no reply to this, so Thyrza said another farewell and left
the house.

She got back to her room, and, hopeless of otherwise passing the time
till Lydia's return, lay down on the bed. Perhaps she could close her
eyes for half an hour. But when she had turned restlessly from one side
to the other, there came a knock at the door. She knew it must be Mrs.
Grail, and made no answer. But the knock was repeated, and the door
opened. Mrs. Grail looked in, and, seeing Thyrza, came to the bedside.

'Aren't you well, my dear?' she asked, gently.

Thyrza made pretence of having just awoke.

'I thought I'd try and sleep a little,' she replied, holding her face
with one hand. 'No, I don't feel quite well.'

'Lie quiet, then. I won't disturb you. Come down as soon as you'd like
some tea.'

It was a weary time till Lydia returned, although she came back nearly
half an hour earlier than usual. Thyrza still lay on the bed. When they
had exchanged a few words, the latter said:

'I don't think I can go to-night, Lyddy. My head's bad.'

'Oh, what a pity! Can't we do something to make it better?'

Thyrza turned her face away.

'I'd altered my mind,' Lydia continued. 'I meant to go with you.'

'Really? You'll go with us?'

Thyrza felt that this would lessen the strange reluctance with which
through the afternoon she had thought of the concert. She at once rose,
and consented more cheerfully to try if a cup of tea would help her.
She bathed her forehead, smoothed her hair, and went down.

It was not long before Gilbert entered, he too having come away earlier
from work. In order to get a seat in the gallery of the concert hall,
they must be soon at the doors. Thyrza declared that she felt much
better. Her heavy eyes gave little assurance of this, but something of
her eagerness had returned, and for the time she had indeed succeeded
in subduing the torment within.

An omnibus took the three into Piccadilly. They were not too early at
the hall, for the accustomed crowd had already begun to assemble.
Thyrza locked her arm in her sister's, Gilbert standing behind them. He
whispered a word now and then to one or the other, but Thyrza kept
silence; her cheeks were flushed; she inspected all the faces about
her. At length, admission was gained and seats secured.

Thyrza sat between the other two, but she still kept her hold on
Lydia's arm, until the latter said laughingly:

'You're not afraid of losing me now. I expect we shall be dreadfully
hot here soon.'

She withdrew her hand. Gilbert began to talk to her. Had it not been
for the circumstances, he must have observed a difference in Thyrza's
manner to him. She scarcely ever met his look, and when she spoke it
was with none of the usual spontaneity. But she seemed to be absorbed
in observation of the people who had begun to seat themselves in other
parts of the hall. The toilettes were a wonder to her. Lydia, too, they
interested very much; she frequently whispered a comment on such as
seemed to her 'nice' or the contrary. She could not help trying to
think how Thyrza would look if 'dressed like a lady.'

Thyrza started, so perceptibly that Lydia asked her what was the matter.

'Nothing,' she answered, moving as if to seat herself more comfortably.
But henceforth her eyes were fixed in one direction, on a point down in
the body of the hall. She no longer replied to the remarks of either of
her companions. The flush remained warm upon her cheeks.

'Thyrza!' whispered Gilbert, when the musicians were in their places,
and the preliminary twanging and screeching of instruments under
correction had begun. 'There's Mr. Egremont!'

'Is he? Where?'

'Do you see that tall lady in the red cloak? No, more to the left;
there's a bald man on the other side of him.'

'Yes, I see him.'

She waited a moment, then repeated the news to Lydia, with singular
indifference. Then she began to gaze in quite other directions. The
instrumental uproar continued.

'Oh dear!' said Lydia, with a wry face. I'm sure that kind of music
won't do your head any good. Is it still better?'

'I think so--yes, yes.'

'Grandad doesn't take anything like that time to tune his fiddle,' the
other whispered, conscious that she was daring in her criticism.

Thyrza, on an impulse, conveyed the remark to Gilbert, who laughed
silently.

The concert began. Thyrza's eyes had again fixed themselves on that
point down below, and during the first piece they did not once move.
Her breathing was quick. The heart in her bosom seemed to swell, as
always when some great emotion possessed her, and with difficulty she
kept her vision unclouded. Lydia often looked at her, so did Gilbert;
she was unconscious of it.

'Did you like that?' Gilbert asked her when the piece was over.

'Yes, very much.'

She had leaned back. Lydia sought her hand; she received a pressure in
return, but the other hand did not remain, as she expected it would.

Gilbert himself was not much disposed to speak. He, too, was moved in
the secret places of his being--moved to that ominous tumult of
conflicting joy and pain which in the finer natures comes of music
intensely heard. He had been at concerts before, but had little
anticipated that he would ever attend one in such a mood as was his
to-night. It seemed to him that he had not yet realised his happiness,
that in his most rapturous moments he had rated it but poorly,
unimaginatively. The strong wings of that glorious wordless song bore
him into a finer air, where his faculties of mind and heart grew
unconditioned. If it were possible to go back into the world endowed as
in these moments! To the greatest man has come the same
transfiguration, the same woe of foreseen return to limits. But one
thing was real and would not fail him. She who sat by him was his--his
now and for ever. Why had he yet loved her so little?

The second piece began. Again Thyrza looked down into the hall. After a
while there came a piece of vocal music. The singer was not of much
reputation, but to Thyrza her voice seemed more than human. In the
interval which followed she whispered to Lydia:

'I shall never pretend to sing again.'

Egremont had risen in his place, and was looking about him. Thyrza was
yet in some doubt whether he was alone. But he had not yet spoken to
that lady next to him, and now, on sitting down, he did not speak. He
must be without companion.




CHAPTER XX

RAPIDS


In the crowd with which they mingled on passing out again, Thyrza saw
men in evening dress; she looked in every direction for Egremont, but
was disappointed. Gilbert had begged her to hold his arm; he moved
forward as quickly as possible, and with Lydia following they were soon
in the street. Gilbert wished to cross, for the sake of quickly getting
out of the throng. Thyrza threw one glance back. A hat was raised by
someone going in the opposite direction, who also had turned his head.
She had seen him. She was glad he did not come up to speak. Could he
discern the flash of joy which passed over her face as she recognised
him? She hoped he had, but at once hoped that he had not.

There was waiting for an omnibus. Thyrza still had her arm within
Gilbert's; she was unconscious of all the bustle amid which she stood,
unconscious of the pressure with which Gilbert drew her nearer to him.
When at length bidden, she entered the vehicle, and leaned back with
her eyes closed.

How dark and quiet these streets of Lambeth seemed As she passed the
threshold of the house, a sudden chill fell upon her, and she shook.
How sombre the passage was, with its dim lamp suspended against the
wall! Voices seemed strange; when Mrs. Grail welcomed her in the
parlour, she did not recognise the sound.

She could not be persuaded to get to bed immediately. Neither could she
sit still, but walked restlessly about the floor.

'How hot it is!' she complained to Lydia. 'Do you mind if I open the
window just a little?'

'I don't, but I'm afraid it'll give you cold. Now do undress, there's a
dear!'

'Just for a minute.'

She threw the window up, and stood breathing the air. Her thoughts
strayed into the darkness. Had Mr. Egremont gone to the concert just
because she mentioned that she was going? It was not likely, but
perhaps so. When should she see him to speak of it? Would he still be
arranging books the next morning?

'Now, Thyrza, you _must_ shut the window! I shall be angry. Do as I
tell you, and get to bed at once.'

At the voice, Thyrza drew the window down, then turned and stood before
her sister, as if she were going to say something. But she did not
speak.

'Do you feel ill, dear?' Lydia asked, anxiously.

'Not well, Lyddy. Don't get cross with me. I'll go to bed directly.'

She walked again the length of the room, then began to hum an air. It
was the first song of the concert. She took the crumpled programme from
her pocket, and glanced over it. Lydia moved impatiently. Thyrza put
the programme down on the table, and began to loosen her dress.

'Are you glad you went, Lyddy?' she asked, in a tired voice.

'I shan't be glad we any of us went if it's going to make you ill,
Thyrza.'

'I shall be all right to-morrow, I dare say. I wonder whether Mr.
Egremont often goes to concerts?'

'Very likely. He can afford it.'

'I mustn't go again for a long time.'

She had seated herself on the bed and was undoing the braid of her
hair. She spoke the last words thoughtfully. In a minute or two the
light was out.

Lydia soon fell asleep. In the very early morning a movement of her
sister's awoke her. She found that Thyrza was sitting up in the bed.

'What is it, dear?' she asked, 'Lie down and go to sleep.'

'I can't, Lyddy, I can't! I _am_ so tired, and I haven't closed my
eyes. Keep awake with me a minute, will you?'

Lydia took the sleepless girl in her arms.

'The music won't leave me,' Thyrza moaned. 'It's just as if I heard
them playing now.'

Lydia nursed her into a fitful sleep.

Though Thyrza had no work to go to, she still always rose together with
her sister, and, whilst the latter put the room in order, went down to
assist Mrs. Grail in getting the breakfast. But on the morning after
the concert Lydia was glad to see that the head beside her own was
weighed down with sleep when the hour for rising had come. She dressed
as quietly as possible, leaving the blind drawn, and descended to say
that Thyrza would be a little longer than usual. Gilbert was in the
parlour.

'Has she slept well?' he asked.

'Not very well. She couldn't get the sound of the music out of her
ears. But she's fast now.'

'We shall have to be careful of her, Lyddy,' Gilbert said, anxiously.

For he had had her face before him all night, with its pale, wearied
look of over-excitement. He knew how delicate a nature it was that he
was going to take into his charge, and already his love was at times
gently mingled with fear.

Lydia went upstairs again, and softly into the room. Thyrza had just
awoke and was sitting with her hands together upon her face.

'What time is it?' she asked. 'Why did you let me sleep? Have you been
up long?'

Lydia constrained her to lie down again. She was unwilling at first,
but in the end fell back with a sigh of relief.

'What day is it, Lyddy? Oh, Tuesday, of course. I suppose the days 'll
go very slow till Saturday. I'm sure I don't know what I shall do all
the time.'

'Don't trouble about it now, dear. Try and sleep a little more, and
I'll bring you up some breakfast just before I go.'

'That'll be like when I was poorly, won't it, Lyddy?'

She lay and laughed quietly.

'You feel better?'

'Oh yes. Is it a fine morning?'

'The pavement's just drying.

'Good-night!'

She drew the clothes over her head. Lydia could hear her still
laughing, and wondered. Thyrza could not have told what it was that
amused her.

She did not sleep again, but had breakfast in bed. Lydia sat with her
as long as possible. Thyrza, as soon as she heard the front door close
behind her sister, sprang on to the floor and began to dress with
nervous rapidity; her hands were so unsteady that she had all sorts of
difficulties with buttons and hooks and eyes.

'Don't trouble with your hair,' Lydia had said. 'I'll do it at
dinner-time.'

But Thyrza could not obey in this. She did the plaiting twice over,
being dissatisfied with the first result, and even took a new piece of
blue ribbon for the ends.

The sun was shining. That always affected her pleasurably, and this
morning, as soon as she was dressed, a gladness altogether without
conscious reason made her sing, again the song of the concert. The air,
which she could not wholly remember the night before, had grown to
completeness in her mind; she longed to know the words, that the whole
song might henceforth stay with her. And the sun, so rare in our dull
skies, seemed to warm the opposite houses. She threw open the window,
and heard the clocks striking nine.

'I'll just make the bed and put things straight, then--oh, then I must
really go and do something for Mrs. Grail. I left her alone nearly all
yesterday. And then I might go and meet Lyddy. But it's a long time
till half-past twelve. Perhaps--'

Having made the bed she sat down to rest for a moment. After all, the
headache was certainly not gone, though it had been disguising itself.
The moment grew to a quarter of an hour. Her eyes seemed to behold
something very clearly, just in front, down there on the floor. But the
floor itself had made way for a large hall; among rows of people she
saw a tall lady in a red cloak, and a bald-headed gentleman, and
between them someone whose face was at an angle which allowed her to
see it very well, to note even the look, not quite a smile, of pleasure
which made it so interesting. She knew no other face which affected her
as that did. She desired it to turn full upon her, to look straight
into hers with its clear, gentle eyes, which seemed to be so full of
wonderful knowledge. Once or twice, yes, in truth, once or twice it had
done so, but never for long enough. It would do so yet again. Oh but
not for long enough! A look not of instants, but of minutes, of full
minutes ticked to their last second; what would she give for that! One
such gaze and she would be satisfied. It was not to ask much, surely
not much.

But she was going to live there, behind the library, and he would come
often, very often. For a time he would certainly come every day. To be
sure, she could not see him daily. Her duties would be in the house;
she would be a wife; people would call her 'Mrs. Grail.'

A voice whispered, a very timid, one would have said a guilty, voice,
'Who will be called 'Mrs. Egremont'?' Not once; the voice, faint as it
was, had an echo, a tingling echo from her heart outwards to the
smallest vein. Who will bear that name? Some tall, beautiful,
richly-clad lady, such as Miss Newthorpe. Was there any one who at this
moment sat alone, longing for one look of his eyes? Did ladies think
and feel in that way? or only foolish little work-girls, who all their
lives had dreamed dreams of a world that was not theirs? Did ladies
ever press down a heart beating almost to anguish and say, half-aloud,
to themselves: 'I love you!'

No; a stately life theirs, no weakness, no sense of a measureless need,
self-respect ever, and ever respect from all about them. Think of Miss
Newthorpe's face. How noble it was! How impossible that it should plead
for anything It might concede with a high, gracious smile, but not
beseech anything. That was the part of poor girls who had not been
taught, in whom it was no shame to look up to one far above them and
long--long for kindness.

The sunlight was creeping along the floor, nearer to her. Oh sun of
spring! nearer, nearer! Your warmth upon my hands, upon my face! Your
warmth upon my heart, that _something_ warm may press there!

The clocks were striking ten. It was unkind to leave Mrs. Grail alone.
The girl hired to do rough work was coming today, but for all that it
behoved her to be attentive to the good old lady, who never spoke to
her save with good, motherly words.

Yes, away with it all! She must go down and be company to Gilbert's
mother. Had she forgotten that in less than a week she would be
Gilbert's wife? A simple test: could she speak out these thoughts of
hers to Lyddy? The hot current in her veins was answer enough. And that
had been the criterion of right and wrong with her since she was a
little child. Lyddy knew the right instinctively, and never failed to
act upon her knowledge. What had been Lyddy's thoughts of Luke Ackroyd?
Perhaps not very different from these to which she had been listening;
for Lyddy too was a work-girl, not a lady. Yet the brave sister had
kept it all hidden away; more, had done her very best to bring together
Luke and someone else whom he loved. How was it possible to reach that
height of unselfishness? But the example should not be without its
effect.

Thyrza presented herself in the parlour. The room was in some disorder;
a girl was on her knees by the fireplace, cleaning. Thyrza went down to
the little back kitchen, which was behind the room where Mr. and Mrs.
Jarmey practically lived. It was dark and cold. Mrs. Grail was making a
pudding.

'Good-morning, my dear!' she said, nodding several times. 'Better now?
I hoped you wouldn't be down yet, but I suppose you couldn't sleep for
the sunshine. I don't think you ought to sit here.'

'Oh, but I'm going to help you. Please give me something to do. Shall I
clean these knives?'

'The idea! Charlotte 'll be down to do those directly. If you really
don't find it too cold here, you may tell me something about the
concert.'

'Yes, I'll tell you, but I must work at the same time. I want to, I
_must_! Yes, I shall do the knives. Please don't be cross!'

She was bent on it; Mrs. Grail quietly acquiesced. For ten minutes
Thyrza wrought strenuously at the knife-board, speaking only a few
words. Then the girl Charlotte made her appearance.

'Now, Thyrza,' Mrs. Grail said, 'if you really want something to do,
suppose you go and dust upstairs. You haven't dusted yet, have you,
Charlotte?'

'No, mum, not yet.'

Thyrza rubbed away for a minute longer, then agreed to go up to the
lighter work. Her head had not profited by the violent exercise.

Dusting is an occupation not incompatible with reverie. How hard it was
to keep her mind from the subject which she had determined not to think
of! As often as her face turned to the sunlight, that longing came back.

Mrs. Grail joined her presently. We know that the old lady had no
fondness for domestic bustle. She sat down, and at length persuaded
Thyrza to do the same.

At half-past eleven Mrs. Grail said:

'My dear, I think you ought to go out for a little, while it's so
bright. I'm not at all sure that the sun 'll last till dinnertime; it's
getting rather uncertain. Just go into Kennington Road and back.'

Thyrza shook her head.

'Not this morning. I'm a little tired.'

'Yes, but it'll make you feel more cheerful, and you'll have an
appetite for dinner, which I'm sure you haven't had for a week and
more. How ever you live on the few mouthfuls you eat is a wonder to me.
You ought to have half an hour's walk every day, indeed you ought.'

It was sorely against her will to go forth, yet desire called to her
from the sunlit ways. Slowly down the stairs, slowly to the end of
Walnut Tree Walk.

Look at that white billow of cloud on its fathomless ocean! Even now
there were clouds like that high up over Eastbourne. One such had hung
above her as she drove with Mrs. Ormonde up Beachy Head. At this moment
the sea was singing; this breeze, which swept the path of May, made
foam flash upon the pebbled shore. Sky and water met on that line of
mystery; far away and beyond was the coast of France.

More quickly now. Whither was she tending? She had at first kept
southwards, straight along Kennington Road; now she had crossed, and
was turning into a street which might--only might--conduct her round
into Brook Street. Desire was in her feet; she could no longer check
them; she must hasten on whithersoever they led.

Oh, why had she left the house! Why had Mrs. Grail--a cruel
mother--bidden her go forth when her will was to stay, and work, and
forget! Could she not stop, even now, and turn?

She stopped. Was it likely that he would be there this morning? No, not
very likely. He would finish all the books yesterday. Yet others might
have been brought.

If he would give her one long look--the look for which she
fainted--then that should be the end. That should be the very end. She
would not play with danger after that. For now she knew that it was
danger; that thought of Lyddy had made everything terribly clear. He
would never know anything of what had been in her foolish heart, and it
would cost him nothing to look once at her with a rich, kind look. He
was all kindness. He had done, was doing, things such as no other man
in his position ever thought of. She would like to tell him the
immeasurable worship with which his nobleness inspired her; but the
right words would never come to her, and the wrong would be so near her
lips. No, one look for him, and therewith an end.

The library was within sight; she had walked very quickly. If he should
not be there! Her hand was on the door; the bitterness of it if the
door proved to be locked.

It was open. She was in the little entrance hall. At the door of the
library itself she stood listening.

Was that a sound of someone within? No, only the beat of her own heart,
the throb which seemed as if it must kill her. She _could_ not open the
door! She had not the strength to stand. The pain, the pain!

Yet she had turned the handle, and had entered. He was in the act of
placing volumes on the shelves. She moved forward and he looked round.

That was not the look she desired. Surprise at first, surprise blent
with pleasure; but then a gravity which was all but disapproval.

Yet he gave his hand.

'Good-morning, Miss Trent!' The voice was scrupulously subdued, as
inflexionless as he could make it. 'I am still at my secret work, you
see. When I went away for lunch yesterday something prevented me from
returning, so I came down again this morning.'

'You have got them nearly all put up.'

She could not face him, but kept her eyes on the almost empty cases.

'Yes. But I expect some more this afternoon.'

He walked away from her, with books in his hands. Thyrza felt ashamed.
What must he think of her? It was almost rude to come in this
way--without shadow of excuse. Doubtless he was punishing her by this
cold manner. Yet he could not unsay what he had said yesterday; and his
recognition of her just outside the Hall last night had been so
friendly. She felt that her mode of addressing him had been too
unceremonious; the 'Sir' of their former intercourse seemed demanded
again. Yet to use it would be plain disregard of his request.

Must she speak another word and go? That would be very hard. Shame and
embarrassment notwithstanding, it was so sweet to be here; nay, the
shame itself was luxury.

He said:

'I am so sorry I haven't a chair to offer you. If I put the top on this
box? That is a very rude sort of seat, but--'

Then he wished her to remain a little? Or was it mere politeness, which
modesty should direct her to meet with similar refusal? It was so hard
that she did not know what was proper, how she was expected to behave.

In the meantime, the seat was improvised. He asked her with a smile if
she would take it.

'Thank you, Mr. Egremont. I'm afraid I mustn't stay. Or only a minute.'

He glanced at the inner door, leading to the house. Had some sound come
thence?

Thyrza seated herself. With one hand she held the edge of the box
nervously. Her eyes were bent downwards. Egremont again walked away
from her. On returning, he said, in the same almost expressionless tone:

'I hope you enjoyed the concert last night?'

This was what she had wished, that he would speak of the concert.

'I did, so very much,' she replied.

And, as she spoke, her face was lifted. He was regarding her, and did
not at once avert his eyes. For an appreciable space of time they
looked at each other.

Was she then satisfied? Could she leave him now and draw a hard line
between this hour and the future? Less satisfied than ever. His gaze
was a mystery; it seemed so cold, and yet, and yet--what did it suggest
to her? That just observable tremor on his lip; that slight motion of
the forehead, those things spoke to her miraculously sharpened sense,
and yet she could not interpret their language. It was very far from
the look she had yearned for, yet perhaps it affected her more
profoundly than a frank gaze of kindness would have done.

He moved a little, again glancing at the inner door.

'I was there myself,' were his next words.

'Yes, I saw you. In the Hall, I mean; not only afterwards.'

Uttered without forethought--she desired to say that and had said it.

'Did you?' he said, more coldly still.

'Gilbert pointed you out to us.'

It was true, and it involved a falsehood. Egremont happened to regard
her as she spoke, and at once a blush came to her cheeks. To what was
she falling? Why did she tell untruths without the least need? She
could not understand the motive which had impelled her to that.

Egremont had a distinct frown on his face. It was as though he read her
deceit and despised her for it. Thyrza added, confusedly:

'My sister went with us. She hadn't meant to, but Gilbert persuaded her
at last.'

'Do you remember which piece you liked best?'

'No, I couldn't say. It was all so beautiful. I liked the songs so
much.'

'But Mr. Grail must take you to hear better singers than those.'

'Weren't they good?' she asked in astonishment.

'Certainly not bad, but not really excellent.'

He mentioned one or two world-echoed names, and spoke in particular of
a concert shortly to be given, at which such singers would be heard.

'You have heard them?' Thyrza asked, gazing at him.

'Several times.'

'I should be almost afraid.'

He thought it a wonderful word to come from this untaught girl. Again
their eyes met. He laughed.

'Something like my own feeling when I got out at Niagara Station, and
began to walk towards the Falls. I dreaded the first sight of them.'

He was purposely turning it to a jest. He durst not reply to her in her
own mood. And he saw that she had not understood.

'You have heard of Niagara?'

'No, Mr. Egremont. Will you tell me about it?'

He made a very brief pause, and she noticed it with fear. Did he
despise her ignorance, or did he think her troublesome? Yet he began to
explain, and was soon speaking much more freely, almost as he had
spoken that evening in the Grails' room, when he told of his
sea-experiences.

He ended somewhat abruptly, and went to the shelves with books. Thyrza
rose and followed him. He looked back, strangely, as if startled.

'May I look at the books I put up yesterday?' she asked, timorously.

'Ah yes! There is old Gibbon, our corner-stone. He hasn't much
elbow-room now.'

Again he laughed. The laugh troubled her; she preferred him to be grave.

'And some more books are coming to-day?' she said.

'Yes, this afternoon.'

'Mr. Egremont, may I come and help to put up a few to-morrow morning?'

Again her tongue uttered words in defiance of herself. She could not
believe it when the words were spoken.

Egremont perused the floor. The slight frown had returned.

'But perhaps I shall be in your way,' she continued, hastily. 'I didn't
think. I am troublesome.'

'Indeed you are not at all, Miss Trent. I should be very glad. If--if
you are sure you can spare the time?'

'I can quite well. I do a little work for Mrs. Grail, but that doesn't
take anything like all the morning.'

A word was on his tongue. He was about to say that perhaps it would be
as well, after all, to tell Grail, and for Thyrza to ask the latter's
permission. He even began to speak, but hesitated, ceased.

'Shall I come at this same time?' Thyrza inquired, her voice almost
failing her.

'I shall be here at about eleven; certainly by half-past.'

'Then I will come. I shall be so glad to help.'

A pronoun was lost; something prevented its utterance. Egremont made no
reply. Thyrza found power to hold her hand out and take leave. How
often they seemed to have held each other's hand!




CHAPTER XXI

MISCHIEF AFOOT


It would have been a remarkable thing if Egremont had succeeded, even
for a day or two, in keeping secret his work at the library. The vulgar
in Lambeth are not a jot less diligent in prying and gossip than are
their kin in Mayfair. And chance is wont to be mischief-making all the
world over.

When Mr. Bower passed the library in the dinner-hour on Monday, and,
after seeing Thyrza Trent come out, forthwith observed Mr. Egremont
standing within at the window, his mind busied itself with the
coincidence very much as it might have been expected to do. When he
reached home he privately reported the little incident to his wife.
They looked at each other, and Mr. Bower lowered first one eyelid, then
the other.

'Is Grail still at his work?' Mrs. Bower inquired.

'Safe enough. He goes on till Saturday. Ackroyd told me so yesterday.'

'And her sister's at work too?'

'Safe enough.'

'Is the workmen there still?'

'No, they're all out. Safe enough.'

Mr. Bower seemed to find a satisfaction in repeating the significant
phrase. He chuckled disagreeably.

'It looks queer,' remarked his wife, with a certain contemptuousness.

'It looks uncommon queer. I wonder whether old Mrs. Butterfield
happened to be safe likewise.' He nodded. 'I'll look in and have a word
with the old lady to-night, eh?'

Mrs. Butterfield's husband, some years deceased, had been a
fellow-workman with Bower. The latter, prying about the school-building
as soon as he heard that Egremont was going to convert it into a
library, had discovered that the caretaker was known to him. There
seemed at the time no particular profit to be derived from the
circumstance, but Mr. Bower regarded it much as he would have done a
piece of lumber that might have come into his possession, as a thing
just to be kept in mind, if perchance some use for it should some day
be discovered. It is this habit of thought that helps the Bower species
to become petty capitalists. We call it thrift, and--respecting public
opinion--we do not refuse our admiration.

On Monday evening, about eight o'clock, Mr. Bower went up to the
house-door in the rear of the building, and knocked. The door was
opened about two inches, and an aged voice asked who was there.

'It's me, Mrs. Butterfield--Bower,' was the pleasantly modulated reply.

The door opened a little wider.

'Does Mr. Egremont happen to be here?' the visitor went on to ask.

'No, Mr. Bower, he ain't here, nor likely to come again to night, I
shouldn't think.'

'Never mind. I dare say you'd let me have a look in, just to see how
things is goin' on. I saw him at the window as I passed at dinner-time,
and we just nodded to each other, but I hadn't time to stop.'

The old woman admitted him. In the house was an exultant savour of
frying onions; a hissing sound came from the sitting-room.

'Cooking your supper, eh, Mrs. Butterfield?' said Bower, with genial
familiarity. 'Why, that's right make yourself comfortable. Don't you
fuss about, now; I'll sit down here; I like the smell.'

Mrs. Butterfield was not at all the same woman with this visitor that
she was with strangers. For one thing, he brought back to her the
memory of days when she had possessed a home of her own, and had not
yet been soured by ill-hap; then again, Bower belonged to her own
class, for all his money saved up and his pomposities of manner. There
is a freemasonry between the members of the pure-blooded proletariat;
they are ever ready in recognition of each other, and their suspicion
of all above them, whether by rank or by nature, is a sense of the
utmost keenness. Mrs. Butterfield varied somewhat from the type,
inasmuch as she did not care to cringe before her superiors; but that
was an accident; in essentials of feeling she and Bower were at one.

The table was half covered with a dirty cloth, on which stood a loaf of
bread (plateless), a small dish ready to receive the fry, and a jug of
beer. In the midst of the newly painted and papered room, which seemed
ready to receive furniture of a more elegant kind than that of
working-class homes, these things had an incongruity.

'And how does the world use _you_, Mrs. Butterfield, ma'am?' Bower
asked, as he settled his bulky body on the small chair.

'I earn my bed and my victuals, Mr. Bower,' was the reply, as the old
woman stirred her hissing mess with a fork.

'And a thing to be proud of at your age, ma'am.'

From such friendly dialogue, Bower gradually turned the talk to
Egremont, of whom he spoke at first as a respected intimate.
Observation of his collocutor led him shortly to alter his tone a
little. When he had heard that books were already arriving, he remarked:

'That's as much as to say that you'll soon be turned out, Mrs.
Butterfield. Well, I call it hard at your age, ma'am. Now if Egremont
had acted like a gentleman and had offered _me_ to be librarian, you'd
still have kept your place here. I don't want to say disagreeable
things, but if ever there was a mean and indecent action, it was when
he passed over _me_ and gave the place to a stranger. Why, Mrs.
Butterfield, he has to thank _me_ for everything! But for _me_ he'd
never have had a soul to hear his lectures. Well, well, it don't
matter. And what do you think o' the young girl as is coming to keep
house here after you?'

Mrs. Butterfield was turning out her supper into the dish. She gave him
a peculiar look.

'When's she goin' to be wed?' was her question in reply.

'Next Monday.'

'And does the man as is goin' to marry her know as she comes here to
meet this young gent?'

'She comes to meet him? _Does_ she, now? Tut--tut--tut! But we needn't
think harm, Mrs. Butterfield--though you can tell from her face she'll
need a good deal of looking after. And does she come regular, now?'

The old woman confessed that she only knew of two meetings, with a very
long interval, but she hinted that the first had taken place under
circumstances very suspicious; in fact, that it was obviously an
appointment. And this morning, as soon as she knew of Thyrza's presence
in the library (by the borrowing of the hammer), she had kept a secret
espial through the key-hole of the inner door, with the result that she
witnessed the two chatting together in a way sufficiently noteworthy,
considering the difference of their stations.

The matter having been made to bear all the fruit it would in
malevolent discussion, Mr. Bower left the old woman at her supper, and
with a candle went to explore the state of the library. He did not
remain long, for the big room was very cold, and shortly after
rejoining the caretaker he bade her the friendliest good-evening.

'I consider you've done very right to tell me this,' he said, as she
went to let him out. 'In _my_ opinion it's something as Grail ought to
know. You keep an eye open to-morrow morning; depend upon it, you're
doing a good work. I shouldn't wonder if I look in to-morrow night. And
I dare say you could do with a nice bit of cheese, eh? I'll see if I
can pick a bit out of the shop.'

On Tuesday night he repeated his visit, bringing half a pound of very
strong American in his pocket. He heard a shocking story. Thyrza had
again been to the library, and so secretly that but for her station at
the key-hole Mrs. Butterfield would have known nothing of it.

'Well, well, now! Tut--tut--tut!' commented portly Mr. Bower. 'To
think! You never _can_ trust these young men as have more money than
they know what to do with! But I didn't think it of Egremont. That's
the kind of fellow as comes to preach to the working man and tell him
of his faults! Bah! Well, I'm not one for going about spreading storie.
Grail must take his chance. Perhaps it 'ud be as well, Mrs.
Butterfield, if _you_ kept this little affair quiet--just between you
and me, you know. There's no knowing.--Eh? A time may come.--Eh? It's
none of our business _just now_.--Eh? You understand, Mrs. Butterfield?
It might be as well to keep an eye open to the end of the week.'

Mr. Bower, on the way home, turned into his club, just to drink a glass
of whisky at the club price. In the reading-room were a few men
occupied with newspapers or in chat. In a corner, reading his favourite
organ of 'free thought,' sat Luke Ackroyd.

Bower got his glass of spirits, brought it into the reading-room, and
sat down by Ackroyd.

'So our friend Egremont's begun to get his books together,' he began.

'Has he?'

Luke was indifferent. Of late he had entered upon a new phase of his
mental trouble. He was averse from conversation, shrank from his old
companions, seemed to have resumed studious habits. It had got about
that he was going to marry Totty Nancarrow, but he refused to answer
questions on the subject. Banter he met with so grim a countenance that
the facetious soon left him to himself. He no longer drank, that was
evident. But his face was pale, thin, and unwholesome. One would have
said that just now he was more seriously unhappy than he had been
throughout his boisterous period.

Bower, after one or two glances at him, lowered his voice to say:

'I can't think it's altogether the right thing for Thyrza Trent to be
there every morning helping him. Of course you and me know as it's all
square, but other people might--eh? Grail ought to think of that--eh?'

Now it had seemed to Mr. Bower, in his native wisdom, that any scandal
about Thyrza would tickle Ackroyd immensely. He imagined Luke bearing a
deep grudge against the girl and against Grail--for he knew that the
friendship between Luke and the latter had plainly come to an end. In
his love of gossip, he could not keep the story to himself, and he
thought that Ackroyd would be the safest of confidants. In fact, though
he spoke to Mrs. Butterfield as if he had conceived some deep plan of
rascality, the man was not capable of anything above petty mischief. He
liked to pose in secret as a sort of transpontine schemer; that
flattered his self-importance; but his ambition did not seriously go
beyond making trouble in a legitimate way. He did indeed believe that
something scandalous was going on, and it would be all the better fun
to have Ackroyd join him with malicious pleasure in a campaign against
reputations. Luke was a radical of the reddest; surely it would delight
him to have a new cry against the patronising capitalist.

Ackroyd, having heard that whisper, looked up from his paper slowly.
And at once Bower knew that he had made a great miscalculation.

'Other people might think _what_?' Luke asked, with gravity passing
into anger.

'Well, well; you must take it as I meant it, old man.' Bower was
annoyed, and added: 'No doubt Egremont likes to have a pretty gyurl to
talk to every morning. I don't blame him. Still, if I was Grail--'

'What the devil do you mean, Bower? What's all this about?'

Ackroyd clearly knew nothing. The other recovered some of his
confidence.

'Well, you needn't let it go further. It's no good thinking the worst
of people. For all I know Grail sends her to help with the books, just
because he can't go himself.'

Luke laid down the paper, and said quietly:

'Will you tell me all about it? It's the first I've heard. What's going
on?'

Bower brought out his narrative, even naming the authority for it. He
took sips of whisky in between. Ackroyd heard in silence, and seemed to
dismiss his indignation.

'There's nothing in all that,' he said at length. 'Of course Grail
knows all about it. This Mrs. What's-her-name seems to have too little
to do.'

'Well, there's no knowing.'

'And you're going to tell this story all over Lambeth?'

'Why, didn't I ask you to keep it quiet?'

'Yes, Bower, you did. And I mean to. And--look here! If you'd been a
man of my own age, for all we've known each other a goodish time, I
should have sent you spinning half across the room before now. So
that's plain language, and you must make what you like of it!'

Therewith Luke thrust back his chair and walked out of the room.

He did not pause till he was some distance from the club. His blood was
tingling. But it was not in anger that he at length stood still and
asked himself whither he should go. His heart had begun to sink with
fear.

Had he done wisely in insulting Bower? The fellow would take his
revenge in an obvious way. That calumny would be in every one's mouth
by the morrow.

And yet, as if that would not have come about in any case! How long was
anything likely to remain a secret that was known in Mrs. Bower's shop?
No, it made no difference.

Such stories going round with regard to Thyrza Trent! What was the
meaning of it? Had there been some imprudence on Grail's part, some
thoughtlessness in keeping with his character, which had in it so
little of the everyday man? It was a monstrous thing that opportunities
should have been given to that lying old woman!

He walked on, in the direction of home. There was a hideous voice at
his ear. Suppose Grail in truth knew nothing about those meetings in
the library? How explain the first of them, two months ago?

He altered his course, and, without settled purpose, hurried towards
Walnut Tree Walk. As he drew near to the house he saw someone about to
enter. He ran forward. It was Gilbert.

'How does the library get on?' he asked, with an abruptness which
surprised Grail.

'Oh, all the carpenter's work is finished.'

'Any books come yet?'

'No, not yet.'

'Ah! Good-night!'

He passed on, leaving Gilbert still in surprise, for it was perhaps the
first word Ackroyd had spoken to him concerning the library.

Luke began to run, and did not cease until he was in Brook Street in
front of the library. He tried to look in at the windows, but found
that the blinds were drawn. A policeman passed and scrutinised him.

'Do you know whether any one lives on these premises?' Luke asked at
once.

He excited suspicion, but after a short dialogue the constable showed
him the approach to the caretaker's house. He knocked at the door
several times; at length it was barely opened.

'Is that Mrs. Butterfield?'

'Yes. What may you want?'

'I want to know, if you please, if Mr. Egremont called here to-day and
left a message for Mr. Smith about some books.'

'He's been here, but he left no message.'

'Was he here long?'

'All the morning.'

'Putting books on the shelves?'

'Yes.'

'Thank you. If there was no message, it's all right.'

Luke went off. In Kennington Road he again stood still. He felt chilled
and wretched to the heart's core. Thyrza! Thyrza Trent! Was it possible?

He moved on. This time it was to Newport Street. Half-past ten had just
gone; would Totty be up still? Whether or no, he must see her. He rang
the bell which was a summons to her part of the house. Bunce opened.

'I want to see Miss Nancarrow,' Luke said to him in a low voice. 'Will
you please knock at her door? I must see her.'

Totty came down immediately. She had her hat on and a shawl thrown
about her.

'What ever is it?' she asked.

'Just come a little way off, Totty; I want to speak to you.'

She accompanied him to the dark side of the street, and, having got her
there, he could find no fitting word with which to begin. He had no
intention of telling her what he had heard and what he had discovered
for himself, but she was a close friend of Thyrza's and might know or
suspect something; moreover, she was a good girl, a girl thoroughly to
be trusted, he felt sure of her. Perhaps a hint would be enough to
induce her to share a secret with him, when she understood what his
suspicions pointed to.

'Totty--'

'Yes, you frighten me. What is it?'

'Have you seen Thyrza Trent lately?'

'Why?'

She tried to read his face through the darkness. Her yesterday's
conversation with Thyrza was vivid in her mind. Suspicion was irritated
at the sound of Thyrza's name on Luke's tongue.

'Totty, I want to ask you something.' He spoke with deepest
earnestness, taking her hand. 'You won't keep anything from me, now? I
want to know if Thyrza has talked to you about--about her marriage.'

'Why do you want to know that?' the girl asked, in a hard voice.

'I'll speak plainer, Totty. Be a good girl, Totty dear! Tell me what I
want to know! Has she ever said anything to make you think that--that
she liked any one better than Grail?'

What a coil was here! She had pulled her hand away, furious with him
for his shamelessness. Yet self-respect did not allow her to speak
vehemently.

'It seems to me,' she said, 'you'd better go and ask her.'

He hung in doubt. Totty added, with more show of feeling:

'Thyrza Trent's a little fool. You may tell her I said so, if you like.
If you know all about it, what do you come bothering me for at this
time o' night? I'm not going to be mixed up in such things, so I tell
you! And there's an end of it!'

She left him. He stood and saw her re-enter the house.

Then is was true. 'If you know all about it,' ... 'I'm not going to
be mixed up in such things.' ... Totty had been told, either by
Thyrza herself or by someone already spreading the story. The story was
true.

He was struck with weakness. Sweat broke out from all his body. Nothing
he had ever heard had seemed to him so terrible. A girl like Thyrza! He
had held her honesty as sure as the rising of day out of night.

Half an hour later he sat in his bedroom writing:


'Dear Miss Trent,--I want very much to see you. I will wait in
Kennington Road, opposite the end of your street, from eight o'clock
to-morrow night (Wednesday). Please do come. I _must_ see you, and I
wish no one to know of our meeting. 'Yours truly,

'LUKE ACKROYD.'


He addressed this to Lydia, 'Miss Lydia Trent,' that there might be no
mistake, and went out to post it. But at the letter-box he altered his
intention. If it was delivered by the postman, Thyrza would see it; it
would lead to questionings.

He determined to deliver it at the hat factory in the morning, with his
own hand.




CHAPTER XXII

GOOD-BYE


Left alone, after Thyrza's second visit to him in the library, Egremont
had no mind to continue his task. He idled about for a while, read half
a page in a volume he took out of the box at hazard, then put on his
overcoat and went out by the front door, which he locked behind him
with the key he carried for his own convenience.

He was wishing that he had not fallen into this piece of folly. As long
as no one but Grail and himself was concerned, it mattered nothing; to
have established a secret intercourse with Thyrza was a result of his
freak for which he was not at all prepared. And he could not see his
way out of the difficulty. He might go and see Grail, and let him know
what he was doing, but that would involve deliberate concealment of
Thyrza's visits. He could not speak of them; he had no right to do so.
If Thyrza on her part told all about it--why, that would make it, for
him, still more unpleasant. And Thyrza was not likely to do that; he
felt assured of it. Precisely; that meant that henceforth there would
be a secret understanding between himself and Gilbert's wife. Most
certainly he desired nothing of the kind.

A weak way of putting it. Walter dreaded anything of the kind. Two
days--Monday, Tuesday--and in that brief time the whole face of the
future had changed for him. On Sunday evening he had sat thinking over
his future relations with Grail and Thyrza. The fact that he
consciously brought himself to reflect upon the subject of course
proved that it involved certain doubts and difficulties for him, but in
half an hour he believed that he had put his mind in order. Thyrza
interested him--why not say it out, as he was bent on understanding
himself? She interested him more vitally than any girl he had ever
known. Very possibly he saw her in the light of illusion; should his
opportunities grant him a completer knowledge of her, he might not
improbably discover that after all she was but a pretty girl of the
people, attractive in a great measure owing to her very deficiencies.
He would very likely come to laugh at himself for having thought that
her value was above that of Annabel Newthorpe. But he had to deal with
the present, and in the present Thyrza seemed to him all gold. Had
there existed no Gilbert Grail, he would have been in love with Thyrza.

The plain truth. But Gilbert Grail did exist, and in Walter Egremont
existed a sense of honour, a sense of shame. Should he by word or deed
throw light upon Gilbert Grail's future, he felt that all the good of
his own life would be at an end. He could not face man or woman again.

It came to this, then. Henceforth he must remember that, however near
his intimacy with Gilbert, there must be no playing at friendship with
Gilbert's wife. Friendship was impossible. That golden-haired girl had
a power over him which, if ever so slightly and thoughtlessly
exercised, might drive him into acts of insanity. He had seen her three
times--this is Sunday night, remember--and yet the thought of Annabel
was like a pale ghost beside his thought of her. He had till now
suspected that his nature was not framed for passion; a few weeks had
taught him that, if he allowed passion to take hold upon him, no part
of his soul could escape the flame.

Two days had passed since then. On two successive mornings he had been
alone with Thyrza; one evening he had spent at a concert, for the mere
sake of being where Thyrza was, and feeling emotions such as he knew
she would feel. 'No playing at friendship with Gilbert's wife.' And he
had himself held out his band to her, had asked her to address him
familiarly, had talked of things which brought them into closer
communion, had--yes--had bidden her keep their interviews a secret from
Gilbert. Had insanity begun?

A piece of folly; nothing else. As he walked towards Westminster, he
viewed the situation, or tried to view it, as it is put in the second
paragraph of this chapter. He had got into a very disagreeable
position; he really must find some becoming way out of it; Thyrza was a
silly girl to come a second time; of course the appointment for the
following morning must not be kept. There was no harm in it all, none
whatever, but--

Bah! The worst had come about; the miserable fate had declared itself;
he was in love with Thyrza Trent!

He entered the Abbey. He seated himself in a shadowed place. Alone?
Whose then was the voice that spoke to him unceasingly, and the hand
which he was holding, which stirred his blood so with its warmth? 'Put
aside every thought of the living fact; say that there is no Gilbert
Grail in the world. You and I--you, Thyrza, my sweet-eyed, my
beautiful--sit here side by side and hold each other's hands. Your
voice has become very low and reverent, as befits the place, as befits
the utterance of love such as this you say you bear me. What can I
answer you, my golden one? Only, in voice low as your own, breathe that
the world is barren but for you, that to the last drop of my heart's
blood I love and worship you! A poor girl, a worker with her hands,
untaught--you say that? A woman, pure of soul, with loveliness for your
heritage, with possibilities imaginable in every ray of your eyes, in
every note of the rare music of your voice!'

Even so. In the meantime, this happens to be Westminster Abbey, where a
working man, one Gilbert Grail, has often walked and sought solace from
the bitterness of his accursed lot, where he has thought of a young
girl who lives above him in the house, and who, as often as she passes
him, is like a gleam of southern sky somehow slipped into the blank
hideousness of a London winter. Hither he has doubtless come to try and
realise that fate has been so merciful to him that he longs to thank
some unknown deity and cry that all is good. Hither he will come again,
with one whom he calls his wife--

Walter rose and went forth, went home.

He had not been ten minutes in his room, when a servant appeared, to
tell him that a lady had called and desired to see him, her name Mrs.
Ormonde.

She came in, looking bright and noble as ever, giving him both her
hands.

'I am glad to see you. I did not expect you to-day. Will you sit down?'

He did not know what he said. Mrs. Ormonde examined him, and for a
moment kept silence.

'You have come up to-day?'

'Yes. I have come here direct from the station, because I wished to
make use of you. But it seems to me that the doctor would have been a
more fitting visitor. What has come to you, Walter?'

'It is true. I am not well. But always well enough to desire to serve
you.'

'Though not, seemingly, to bear in mind my first wish. Why have you not
answered my last letter, as I particularly asked you to? If you were
ill, why have you remained here alone? I am angry with you.'

He was reflecting, as absorbedly as if she had not been in the room.
She was his friend, if any man had one; she was of the priceless women
who own both heart and brain. Should he speak out and tell her
everything? If he did so, he was saved. He would leave town. Grail
should come back, after the wedding holiday, and get on with the
arrangement of the library under written directions. Illness would
explain such a step. In a month, all would be right again.

'Walter!'

Her eyes were searching him. Did she half know? He had written so
foolishly in the letter about Thyrza. But it was impossible that she
could divine such a thing. The circumstances made it too incredible.

'Tell me,' she went on. 'What has caused your illness?'

No, he could not. She would scorn him. And he could not bear to sink in
her estimation. He could not seem childish before her.

'I have no idea,' he answered. 'Perhaps I have so accustomed myself to
rambling over land and sea, that a year without change is proving too
much for me. I must have the library started, and then be
off--anywhere--a voyage to New Zealand!'

Mrs. Ormonde showed disappointment. She did not believe that this was
the truth, even as he knew it. The truth was glimmering in the rear of
her thoughts, but she would not allow it to come forward; in plain
daylight it was really difficult to entertain. Still, as an instinct it
was there, instinct supported even by certain pieces of evidence.

'You wish to go away? To go a distance--to be away for some time?'

'Yes.' He did not meet her look. 'I don't think I shall get back my
health till I do that. Don't let us talk of it.'

'What are you doing at the library?'

'Putting up books.'

'With Mr. Grail?'

'No. He doesn't leave the factory till the end of the week.'

'Then leave the place as it stands, and come to Eastbourne with me
to-morrow.'

'I'm afraid I--'

'And so am _I_ afraid,' she interrupted him gravely. 'I wish you to
come to Eastbourne. I wish you to!'

'No, not to Eastbourne. I have reasons.'

Her eyes fell.

'But I promise you,' he continued, 'that I will leave town to-morrow. I
promise you. Don't think me unkind that I refuse to come with you. I
will go to Jersey again; it suits me. I'll stay there till Grail comes
back with his wife, and then see if I feel well enough to come and go
on with the work.'

'Very well,' Mrs. Ormonde replied, slowly.

'Do you doubt my word?' he asked, moving forward to her.

'We are not so far as that, Walter.'

'And now tell me what I am to do for you.'

She hesitated, but only for a moment.

'I wish you to see Mr. Bunce for me. Do you meet him nowadays?'

'Not just now, but I can see him any time.'

'I want to arrange, if possible, to keep his child with me for some
time, for a year or more. It is not impossible that her disease might
be checked if she lived at Eastbourne, but in London she will very soon
die. I should like to see Mr. Bunce myself, and I thought you might be
able to arrange for a meeting between us. My idea is this: I shall tell
him that the girl can make herself useful in the house, and that I wish
to pay her for her services. The money would of course go to him, and
he might use it to get help in his home. Bessie, the child, has
explained to me all the difficulties in the way of her remaining with
me; they are heightened by her father's character, as you can
understand. Now do you think he would see me? He might come to my
hotel, or he might come here, or if he allows me, I would go to him.'

'I will arrange it, somehow. Trust me, I will arrange it.'

'You should have said that with a wave of the hand, as omnipotent
people do on the stage.'

He laughed.

'There is no feeling miserable with you. Have you not something of that
mesmeric power which draws one back into health under a touch?'

'Perhaps. A little. My children sometimes show astonishing improvement,
when they get fond of me.'

They talked of various things, but no mention was made of the
Newthorpes by either.

'Is Paula back yet?' Mrs. Ormonde asked.

'I have no idea. I am not likely ever to see her again.'

'Oh, yes! When you come back from New Zealand. I shall go and see the
Tyrrells this afternoon, I think. I have to dine with friends at
Hampstead. When can I have the result of your inquiries?'

'I will come to you to-morrow morning.'

'At ten, please. I have a great deal to get into the day; and you
yourself must be off by noon.'

'By noon I shall be.'

This visit had been happily timed. Sympathy was essential to Egremont
as often as he suffered from the caprices of his temperament, and in
grave trouble it was a danger for him to be left companionless. He was
highly nervous, and the tumult of his imagination affected his bodily
state in a degree uncommon in men, though often seen in delicately
organised women. When Mrs. Ormonde left him he felt relieved in mind,
but physically so brought down that he stretched himself upon the sofa.
He remained there for more than an hour.

How much better, he was saying to himself, not to have told Mrs.
Ormonde I That would have been a greater folly than anything yet. No
irreparable harm was as yet done; to confess a mere state of mind would
have been to fill his friend with fears wholly groundless, and to fix a
lasting torture in his own memory. It would have been to render
impossible any future work in Lambeth. Yet upon the continuance of such
work practically depended Grail's future. To Gilbert Grail he had
solemn duties to perform. Henceforth the scope of his efforts would be
lessened; instead of exerting himself for a vague populace, it would
really be for Grail alone that he worked. Grail he must and would aid
to the end. It was a task worthy of a man who was not satisfied with
average aims. He would crush this tyrannous passion in his heart, cost
him what struggle it might, and the reward would be a noble one.

He rose at length with a haggard face. It was long past the hour at
which he usually took his mid-day meal, and he had no appetite for
food. He went to a restaurant, however, and made pretence of eating;
thence into the smoking-room, where he spent the time till five
o'clock, drinking coffee and reading papers. His only object now was to
kill time.

At half-past eight he was in Lambeth. He knew Bunce's address, but had
never before been in Newport Street. It was his habit to discover
places by the aid of a map alone, and, thus guided, he found the house.

Totty Nancarrow happened to be on the stairs when he knocked; she had
just come in. She ran down to the door. Egremont inquired for Bunce,
and was told he was not at home, and would not be till very late.

'Do you know when I could be sure to find him here?'

'Yes,' replied Totty, who was able to guess at Egremont's identity, and
examined him with some interest. 'He'll be here to-morrow after eight.
He's on a job in Hammersmith, working late. But to-morrow's the last
day, and he's sure to be back by eight o'clock.'

'He leaves early in the morning, I suppose?'

'At half-past five.'

'Thank you. I will call to-morrow evening. Gould you let him know that,
from Mr. Egremont? I wish to see him particularly.'

'I'll let him know, sir.'

This was a mishap. It would necessitate another whole day in London.

He called upon Mrs. Ormonde next morning, at the hotel which it was her
wont to use when in town for a day or two. At first she was strongly
opposed to his waiting just on this account.

'I cannot go till I have done this for you,' he said firmly. 'I shall
see Bunce to-night, and go away to-morrow. You must let me have my way
in this.'

And he desired to remain for a weightier reason than the apparent one.
It was this morning, Wednesday, that Thyrza would expect to find him at
the library. She must be disappointed, and he would prove to himself
that he was yet strong enough to resist, that he had not so lost
self-control that his only safety lay in flight.

The strength was that of a man who combats desperately with some
ailment which threatens his life. 'Am I then of those who have no will
power? Will is that whereby men raise themselves above the multitude;
let me give proofs now that my claims are not those of a charlatan.' He
passed six hours in his room.

Thyrza would go to the library at eleven, or a little after. She was
there now. She would find the front door closed against her. She would
go round to the house, and make inquiry of Mrs. Butterfield. Perhaps
she would wait for him.

Yes, she would wait for him. She was sitting in the library, on the
chest which he had offered her for a seat, alone, disappointed.

Disappointed. More than that. Why had she come on Tuesday, the second
morning? Why had she desired to come yet again? Had he read her face
truly?

He knew, he knew with miserable certainty, that she did not love Grail.
She had not known what love was; a child, so merely a child! But when
love once was born in her, would it not be for life and death?

He was lying on the sofa again, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Moisture
stood upon his forehead, formed into beads and ran off. His torment was
that of the rack. He believed that Thyrza had at least begun to love
him. Madman that he was, he _hoped_ it! Thyrza's love was a thing for
which one would dare uttermost perdition, the blind leap once taken.
Yes, but that leap he would not take; he was on firm ground; he knew
what honour meant; he acknowledged the sanctity of obligations between
man and man.

But if she loved _him_, was it right that she should wed Grail?
Obligations, forsooth! Was it not his first duty to save her from a
terrible self-sacrifice? What could overrule love? There was time to
intervene; four days more, and it would be too late for ever--for ever.
What hideous things might result from conscientiousness such as he was
now striving to preserve.

'Thyrza! She is waiting there, waiting for _me_ to come to her. She
trembles at every sound, thinking it _my_ footstep. If her anguish be
but the shadow of mine--'

He sprang up, ghastly. He had not closed his eyes through the night,
but had lain, and walked about the room, in torment. Desire, jealousy,
frenzy of first passion, the first passion of his life; no pang was
spared him. Oh, how had it grown so suddenly! He had imagined love such
as this for some stately woman whose walk was upon the heights of
mind--some great artist--some glorious sovereign of culture. Instead of
that, a simple girl who lived by her needle, who spoke faultily. And he
loved her with the love which comes to a man but once.

The evening came at last. Long before it was really time to start for
Lambeth, on his visit to Bunce, he began to walk southwards. He was at
Westminster Bridge by half-past seven; probably it would be useless to
call in Newport Street for another hour. He went down on to the Lambeth
Embankment.

It was his hope that no acquaintance would pass this way. Still
blameless in fact, he could not help a fear of being observed; the
feeling could not have been stronger if he had come with the express
purpose of seeking Thyrza. The air was cold; it blew at moments
piercingly from the river. Where the sun had set, there was still a
swarthy glow upon the clouds; the gas-lamps gave a haggardness to the
banks and the bridges.

He walked at a quick pace; this way, then that. Workmen and women in
numbers were hurrying in both directions. Egremont kept his face
towards the river, that he might see no one. There was no likelihood
that Thyrza would pass. If she did, if she were alone and saw him, he
knew she would come up to him and speak.

The bell at Westminster struck out the hour of eight. He turned off the
Embankment and went on to Lambeth Bridge, stopping at length to lean on
the parapet at the same place where Gilbert had stood and mused one
night when his happiness was almost too great to bear. To Egremont the
darkening scene was in accord with the wearied misery which made his
life one dull pain. London lay beneath the night like a city of
hopeless toil, of aimless conflict, of frustration and barrenness. His
philosophy was a sham, a spinning of cobwebs for idle hours when the
heart is restful and the brain seeks to be amused. He had no more
strength to bear the torture of an inassuageable desire than any
foolish fellow who knew not the name of culture. He could not look
forward to the day of forgetting; he would not allow himself to believe
that he ever could forget.

But it was time now to go on to Newport Street. In Paradise Street,
just before the railway arch, he glanced at the Bowers' shop, and
dreaded lest Bower should meet him. But he saw no one that he knew
before reaching Bunce's abode.

The landlady opened the door. Bunce was at home, and in a moment came
down. He returned his visitor's greeting awkwardly, much wondering.

'Could I have a few words with you?' Egremont asked. 'I have come on
Mrs. Ormonde's behalf--the lady at the Eastbourne home, you know. I
have a message about your little girl.'

'Something happened?' Bunce inquired, in a startled voice.

'No, no; good news, if anything.'

Bunce did not willingly invite Egremont into his poor room, but he felt
that he had no choice. He just said: 'Will you come upstairs, sir?' and
led the way.

The two children were playing together on the floor; Bunce had been on
the point of putting Nelly to bed. In spite of his mood, natural
kindness so far prevailed with Egremont that he bent and touched the
child's curls. Bunce, with set lips, stood watching; he saw that
Egremont had not so much as cast an eye round the room, and that,
together with the attention to his child, softened his naturally
suspicious frame of mind.

'It's better than coming back to an empty room every night?' Egremont
said, looking at the man.

'Yes, sir, it's better--though I don't always think so.'

'These two keep well?'

'Fairly well.'

'There's never nothing the matter with me!' exclaimed young Jack, bluff
though shamefaced.

'Nothing except your grammar, you mean, Jack,' replied his father.
'Will you just sit down, sir? I was afraid at first there was something
wrong, when you mentioned Mrs. Ormonde.'

Egremont reassured him, and went on to say that Mrs. Ormonde was
anxious to see him personally whilst she was in town. He felt it would
be better not to explain the nature of the proposal Mrs. Ormonde was
going to make, and affected to know nothing more than that she wished
to speak of the child's health. Bunce had knitted his brows; his heavy
lips took on a fretful sullenness. He knew that it was impossible to
meet Egremont with flat refusals, and the prospect of being driven into
something he intensely disliked worked him into an inward fume. He gave
a great scrape on the floor with one of his heels as if he would have
ploughed a track in the boards.

'I'm sorry,' he began, 'I've got no free time worth speaking of. I'm
much obliged to the lady. But I don't see how I'm to--'

He wanted to blunder out words of angry impatience; his rising choler
brought him to a full stop in the middle of the sentence.

Egremont addressed himself in earnest to the task persuasion. More was
involved than mere benefit to the child's health; it was easy to see
that Bunce's position was a miserable one, and Mrs. Ormonde, if once
she could establish direct relations with the man, would doubtless find
many a little way of being useful to him. He put it at length as a
personal favour. Bunce again ploughed the floor, then blurted out:

'I'll go, Mr. Egremont. I'm not one to talk to ladies, as you can see
yourself, but I can't help that. I shall have to go as I am.'

'Mrs. Ormonde will gladly come here, if you will let her.'

'I'd rather not, if you don't mind, sir.'

'Then it will be simplest if you go to my rooms in Great Russell
Street, just by the British Museum. I leave town tomorrow; Mrs. Ormonde
will be quite alone to meet you. Could you be there at nine o'clock?'

The appointment was made, Egremont leaving one of his cards to insure
recollection of the address. Then he spoke a word or two to the
children, and Bunce led him down to the door. They shook hands.

'I shall see you at the library soon, I hope,' Egremont said. 'You must
give me your best help in making it known.'

The words sounded so hollow in his own ears that, as he turned to go
along the dark street, he could have laughed at himself scornfully.

As Bunce reascended, someone met and passed him, hurrying with light
feet and woman's garments silently.

'That you, Miss Nancarrow?' he asked, for there was no light on the
staircase.

'No,' came a muffled reply. 'Miss Nancarrow isn't in.'

It was the voice of Thyrza Trent. Bunce did not recognise it, for he
knew her too slightly.

She had come to the house not long before Egremont. After a day of
suffering she wished to speak with Totty. Totty was the only one to
whom she _could_ speak now; Gilbert, her own Lyddy--them she dreaded.
Notwithstanding the terms on which she had parted with her friend on
Monday night, she felt an irresistible need of seeing her. It was one
way, moreover, of passing a part of the evening away from Walnut Tree
Walk. But Totty was out, had not yet come home since her work. Thyrza
said she would go upstairs and wait.

She did so. Totty's room was dark and, of course, fireless; but she
cared neither for the darkness nor the cold. She groped her way to a
chair and sat very still. It was a blessed relief to be here, to be
safe from Gilbert and Lyddy for ever so short a time, to sit and clasp
the darkness like something loved. She was making up her mind to tell
Totty everything. Someone she must tell--someone. Not Lyddy; that would
be terrible. But Totty had a kind heart, and would keep the secret,
perchance could advise in some way. Though what advice could anyone
give?

What voice was that? She had heard someone knock at Bunce's door, then
heard Bunce go down. He was coming up again, and someone with
him--someone who spoke in a voice which made her heart leap. She sprang
to the door to listen. Bunce and his companion entered the opposite
room, and shut themselves in. Thyrza opened her door as softly as
possible, leaned forward, listened. Yes, it was _his_ voice!

What was he doing here? He had not come to the library, had not kept
his promise. Was it not a promise to her? He had said that she should
see him again, should be in the room alone with him, talk with him for
one hour--one poor, short hour; and in the end it was denied. Why did
he come to see Mr. Bunce? But he was well; nothing had happened to him,
which all day had been her dread.

She would not try to overhear their conversation. Enough that he was
safe in that next room, never mind for what purpose he came. She was
near to him again.

She threw up her hands against the door, and leaned her face, her bosom
on it. Her throat was so dry that she felt choking; her heart--poor
heart! could it bear this incessant throbbing pain? She swallowed
tears, and had some little bodily solace.

But if Totty should come! She hoped to be alone as long as he was
there. It was so sweet to be near him, and alone!

And Totty did not come. Of a sudden the opposite door opened. He was
leaving, going forth again she knew not whither--only that it was away
from her.

Then desire became act. She heard the house-door close, and on the
moment sped from the room. She scarcely knew what she said to Bunce on
the stairs. Now she was in the street. Which way? There he was, there,
at but a little distance.

But she must not approach him here, in this street. Any moment Totty
might come--one of the Bowers might pass. She kept at an even
remoteness, following him. Into Paradise Street, into High Street, out
into Lambeth Road, with the bridge in sight. He meant to go along the
Embankment. But it was quieter here. A quickened step, almost a run,
and she was by his side.

'Mr. Egremont!'

He stood.

'Mr. Egremont. I thought it was you. I wanted--'

They were under the church. As Thyrza spoke, the bells suddenly broke
out with their harsh clanging; they had been ringing for the last
twenty minutes, and were now recommencing after a pause.

Egremont glanced towards the tower, startled and seemingly annoyed.

'I'm very sorry I couldn't come to the library this morning, Miss
Trent,' he said, very formally. 'I was unexpectedly kept away.'

What automaton had taken his place and spoke in this contemptible tone
of conventional politeness?

'Those bells are so loud,' Thyrza said, complainingly. 'I wanted to--to
ask you something. May I go with you a little further--just to the
bridge?'

He said nothing, but looked at her and walked on. They entered the
bridge. Egremont still advanced, and Thyrza kept by him, till they were
nearly on the Westminster side of the river. Very few people passed
them, and no vehicles disturbed the quiet of the dark road along the
waterside. On the one hand was a black mass of wharfs, a few barges
moored in front; on the other, at a little distance, the gloomy shape
of Millbank prison. The jangle of the bells was softened.

'They certainly might be more musical,' Egremont said, with a forced
laugh. 'I should not care to live in one of the houses just under the
church.'

She was speaking.

'I waited this morning. Oh, it didn't matter; but I was afraid--I
thought you might have had some accident, Mr. Egremont.'

'No. It was business that prevented me from coming. But you wish to ask
me something, Miss Trent?'

'If you will be there to-morrow--that was all. I like helping. I like
looking at the books, and putting them up--if you would let me.'

The nearest lamp showed him her face. What held him from making that
pale loveliness his own? His heart throbbed as terribly as hers; he
with difficulty heard when she spoke, so loud was the rush of blood in
his ears.

But he had begun the fight with himself. He could not turn away
abruptly and leave her standing there; if the victory were to be won,
it must be by sheer wrestle with the temptation, for her sake as well
as his own. To let her so much as suspect his feeling were as bad as to
utter it; nay, infinitely worse, for it would mean that he must not see
her after to-night. He and she would then be each other's peril in a
far direr sense than now.

He replied to her

'I'm so sorry; I shall not be there to-morrow. I have to go out of
London.'

He looked her in the face unwaveringly. It was the look which tormented
her, not that which she yearned for. She could not move away her eyes.

'You are going away, Mr. Egremont?'

'Yes, I am going out of England for a week or two--perhaps for longer.'

It was wrong--all wrong. In spite of himself he could not but admit a
note of pathos. The automatic voice of politeness would not come at his
bidding. He should have left her on the other side of the bridge, where
the harsh bells allowed no delicacies of tone.

'To France?' she asked.

'No. To an island very near France. I must not keep you standing here,
Miss Trent. It is very cold.'

Yes, the wind was cold, but perspiration covered his face.

'Please--only a minute. May I go to the library and do some more of the
books? Are they all finished?'

'No. There's still one case of them, and more will be coming. Certainly
you may go there if you wish.'

Her voice fell.

'But I shan't know how to put them. No, I can't do it alone.'

'I shall write to Mr. Grail, and tell him what I have been doing. You
can help him.'

'Yes.'

The monosyllable fell from her like a whisper of despair. But the
utterance of Grail's name had brought Egremont the last impulse he
needed.

'When I come back,' he said, 'I shall find you in your new home. As I
shan't see you again, let me say now how much I hope that you will live
there a long time and very happily. Good-bye, Miss Trent.'

Surely that was formal and automatic enough. Not one more word, not one
more glance at her face. He had touched her hand, had raised his hat,
was gone.

She stood gazing after him until, in a minute or two, he was lost in
the dark street behind the wharfs. So suddenly! He had scarcely said
good-bye--so poor a good-bye! She had vexed him with her importunities;
he wished to show her that she had not behaved in the way that pleased
him. Scarcely a good-bye!

She went to the end of the bridge, and there crept into a dark place
whither no eye could follow her. Her strength was at an end. She fell
to her knees; her head lay against something hard and cold; a sob
convulsed her, and then in the very anguish of desolation she wept. The
darkness folded her; she could lie here on the ground and abandon
herself to misery. She wept her soul from her eyes.

But for Egremont the struggle was not over. He had scarcely passed out
of her sight when fear held his steps. Thyrza must not be left there
alone. That face of hers, looking like marble, threatened despair. How
could he leave her so far from home, in the night, by the river?

He went back. He knew what such return meant. It was defeat after all.
He knew what his first word to her would be.

He sought her now, sought her that she might never leave him again. The
flood of passion was too strong; that moment of supreme restraint had
but massed the waters into overwhelming power. It was the thought of
danger to her that had ended all pity for Gilbert.

She was not in sight. Could she have passed the bridge so quickly? He
ran forward. True, it must be more than five minutes since he had left
her, much more, perhaps, for he could not judge how long he had stood
battling with himself behind the wharfs.

A policeman stood at the end of the bridge. Egremont asked him if a
young girl had just passed. Yes, such a one had gone by a minute or two
ago.

He ran on, past the church, into High Street. But would she go this
way? A girl crossed the road a little way ahead, into Paradise Street.
He overtook her, only to be disappointed.

At the end of Newport Street a man stood, waiting. It was Gilbert
Grail; he had come in the hope of meeting Thyrza, who, Lydia had told
him, was gone to see Totty Nancarrow. He was greatly anxious about her.

Egremont, coming up at a swift pace recognised Gilbert and stopped.
They shook hands. Grail was silent, Egremont began to stammer words. He
had been to see Bunce, just now, for such and such reasons, with such
and such results. But he could not stop, he had an engagement.
Good-night!

The shame of it! He found himself in Lambeth Walk, no longer searching,
anxious only to get away from the sight of men. Thyrza must be home by
this time. That speech with Gilbert had chilled him, and now he was hot
with self-contempt. He made his way out into Westminster Bridge Road,
thence walked to his own part of the town.




CHAPTER XXIII

CONFESSION


This Wednesday morning Lydia went to her work reluctantly. Thyrza was
so strange; it looked as if she was going to have an illness. Again
there had been a night of sleeplessness; if the girl fell for a moment
into slumber she broke from it with an inarticulate cry as if of fear.
It was now nearly a week since Thyrza had really slept through the
night, but it was growing worse. She was feverish; she muttered, so
that Lydia was terrified lest she had become delirious. And there was
no explaining it all. The excitement of the concert, surely, could not
have such lasting results; indeed, Thyrza seemed no longer to give a
thought to the music. All she begged for was that she might be allowed
to remain alone. She did not wish Mrs. Grail to come up to the room.
She said she would go out in the course of the morning, and that would
do her good.

So Lydia went forth reluctantly. At the entrance to the factory she met
Totty Nancarrow. They just gave each other a good-morning. Totty seemed
dull. She did not run up the stairs as usual, but walked with a tired
step.

Lydia, following her, broke her habit, and spoke.

'Thyrza isn't at all well.'

'Isn't she?' said the other, without turning her head, and in a tone of
little interest.

Lydia bit her lip, vexed that she had said anything.

They came into the work-room. There were a number of tables, at which
girls and women were beginning to seat themselves. A portion of the
room was divided off by a glass partition, and within the little office
thus formed sat the fore-woman, surrounded with felt hats, some
finished, some waiting for the needle to line them and put the band on.
Sitting here, she overlooked the workers, some fifty when all were
assembled.

There was much buzzing and tittering and laughing aloud. All belonged
to the class of needlewomen who preserve appearances; many of them were
becomingly dressed, and none betrayed extreme poverty. Probably a
fourth came from homes in which they were not the only wage-earners,
and would not starve if work slackened now and then, having fathers or
brothers to help them. Whether they liked coming to work or not, all
showed much cheerfulness at the commencement of the day. They greeted
each other pleasantly, sometimes affectionately, and not one who lacked
a story of personal incident to be quickly related to a friend whilst
the work was being given out. So much seemed to happen in the hours of
freedom.

Lydia was much quieter than usual. It was not her wont to gossip of her
own affairs, or to pry into the secrets of her acquaintances; but with
the little group of those with whom she was intimate she had generally
some piece of merriment to share, always marked by kindness of feeling.
She was a favourite with the most sensible girls of her own age. Thyrza
had never been exactly a favourite, though some older than herself
always used to pet her, generally causing her annoyance.

About a quarter of an hour had passed, and work was getting into trim,
when a girl, a late arrival, in coming to her place, handed Lydia a
letter.

'Someone downstairs asked me to give it you,' she whispered. 'You
needn't blush, you know.'

Lydia was too surprised to manifest any such self-consciousness. She
murmured thanks, and looked at the address. It was a man's writing, but
she had no idea whose. She opened the envelope and found Ackroyd's
short note.

What did this mean? It at once flashed across Lydia's mind that there
might be some connection between this and Thyrza's strange disorder.
Old habit still brought Ackroyd and Thyrza together in her thoughts.
Yet how was it possible? Ackroyd was engaged to Totty Nancarrow, and
Thyrza had never shown the least interest when she mentioned him of
late. Was he going to make trouble, now at the last moment, when
everything seemed to have taken the final form?

Since Thyrza's engagement to Gilbert, there was no longer need of
subtle self-deceptions, but, though she might now freely think of him,
Lydia soon found that Ackroyd was not the same in her eyes. The first
rumours of his abandonment to vulgar dissipation she utterly refused to
credit, but before long she had to believe them in spite of herself.
She saw him one night coming out of a public-house, singing a drunken
song. It was a terrible blow to her; she had to question herself much,
and to make great efforts to understand a man's nature. She had thought
him incapable of such things. The vague stories of earlier wildness she
had held no account of. When a woman says 'Oh, that is past,' she means
'It does not exist, and never did exist.'

It surprised her that she still thought of him with heartache. Her
quarrel with Mary Bower seemed an encouragement to the love she kept so
secret. She found a thousand excuses for him; she pitied him deeply;
she longed to go and speak to him. Why could she not do so? Often and
often she rehearsed conversations with him, in which she told him how
unworthy it was to fall so, and implored him for his own sake to be a
man again. She might have realised such a dialogue--though it would
have cost her much--but for the news that he had begun to pay attention
to Totty Nancarrow.

Then she knew jealousy. Of Thyrza she could not be jealous, but to
imagine him giving his affection to a girl like Totty Nancarrow made
her rebellious and scornful. How little could any of her work-room
companions know what was passing in Lydia's breast when she had one of
her days of quietness and bent with such persistence over her sewing!
If spoken to, she raised the same kind, helpful face as ever; you could
not imagine that a minute ago a tear had all but come to her eyes, that
in thought she had been uttering words of indignant passion. They were
rare, those days in which she could not be quite herself. It was not
her nature to yield when weakness tempted.

And now he had written to her. Having read the note, she put it into
the bosom of her dress, and, whilst her fingers were busy, she turned
over every possible explanation in her mind. She knew that he had
abandoned his evil habits of late, and she could be just enough not to
refuse Totty some credit for the change. Gilbert himself had said that
the girl's influence seemed on the whole good. But some mystery was now
going to reveal itself. It concerned Thyrza; she was sure it did. The
fact that the note was delivered in this way, and the request for
secrecy which it contained, made this certain.

At dinner-time, and again in the evening, Thyrza was still in the same
state of depression and feverishness. Lydia said nothing of the
business which would take her out at eight o'clock. When the time came,
and she had to make an excuse, Thyrza said that she too would go out;
she wanted to see Totty.

'You'll tell Gilbert?' Lydia replied, afraid to make any opposition
herself.

'No. He'd say it wasn't good for me to go out, and I want to go. You
won't say anything, Lyddy?'

'I ought to, dear. You're not well enough to go, that's quite certain.'

'I won't be long. I must go just for half an hour.'

'Why do you want to see her?' Lydia asked, masking her curiosity with a
half-absent tone.

'Oh, nothing to explain. I feel I want to talk, that's all.'

From time to time--in her more difficult moments--Lydia had felt a
little hurt that the course of circumstances made no difference in
Thyrza's friendship for Totty. When her truer mind was restored, she
knew that the reproach was a foolish one. More likely it was she
herself who was to blame for having always nourished a prejudice
against Totty. At present, Thyrza's anxiety to go out was another
detail connecting itself with Ackroyd's summons. Something unexplained
was in progress between those three, Totty and Ackroyd and Thyrza. Her
resentment against the first of them revived.

She would soon know what it all meant. Thyrza and she left the house
together and went in opposite directions. Lydia crossed Kennington
Road, and found Luke waiting for her. She approached him with veiled
eyes.

'I'm so glad you've come,' he began, with signs of disturbance, 'It's
kind of you to come. I have a great deal to say, and I can't speak
here. Will you come round into Walcot Square?--it'll be quieter.'

She said nothing, but walked beside him. It was a new and strange
sensation to be thus accompanying Ackroyd.

She was conscious that her pulses quickened. They went on in silence
till they reached the spot which Luke had mentioned, an irregular
little square, without traffic, dark.

'I don't know how to begin to tell you, Miss Trent,' Ackroyd said, when
he stopped and turned towards her. 'It's your sister I have to speak
about.'

She had foreseen truly. Her heart sank.

'What can you have to say about my sister, Mr. Ackroyd?' she asked in a
hard voice.

'I'm not surprised that you speak in that way. I know that I shall seem
a busybody, or perhaps something worse, meddling with things that don't
concern me. It would be easier for me to leave it alone, but I couldn't
do that, because I can't think of you and your sister as strangers.
I've heard something said about Thyrza that you ought to know. Be
friendly to me, and believe I'm only telling you this because I think
it's my duty.'

Lydia was looking at him in astonishment.

'You've heard something? What? What has anybody to say about my sister?'

'I shall make no secret of anything--it's the only way to prove I'm
behaving honestly to you. I was at the club last night, and Bower came
and sat down by me, and he began to talk about Thyrza. He said it
looked strange that she should be alone with Mr. Egremont in the
library every morning. The woman that takes care of the place told him
about it, and he's seen Thyrza himself coming away at dinner-time, when
Mr. Egremont was there. He says she goes to help him to put books on
the shelves. He spoke of it in a way that showed he was telling the
story to all sorts of people, and in a way that means harm. I'd sooner
bite my tongue out than repeat such things about your sister, if it
wasn't that you ought to know. I might have told Grail, but I felt it
was better to see you first. I know I'm making trouble enough any way,
but I believe you will give me credit for acting honestly. Don't think
of me as the kind of man I've seemed since Christmas. You used to think
well of me, and you must do so now, Miss Trent. I'm speaking as a true
friend.'

He hurried out his words of self-justification, for he saw the anger in
her face.

'And you believe this?' Lydia exclaimed, when she could use her voice.
'You believe a man that will go saying things like this about my
sister? Why is he trying to do us harm? Why, there _is_ no books to put
on the shelves! No books have come to the library yet!'

She laughed scornfully, and, before he could speak, continued with the
same vehemence.

'What have we done to Mr. Bower? I suppose it's because we're not so
friendly with them as we were. So he does his best to take away our
good name, and to ruin Thyrza's life! Of course, I knew very well what
you mean. I know what _he_ means. He's a cruel coward! It's a lie that
he's seen Thyrza coming out of the library! Why, I tell you there is no
books there! How could she help to put them on the shelves? You shall
come with me this minute to the Bowers' house! You can't refuse to do
that, Mr. Ackroyd: it's only fair, it's only justice. You shall come
and repeat to them all you've told me, and then see if he'll _dare_ to
say it again. I'm glad you didn't tell Gilbert; you was right to tell
me first. I'm not angry with you; you mustn't think that; though you
speak as if you believed his lies. I should have thought you knew
Thyrza better. Come with me, this minute! You _shall_ come, if you're
an honest man, as you say you are!'

She laid her hand upon his arm. Ackroyd took the hand and held it
whilst he compelled her to listen to him.

'Lydia, we can't go till you've heard everything. I've got more to tell
you.'

'More? What is it? A man that 'll say so much 'll say anything. You've
told me quite enough, I should think, considering it's about my own
sister.'

'But, Lydia, do listen to me, my poor girl! Try and quiet yourself, and
listen to me. There's nothing more of Bower's telling; he didn't say
any more; and there was more harm in his way of telling it than in the
story itself. But I have something to tell you that I've found out
myself.'

She looked him in the face. Her hand she had drawn away.

'And _you_ are going to say harm of Thyrza!' she said under her breath,
eyeing him as though he were her deadliest enemy.

'Think and say of me what you like, Lydia. I've got something that I
must tell you; if I don't, I'd a deal better never have said anything
at all. You're not right about the library. There _are_ books there,
and Mr. Egremont has been busy with them of a morning.'

'But how can _you_ know better than Gilbert?' she cried.

'I know, because I went last night to find out. As soon as I'd heard
Bower's tale, I went. And I was there again to-day, at dinner-time, and
I saw your sister come out of the door.'

She was silent. In spite of her passionate exclamations, a suspicion
had whispered within her from the first, a voice to which she would
lend no ear. Now she was constrained to think. She remembered Thyrza's
lateness at dinner on Monday; she remembered that Thyrza had been from
home each morning this week. And if it were true that books had arrived
at the library, and that Gilbert knew nothing of it--Was _this_ the
explanation of Thyrza's illness, of her inexplicable agitations, of her
sleeplessness?

She could not raise her head. Ackroyd too kept silent. She asked at
length: 'Have you anything more to tell me?'

'Yes, I _have_ something more. It's another thing that I found out last
night, after leaving Bower. Say that you don't accuse me of conduct as
bad as Bower's!' he added, vehemently. 'I _must_ tell you everything,
and it makes me seem as if I told it for the sake of telling. Say you
believe in my honesty, at all events!'

'I don't accuse you of anything,' she replied, still under her breath.
'What is it you have to say?'

'I went to see Miss Nancarrow. I had no thought of repeating the story
to her--you must believe me or not, as you like, but I am telling you
the truth. I wanted to see if she had heard anything from the Bowers,
and I wanted to try and find out, if I could, whether Thyrza had told
her any secret. It wasn't out of a wish to pry into things I'd no
concern with, but because I felt afraid for Thyrza, and because I
wanted to be sure that there was sufficient reason for it before I came
to you to put you on your guard. I said to Totty: 'Have you any reason
to think that Thyrza cares for somebody else more than for Grail?' She
got angry at once, and said she knew all about it, that she'd no
patience with Thyrza, and that she wasn't going to have anything more
to do with the affair. I've told you plainly, Lydia, told you
everything. I hope I've done it for the best.'

She stood as if she heard nothing. Her arms hung down; her eyes were
fixed on the ground. She was thinking that now she understood Thyrza's
urgency in wishing to see Totty. Now she understood everything.

She moved, as if to go away. Ackroyd could find no word. All he had to
say was so much sheer cruelty, and to attempt comfort would be insult.
But Lydia faced him again.

'And you think the worst of my sister?'

Again her look was defiant. She had no enemy in the world like the man
who could accuse Thyrza of guilt. It was one thing to point out that
Thyrza was in danger of being columniated, another to believe that the
evil judgment was merited.

'I _don't_ think the worst of her, Lydia,' he replied, firmly. 'I think
it likely that she has been doing something very thoughtless, and I am
quite sure that that man Egremont has been doing something for which he
deserves to be thrashed. But no more than that. More than that I
_won't_ believe!'

'Thank you, Mr. Ackroyd! A minute ago I hated you, now I know that I
have always been right in thinking you had a good heart. Thyrza may
have been foolish in keeping things from me, but she's no more to blame
than that. You can believe me. I would say it, if it was my life or
death!'

He took her hand and pressed it.

'And you think Mr. Bower is telling everyone?' she asked, her voice
wonderfully changed, for all at once she became a woman, and felt her
need of a strong man's aid.

'I'm afraid so. When he'd done his tale to me last night, I told him
that if he hadn't been a man so much older than myself I'd have struck
him in face of all in the club. I'd perhaps better not have angered
him, but it wouldn't make much difference. He's got ill feeling against
Egremont, I believe.'

Lydia's eyes flashed when she heard of that speech to Bower.

'And you think he's doing this more to harm Mr. Egremont than Thyrza?'

'I do. He's a gossiping fool, but I don't believe he'd plot to ruin a
girl in this way. Still, I'm quite sure the story 'll have got about,
and it comes to the same thing.'

Both stood in thought. Lydia felt as if all the bright future were
blasted before her eyes. Thyrza loved Egremont. Egremont was the
falsest of friends to Gilbert, the most treacherous of men. Her darling
had been artfully drawn by him into this secret intercourse; and how
was it all to end?

'I must go home to Thyrza, Mr. Ackroyd. I don't know what to do, but it
will come to me when I see my sister.'

She reflected a moment, then added:

'She went to see Totty Nancarrow, at the same time when I came out.
Perhaps she'll be there still. If I don't find her at home, I must go
to the other house. Good-bye!'

'I do wish I could be some help to you, Lydia!' he said, holding her
hand and looking very kindly at her.

'You can't. Nobody can help. Whatever happens Thyrza and me will be
together, and I shall keep her from harm. But you've been a good friend
to me to-night, Mr. Ackroyd. I can't do more than say I'm grateful to
you. I shall be that, as long as I live.'

'Lydia--I don't want to pry into anything between you and your sister,
but if I _can_ do anything to be of use to her--or to you--you'll tell
me? You could easily send a message to me.'

'Thank you. I _will_ ask you if there is anything. Let me go home
alone, Mr. Ackroyd.'

She came to the house, and saw that there was no light in the window of
their room. Still, Thyrza might be sitting there. She ran upstairs. The
room was vacant.

Then she hurried to Newport Street. Mrs. Ladds told her that Totty had
not come in yet, and that Thyrza had been and was gone away again. She
turned on her steps slowly, and after a short uncertainty went home
again, in the hope that Thyrza might have returned. As she entered,
Gilbert met her in the passage.

'Is Thyrza come back?' she asked.

'No, she isn't in the house. Where did she go to?'

'She went just to see Totty Nancarrow.' Nothing was to be gained by
concealing this now. 'I've been there, but she's gone away. I dare say
she'll be back in a few minutes.'

Lydia went upstairs, not feeling able to talk. Gilbert, who since
Monday had fallen into ever deeper trouble, left the house and walked
towards Newport Street, hoping to find Thyrza. It was thus that he came
to be met by Egremont. He was back in half an hour. Lydia came down
when she heard him enter.

'Lydia,' he said, gravely, 'you shouldn't have allowed her to go out.
She isn't in a fit state to leave the house.'

'It was wrong, I know,' she said, standing just inside the door of the
parlour.

Gilbert mentioned that he had seen Egremont. Before she could check
herself, Lydia exclaimed:

'Where?'

He looked at her in surprise. She turned very pale. Mrs. Grail was also
gazing at her.

'It was at the end of Newport Street,' Gilbert replied. 'Why are you so
anxious to know where?'

'I'm sure I don't know. I'm worrying so about that child. I spoke
without thinking at all.'

Half an hour more passed, then, as all sat silently together, they
heard the front door opening. Lydia started up.

'Don't move, Gilbert! Let me go up with her. She'll be afraid of being
scolded.'

She went out into the passage. The little lamp hung against the wall as
usual, and when by its light she saw Thyrza, she was made motionless by
alarm. Not only was the girl's face scarcely recognisable; her clothing
was stained and in disorder.

'Thyrza!' she whispered. 'My darling, what has happened?'

The other, with a terrified look at the Grails' door, ran past and up
the stairs, speaking no word. Her sister followed.

In the room, Thyrza did not sit down, though her whole body trembled.
She took off her hat, and tried to undo her jacket.

'What is it?' Lydia asked, coming near to her. 'Where have you been?
What's made you like this?'

She was almost as pale as her sister, and fear pressed on her throat.
Knowing what she did, she imagined some dreadful catastrophe. Thyrza
seemed unable to speak, and her eyes were so wild, so pain-stricken,
that they looked like madness. She tried to smile, and at length said
disconnectedly:

'It's nothing, Lyddy--only frightened--somebody--a drunken
man--frightened me, and I fell down. Nothing else!'

Lydia could make no reply. She did not believe the story. Silently she
helped to remove the jacket, and led Thyrza to a chair. Then she drew
the dear head to her and held it close against her breast.

'You are so cold, Thyrza! Where have you been? Tell me, tell Lyddy!'

'Totty wasn't at home. I walked a little way. Gilbert doesn't know? You
haven't told him?'

'No, no, dear, it's all right. Come nearer to the fire: oh, how cold
you are! Sit on my lap, dearest; rest your head against me. Why have
you been crying, Thyrza?'

There was no answer. Held thus in her sister's arms, Thyrza abandoned
herself, closed her eyes, let every limb hang as it would, tried to be
as though she were dead. Lydia thought at first that she had lost
consciousness, but her cry brought an answer. They sat thus for some
minutes.

Then Thyrza whispered:

'I'm poorly, Lyddy. Let me go to bed.'

'You shall, dear. I'll sit by you. You'll let me stay by you?'

'Yes.'

As her clothes were removed she shook feverishly.

'They won't come up?' she asked several times. 'Mrs. Grail won't come?
Go and tell them I've got a headache, and that it'll be all right in
the morning.'

'They won't come, dear. Get into bed, and I'll go and tell them
directly.'

She could have wept for misery, but she must be strong for Thyrza's
sake. Whatever hope remained depended now upon her own self-command and
prudence. When Thyrza had lain down, Lydia succeeded in showing almost
a cheerful face.

'I'll just go down and say you're poorly. You won't move till I come
back?'

Thyrza shook her head.

Her sister was only away for a minute or two. She reentered the room
panting with the speed she had made. And she sat down at the bedside.

There was no word for a long time. Thyrza's eyes were closed; her lips
quivered every now and then with a faint sob. The golden braid, which
Lydia had not troubled to undo, lay under her cheek.

Lydia held counsel with herself. Something had happened, something
worse, she thought, than a mere fit of wretchedness in the suffering
heart. There was no explaining the disordered state in which the girl
had come back.

Gilbert said that he had met Mr. Egremont at the end of Newport Street.
Was it conceivable that Thyrza had had an appointment with Egremont at
Totty's house? No; that was not to be credited, for many reasons.
Totty--by Luke's account--was angry with Thyrza, and refused to hear
anything of what was going on. Yet it was very strange that he should
be going to see Mr. Bunce just at the same time that Thyrza was there,
and in Totty's absence too.

What to think of Mr. Egremont? There was the central question. She knew
him scarcely at all; had only seen him on that one occasion when she
opened the house-door to him, There was Gilbert's constant praise of
him, but Lydia knew enough of the world to understand that Gilbert
might very easily err in his judgment of a young man in Egremont's
position. Ackroyd seemed to have no doubt at all; he had said at once
that Egremont deserved to be thrashed. Clearly he believed the worst of
Egremont, attributed to him a deliberate plot. If he was right, then
what might not have befallen?

She had said to herself that she would not dishonour her sister by
fearing more than a pardonable weakness. Now there was a black dread
closing in upon her.

How to act with Thyrza? Must she reveal all that Ackroyd told her, and
so compel a confession?

Not that, if it could possibly be avoided. It would drive Thyrza to
despair. No; it must be kept from her that prying eyes had watched her
going and coming. Already it might be too late; the marriage with
Gilbert might be impossible, if only because Thyrza would inevitably
betray her love for Egremont; but there was all the future to think of,
and Thyrza must not be driven to some irreparable folly.

There was one hypothesis which Lydia quite left aside. She did not ask
herself whether Egremont might not truly and honestly love her sister.
It was natural enough that she should not think of it. Every tradition
weighed in favour of rascality on the young man's part, and Lydia's
education did not suffice to raise her above the common point of view
in such a matter. A gentleman did not fall in love with a work-girl,
not in the honest sense. Lydia had the prejudices of her class, and her
judgment went full against Egremont from the outset. He had encouraged
secret meetings, the kind of thing to be expected. He must have known
perfectly what a blow he was preparing for Gilbert, if the fact of
these meetings should be discovered. What did he care for that? His
selfishness was proof against every scruple, no doubt.

She could not argue as an educated person might have done. Egremont's
zeal in his various undertakings made no plea for his character, in her
mind. To be sure, a more subtle reasoner might have given it as little
weight, but that would have been the result of conscious wisdom. Lydia
could only argue from her predisposition regarding the class of
'gentlemen.' We know how she had shrunk from meeting Egremont. Guided
by Gilbert and Thyrza, she had taught herself to think well of him,
but, given the least grounds of suspicion, class-instinct was urgent to
condemn.

Only one way recommended itself to her, and that the way of love. She
must lead Thyrza to confide in her, must get at the secret by
constraint of tenderness. She might seem to suspect, but the grounds of
her suspicion must be hidden.

Having resolved this, she leaned nearer and spoke gentle words such as
might soothe. Thyrza made no response, save that she raised her lids
and looked wofully.

'Dear one, what is it you're keeping from me?' Lydia pleaded. 'Is it
kind, Thyrza, is it kind to me? It isn't enough to tell me you're
poorly; there's more than that. Do you think I can look at you and not
see that you have a secret from me?'

Thyrza had closed her eyes again, and was mute.

'Dear, how can you be afraid of _me_, your old Lyddy? When there's
anything you're glad of, you tell me; oughtn't I to know far more when
you're in trouble? Speak to me, dear sister! I'll put my head near
yours; whisper it to me! How _can_ I go on in this way? Every day I see
you getting worse. I'm miserable when I'm away at work; I haven't a
minute's peace. Be kind to me, and say what has happened.'

There was silence.

'Do you think there's anything in me but love for you, my dearest, my
Thyrza? Do you think I could say a cruel word, tell me whatever you
might? Do you think I shan't love you only the better, the more unhappy
you are? Perhaps I half know what it is, perhaps--'

Thyrza started and gazed with the same wildness as when she first came
in.

'You know? What do you know? Tell me at once, Lyddy!'

'I don't really know anything, love--it's only that I can't help
thinking--I've noticed things.'

Thyrza raised herself upon one arm. She was terror-stricken.

'What have you noticed? Tell me at once! You've no right to say things
of that kind! Can't I be poorly without you talking as if I'd done
something wrong? What have I done? Nothing, nothing! Leave me alone,
Lyddy! Go downstairs, and leave me to myself!'

'But you don't understand me,' pleaded the other. 'I don't think you've
done anything, but I know you're in trouble--how can I help knowing it?'

'But you said you've noticed things. What do you mean by that? You'd no
right to say it if you don't mean anything! You're trying to frighten
me! I can't bear you sitting there! I want to be alone! If you must
stay in the room, go away and sit by the fire. Haven't you no sewing to
do? You've always got plenty at other times. Oh, you make me feel as if
I should go mad!'

Lydia withdrew from the bedside. She sat down in a corner of the room
and covered her face with her hands.

Thyrza fell back exhausted. She had wrought herself almost to hysteria,
and, though she could not shed tears, the dry sobs seemed as if they
would rend her bosom.

Minutes passed. She turned and looked at her sister. Lydia was bent
forward, propping her forehead.

'Lyddy, I want you.'

Lydia came forward. She had been crying. She fell on her knees by the
bed.

'Lyddy, what did you mean? It's no good denying it, you meant
something. You said you'd noticed things You've no right to say that
and say no more.

'You won't tell me what your secret is without me saying what I've
thought?'

'I've got no secret! I don't know what you mean by secret!'

'Thyrza--have you--have you seen Mr. Egremont tonight?'

They looked at each other. Thyrza's lips were just parted; she drew
herself back, as if to escape scrutiny. The arm with which she
supported herself trembled violently.

'Why do you ask that?' she said, faintly.

'That's what I meant, Thyrza,' the other whispered, with a face of fear.

'Have I seen Mr. Egremont? I don't know what you're thinking of? Why
should I see Mr. Egremont? What have I to do with him?'

Lydia put her hand forward and touched her sister.

'Thyrza!' she cried, passionately. 'Tell me! Tell me everything! I
can't bear it! If you have ever so little love for me in your
heart--tell me!'

Thyrza could no longer keep her raised position. She fell back. Then
with one hand she caught the railing at the head of the bed and held it
convulsively, whilst she buried her face in the pillow.

Lydia bent over her, and said in low, quick tones:

'I think no harm of you! Perhaps you've got to like him too much, and
he's persuaded you to go to meet him. It's only what I've thought to
myself. Tell me, and let me be a sister to you; let me help you! No one
else shall hear a word of it, Thyrza. Only Lyddy! We'll talk about it,
and see what can be done. You shall tell me how it began--tell me all
there is in your heart, poor child. It'll comfort you to speak of it.
The secret is killing you, my darling. There's no harm--none--none! You
couldn't help it. Only let us both know, and talk to each other about
it, like sisters!'

Thyrza's grasp of the iron loosened, and her hand fell. She turned her
face to the light again.

'Lyddy, how do you know this?'

'I thought it. You've been out every morning. You spoke of him in a
way--'

'Has any one said anything to you? Has Gilbert?'

'No, no! Gilbert hasn't such a thought. It's all myself. Oh, what has
he been saying to you, Thyrza?'

A change was coming about in the sufferer. What had at the first
suggestion been a terror now grew upon her as an assuagement of pain.
She clung to her sister's hand.

'I don't know how it began,' she whispered. 'It seems so sudden; but I
think it's been coming for a long time. Ever since I saw him that day
at the library--the first time I ever saw him. Ever since, there hasn't
been a day I haven't thought of him. I never saw any one else that made
me think like that. Day and night, Lyddy! But it didn't trouble me at
first. It was only after I came back from Eastbourne. I seemed to think
of everything in a different way after that. I dreamt of him every
night, and I did so want to see him. I don't know why. Then I saw him
at last--on Monday--at the library.'

'You hadn't met him--alone--before then?'

'No, never since that first time.'

'But why did you go there on Monday?'

'Oh, I can't--can't think! Something seemed to tell me to go there. I
found there was some books come, and he was putting them on the
shelves. He said he didn't want Gilbert to know--just for fun--and I
promised not to say anything.'

'You mean last Monday? This week?'

'Yes. Not before then. And it seems--oh, it seems a month ago, Lyddy!'

She lay back, pressing Lydia's hand against her heart.

'But did he ask you to go again, dear?'

'No, he didn't. It was all myself. Lyddy, I couldn't keep away. I
couldn't. Will you believe I'm telling the truth? I tried--I did try so
hard! I knew I oughtn't to go, because I wanted to so much. I knew it
was wrong. I don't think I should have gone if Mrs. Grail hadn't forced
me to go out for a walk, because she said it would take my headache
away. I was holding myself back all the morning. And when I got out--I
couldn't help it--I was drawn there! And then I asked him if I might
come again to-day. He said I might, but I could see he thought it was
wrong of me. And, Lyddy, he never came. I stayed there waiting. Oh, do
you know what I suffered? I can't tell you!'

'My dearest, I know, I feel with you! But it will be better now you've
told me. And to-night? Didn't you see him to-night?'

'How do you know? Who told you?' she asked, nervously.

'No one, dear. I only think it. The way you came in--'

Thyrza suddenly bent forward, listening.

'Can any one hear us?' she whispered. 'Go and see any one's outside.'

'There's no one, dear.'

'Go and look. I'm afraid.'

Lydia went and opened the door. She closed it again, and came back
shaking her head.

'I didn't think I should see him,' Thyrza continued. 'I was waiting in
Totty's room, and he came to see Mr. Bunce. I heard his voice. When he
went away, I followed him. I couldn't help myself. I would have given
my life for a word from him. I wanted to know why he hadn't come this
morning. I followed him, and walked with him over the bridge. Then he
told me he was going away, somewhere out of England, and I shouldn't
see him again till after--after I was married.'

She choked. Lydia soothed her again, and she continued, with growing
agitation:

'Then he said good-bye--he went away very quickly, after just saying he
hoped I should be happy. Happy! How can I be happy? And when he was
gone, I went somewhere and fell down and cried--somewhere where nobody
could see me. He's gone, Lyddy! How am I to live without him?'

They held each other. Thyrza sobbed out her anguish until strength
failed, then lay in her sister's arms, pale as a corpse.

When there had been utter silence for a while, Lydia asked:

'And he has never said anything to you that--that he oughtn't to have
said!'

'Said? What did you think? You thought he--he loved _me_?'

'I didn't know, dearest.'

'Oh, if he did! He asked me not to call him 'sir,' and to be his
friend--never more than that. You thought he loved me? How could he
love a girl like me, Lyddy?'

Lydia had followed the unfolding of the tale with growing surprise. It
was impossible to doubt Thyrza's truthfulness. Yet there must be more
on Egremont's part than appeared. Why did he exact secrecy about those
meetings in the library? There was little doubt that Thyrza had
betrayed herself to him. True, he had refrained from keeping the
appointment for this morning, and it seemed he was going away till
after the marriage. But all this was too late.

Still he was innocent of the guilt she had suspected. Thyrza had not
come to the dreaded harm. Though heartbroken, she was saved. Lydia felt
almost joyous for an instant. Bower's gossip might yet be deprived of
its sting, for Mr. Egremont would be gone, and--Monday was so near.

It was the reaction from her terror. She could think of nothing for the
moment but that Thyrza must be preserved from future risk by marriage.

Thyrza was lying exhausted. Lydia, deep in thought, was surprised to
see a faint smile on the beautiful pale face.

'You thought he loved me?' was whispered. 'Oh, if he did! If he did!'

Lydia was still kneeling. New fears were making themselves heard. Was
it possible for Thyrza to marry Gilbert under such circumstances, and
within five days? What if Gilbert heard Bower's story? Nay, in any
case, what of the future? Egremont would be constantly at the library.

'Thyrza, do you never think of Gilbert?'

Thyrza raised herself, again the look of wild dread in her eyes.

'Lyddy, I can't marry him! You know now that I can't, don't you? It
would be wrong. I shall love _him_ as long as ever I live--love him and
think of him every minute. I can't marry Gilbert.'

There was silence. Lydia looked up with tearful, appealing eyes.

My dearest, think--think what that means? How can you break your word
to him--now, when the day's almost here? Think what it'll mean to him.
You'll have to tell him the reason, and then--'

'I'll tell him everything. I'll bear it. Can I help it, Lyddy? Am I
happy?'

'But you haven't thought, Thyrza. It means that Gilbert will have to go
on with his work at the factory.'

'Why? His mother will go and live with him at the library.'

Her voice sank. She began to understand.

'Do you suppose he can take that place from Mr. Egremont after he knows
this, Thyrza?'

Thyrza was mute for a little. Then she said, under her breath:

'He needn't know the reason. He must think it's something else.'

'That's impossible. What a cruel thing it'll be to him! You know how
he's looked forward. And then he loves you; he loves you more than you
think. It will be dreadful! Thyrza, I don't think you'll make poor
Gilbert suffer in that way. You couldn't do that, dear! You know what
love means; have some pity for him!'

'I cant! He shan't know the reason; he shall go to the library just the
same. We'll say it's only put off. I can't marry him on Monday! I'd
sooner kill myself!'

There was a ring of terrible earnestness in the words. Lydia was afraid
to plead any more at present. She affected to admit that there was no
help. Yes, the marriage should be postponed; perhaps that would be a
way.

The hour was late. After her sister's acquiescence Thyrza had fallen
into brooding. She moved constantly. There was fire in her cheeks.

Only a few words were exchanged whilst Lydia undressed and lay down by
her sister. Sleep was impossible to either of them. Yet Thyrza had not
closed her eyes the night before. She was very feverish, could not lie
in one position for more than a few minutes. When neither had spoken
for nearly an hour, she said of a sudden:

'Lyddy, I want you to promise me that you'll never tell Gilbert nor
Mrs. Grail one word of this. I want you to promise.'

'I promise you, dear. How could I think of doing so without your leave?'

There was a pause, then Thyrza resumed:

'I think you'll do as you say. Kiss me, and promise again.'

'I will keep your secret, dearest. I promise you.'

The other sighed deeply, and after that lay still.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE END OF THE DREAM


Gilbert did not go to work next morning. Though Lydia had disguised her
sister's strange condition as well as she could, he knew that something
was being kept from him, and his mind, ever ready to doubt the reality
of the happiness that had been granted him, was at length so beset with
fears that he could no longer pay attention to the day's business. He
rose at the usual time, but with a word at his mother's door made known
his intention not to go out till after breakfast. Having lit a fire in
the parlour, he sat down and tried to read.

He had purposed working till Saturday. To-night and to-morrow night
(Thursday and Friday) Thyrza and he were to go and purchase such
articles of furniture and the like as would be needed for the new house
(the list was long since carefully made out, and the places of purchase
decided upon), and these would be taken in by Mrs. Butterfield. On
Saturday afternoon the contents of Gilbert's own room were to be
removed; on that and the following night he would sleep under the new
roof, and by Monday morning would have things in sufficient order to
allow of Mrs. Grail and Lydia coming, for these two were to keep each
other company whilst he and his wife were away. By this scheme he might
work on to the end of the week, and suffer no loss of wages.

But Gilbert was not a machine, unhappily for himself. Even had nothing
external occurred to trouble the order he had planned, his own mood
would probably have rendered steady work impossible now that he could
positively count on his fingers the days before his marriage
day--before the day which would make him a free man. It was hard to
believe that two such blessings could descend upon a mortal at once. It
seemed to him that the very hours, as they went by, looked on him with
faces of mysterious menace, foretelling a dread successor. Since Monday
he had with difficulty accomplished his tasks; each time he hastened
home it was with unreasoning fear lest something bad come to pass in
his absence. And now it was no longer only apprehension. Thyrza was
changing under his eyes. She was physically ill, and he knew that some
agitation possessed her mind. She shrank from him.

The glimmer of early morning at the parlour window was cold and
threatening. A faint ray of sunlight showed itself, only to fade upon a
low, rain-charged sky. The sounds of labour recommencing were as
wearisome to him as they always are to one who has watched through an
unending night. The house itself seemed unnaturally silent.

Mrs. Grail came in at length, and looked at him anxiously. Her own eyes
lacked the refreshment of sleep.

'I didn't feel able to go, mother,' he said. 'I want to hear how Thyrza
is as soon as possible. Perhaps you can go up presently?'

She murmured an assent, and began to lay the table.

In a few minutes she ascended very quietly and listened at the girls'
door. Her report was that she could hear no sound; they must both be
sleeping.

An hour went by. Mother and son made no pretence of conversing. Gilbert
kept an open book before him. Rain had begun to fall, and the sky
darkened as the minutes ticked themselves away by the clock on the
mantel-piece.

Then there was a sound on the stairs. Lydia came into the room, and
with her Thyrza.

Lydia smiled, and tried to draw attention from her sister by lamenting
their lateness at the meal.

'We were afraid you'd have gone away again,' she said to Gilbert.

'I don't think I shall go to work this morning,' he replied quietly.

She became silent. Thyrza had drawn a chair to the table. One saw that
she had risen with difficulty--that she with difficulty sat upright.

Gilbert, without speaking, went and sat by her. Lydia was dreading
questions, but she did injustice to the delicacy of his mind. Mrs.
Grail just said: 'You're very pale still, dear,' and nothing more.

The meal was made as short as possible. Then Lydia helped Mrs. Grail to
take the things to the kitchen. Thyrza, before coming down, had asked
to be left alone with Gilbert for a few minutes.

Grail was at the window, watching the rain. He heard Thyrza approaching
him, and turned.

'Gilbert,' she said, without raising her eyes, 'I'm behaving very
unkindly to you. Will you forgive me?'

'How are you behaving unkindly, Thyrza?' he asked, with gently
expressed surprise.

'I've been keeping away from you. I couldn't help it. I don't feel
myself.'

'You are ill, Thyrza. Am I to forgive you for that?'

'Yes, I am ill. Gilbert, is it too late to ask you? Will you put it off
for a week, one week?'

He let a minute pass before replying. Seeing that she trembled as she
stood, he led her to a chair, the chair in which she always sat.

'Dear,' he said at length, 'I will do whatever you wish.'

'I shall be better by then, I think. But I'll go with you to buy the
things just the same.'

'We can leave that for a few days,' he said absently.

'It wouldn't make any difference to you at the library?'

'None, I am sure, I will write and tell Mr. Egremont. He will be very
sorry to hear of your illness.'

She stood up, and looked at the clock.

'I've made you late for your work.'

'I shan't go to-day.'

'You won't go?' she asked.

'I can't, Thyrza. I'm too uneasy about you.'

'Don't be that, Gilbert, I promise you to try and get better.'

Another silence, then he asked

'Will you stay here this morning?'

She just raised her face; fear and entreaty were on the features.

'I only came down for breakfast, to ask you that, and--and to tell you
I was so sorry.'

'To be sure,' he replied at once. 'You are not well enough to be up.
Lyddy will stay with you?'

'Yes, she is going to stay. I'll come and see you again, if I feel
able.'

She offered her hand. He took it, held it a little, then said:

'Thyrza, is there anything on your mind, anything you don't wish to
tell me just now, but in a day or two perhaps?'

'No, Gilbert, no! If you'll forgive me for behaving unkindly.'

'Dear, how can there be any forgiving, so long as I love you? There
must be blame before there is need of forgiveness, and I love you too
well to think a reproachful thought.'

She bent her head and sobbed.

'Thyrza, is it any happiness to you to know that I love you?'

'Yes, it is. You are very good. I know I am making you suffer.'

'But I shall see the old face again, before long?'

'Soon. I shall be myself again soon.'

She left him and went upstairs. A minute or two after. Lydia knocked at
the door.

'Thyrza has gone up?' she asked.

'Yes. Come here, Lydia!'

He spoke with abruptness. Lydia drew near.

'You know that she has asked me to put off our marriage for a week?'

'I didn't know that she was going to ask you now, I thought perhaps she
wished it.'

'I can't ask you to betray your sister's secrets, but--Lyddy, you won't
keep anything from me that I _ought_ to know?'

He paused, then went on again with a shaking voice.

'There are some things that I _ought_ to know, if--You know that,
Lyddy? You owe love to your sister first, but you owe something to me
as well. There are some things you would have no right to keep from me.
You might be doing both her and me the greatest wrong.'

Lydia could not face him. She tried to speak, but uttered only a
meaningless word.

'Thyrza is ill,' he pursued. 'I can't ask her, as I feel I ought to,
what has made her ill. Tell me this, as you are a good and a truthful
girl. If I marry Thyrza, shall I be taking advantage of her weakness?
Does she wish me to free her?'

'She doesn't! Indeed, Gilbert, she doesn't! You are her very best
friend. All her life depends upon you. You won't break it off? Perhaps
she will even be well enough by the end of the week, Remember how young
she is, and how often she has strange fancies.'

'You tell me solemnly that Thyrza still wishes to be my wife?'

'She does. She wishes to be your wife, Gilbert.'

To Lydia her sister's fate hung in the balance. What she uttered was
verbally true. Before rising, Thyrza had said: 'I will marry him.' In
the possible breaking of this bond Lydia saw such a terrible danger
that her instincts of absolute sincerity for once were overridden. If
she spoke falsely, it was to save her sister. Thyrza once married, the
face of life would be altered for her; this sudden passionate love
would fall like a brief flame. Lydia had decided upon a bold step. As
soon as it was possible, she would go and see Mr. Egremont, see him
herself, and, if he had any heart or any honour, prevail with him that
Thyrza might be spared temptation. But the marriage must first be over,
and must be brought about at all costs.

In her life she had never spoken an untruth for her own advantage. Now,
as she spoke, the sense that her course was chosen gave her courage.
She looked Gilbert at length boldly in the face. His confidence in her
was so great that, his own desires aiding, he believed her to the full.
Thyrza's suffering, he said to himself, had not the grave meaning he
had feared; it was something that must be sacred from his search.

So much power was there in Lydia's word, uttered for her sister's
saving.

All day long it rained. Gilbert did not go from the house. He wrestled
with hope, which was still only to be held by persistent effort.
Sunshine would have aided him, but all day he looked upon a gloomy, wet
street. At dinner-time he had all but made up his mind to go to work;
the thought, however, was too hateful to him. And he felt it would be
hard to meet men's faces. Perhaps there would be comfort by the morrow.

Thyrza did in fact come down for tea. She spoke only a few words, but
she seemed stronger than in the morning. Lydia had a brighter face too.
They went up again together after the meal.

Another night passed. Lydia slept. She believed that the worst was
over, and that there might after all be no postponement of the
marriage. For Thyrza had become very quiet; she seemed worn out with
struggle, and resigned. Her sleep, she said, had been good. Yet her
eyelids were swollen; no doubt she had cried in the night.

Lydia had no intention of leaving home. Gilbert had gone to work,
reassured by her report the last thing on the previous evening.

There was no more speech between the sisters on the subject of their
thoughts. Through the morning Thyrza lay so still that Lydia, thinking
her asleep, now and then stepped lightly and bent over her. Each time,
however, she found the sad eyes gazing fixedly upwards. Thyrza just
turned them to her, but without change of expression.

'Don't look at me like that, dear,' Lydia said once. 'It's as if you
didn't know me.'

The reply was a brief smile.

Thyrza got up in the afternoon. About five o'clock, when Lydia was
making tea, Mrs. Jarmey came with a message. She said Mr. Boddy had
sent word that he wished to see Lydia particularly; he begged she would
come during the evening.

'Who brought the message?' Lydia asked, going outside the door to speak
with the landlady.

'A little boy,' was the answer. 'I never see him before, as I know.'

Lydia was disturbed. It might only mean that the old man was anxious at
not having seen her for five or six days, or that he was ill; but the
fact of his living in the Bowers' house suggested another explanation.
An answer was required; she sent back word that she would come.

'I shan't be more than half an hour away at the very longest,' she
said, when she reluctantly prepared to go out after tea. 'Wouldn't you
like to go downstairs just for that time, dear?'

'No, Lyddy, I'll stay.'

Thyrza had left her chair, and stood with her hand resting on the
mantel-piece. She did not turn her head.

'How funny you look with your hair like that!'

Thyrza had declined to have her hair braided, and had coiled it herself
in a new way. She made no reply.

'Good-bye, pet!' Lydia said, coming near.

Thyrza did not move. She was looking downwards at the fire. Lydia
touched her; she started, and, with a steady gaze, said, 'Good-bye,
Lyddy!'

'I do wish I hadn't to go. But I shall be very quick.'

'Yes. Good-bye!'

They kissed each other, and Lydia hastened on her errand.

Her absence did not last much longer than the time she had set. Mr.
Boddy had heard from Mrs. Bower all the story about Egremont. He gave
no faith to it, but wished to warn Lydia that such gossip was afloat,
and to receive from her an authoritative denial. She declared it to be
false from beginning to end. Without a moment's hesitation she did
this, having determined that there was no middle course. She denied
that Thyrza had been to the library. Whoever originated the story had
done so in malice. She enjoined upon him to contradict it without
reserve.

She felt as if she were being hunted by merciless beasts. To escape
them, any means were justifiable. Of the Bowers she thought with bitter
hatred. No wrong to herself could have excited all her fiercest
emotions as did this attack upon her sister. Running homewards, she
felt the will and the strength to take the life of her enemy. She had
entered the Bowers' house, and left it, by the private door; it was
well that she had met no one.

She remembered that Thyrza must not discover her excitement, and went
up the stairs slowly, regaining breath, trying to smooth her face. A
fable to account for Mr. Boddy's summons was ready on her tongue. She
entered, and found an empty room.

So Thyrza had gone down to Mrs. Grail after all. That was good. The
poor girl was making a brave struggle, and would conquer herself yet.
If only Bower's gossip could be kept from Gilbert, But there was still
a long time till Monday, still two whole days, and Bower, determined as
he evidently was to work mischief, would not neglect the supreme
opportunity. It would have been better if Gilbert had not returned to
work.

She took off her things.

What was that lying on the table? An envelope, a dirty one which had
been in the drawer for a long time; on it was written 'Lyddy.' It was
Thyrza's writing. Lydia opened it. Inside was a rough piece of white
paper, torn off a sheet in which something had been wrapped. It was
written upon, and the writing said this:

'I have gone away. I can't marry Gilbert, and I can't tell him the
truth. Remember your promise. Some day I shall come back to you, when
everything is different. Remember your promise, so that Gilbert can go
to the library just the same. No harm will come to me. Good-bye, my
dear, dear sister. If you love me you will say you know nothing, so
that it will be all right for Gilbert. Good-bye, Lyddy, darling.'

Crushing the paper in her hand, Lydia, just as she was, ran out into
the street. It was not yet dark. Instinctively, after one glance
towards Kennington Road, she took the opposite way and made for Newport
Street. Thyrza would communicate with Totty Nancarrow, if with any one
at all; she would not go there at once, but Totty must be won over to
aid in discovering the child and bringing her back.

It rained, not heavily, but enough to dew Lydia's hair in a few
minutes. Little she thought of that. Thyrza wandering alone--straying
off into some far part of London; Thyrza, ill as she was--with at most
a few pence to procure lodging for this one night--alone among what
dangers! The thought was fire in her brain.

She was in Paradise Street, and someone stood in her way, speaking.

'Lydia! Where ever are you going like that?'

It was Mary Bower. Lydia glared at her.

'How dare you speak to me! I hate you!'

And with a wild gesture, almost a blow at the girl, she rushed on.

Totty had just come in from work. Lydia scarcely waited for a reply to
her knock before she burst into the room.

'Totty! Will you help me? Thyrza has left me--gone away. I was out for
half an hour. She left a note for me, to say good-bye. Help me to find
her! Do you know anything? Can you think where she'd go?'

Totty was on her knees, lighting a fire. In her amazement she made no
effort to rise. A lighted piece of paper was in her hand; forgetting
it, she let the flame creep on till it burnt her fingers. Then she
stood up.

'What does she say in the note?' she asked with deliberation.

Lydia opened her hand and spread out the crumpled paper. She was going
to read aloud, but checked herself and looked at the other piteously.

'You know all about it, don't you? Thyrza told you?'

'I suppose I know pretty well,' Totty replied, in the same deliberate
and distant way.

'Has she said anything to you about going away?'

'I don't know as she has.'

'Then look what she's written.'

Totty hesitated, then said:

'Thank you, I'd rather not. It's not my business. If I was you, I'd
speak to Mr. Ackroyd. I know nothing about Thyrza.'

'To Mr. Ackroyd?' exclaimed Lydia. 'But I'm sure she won't see him.
It's you'll hear from her, if anybody does. Can't you think of any
place she'd be likely to go? Hasn't she never said anything in talking?
You wouldn't keep it back, just because you don't like me? It's my
sister--she's all I have; you know she can't look out for herself like
you and me could. And she's been ill since Monday. Won't you help me if
you can, just because I'm in trouble?'

'I'd help you if I could,' replied the other, not unmoved by the
appeal, but still distant. 'I'm quite sure Thyrza won't let me know
where she is. If you take my advice you'll see Mr. Ackroyd.'

In her agitation Lydia could not reflect upon the complicated details
of the case. She never doubted that Totty knew the truth; in this, we
know, Luke had unintentionally deceived her. Perhaps the advice to
consult Ackroyd was good; perhaps he had learned something more since
Wednesday night, something that Totty also knew but did not care to
communicate herself.

'I'll try and find him,' Lydia said. 'But if you do hear any thing you
wouldn't keep it from me?'

'You'll hear just as soon as I do,' was the reply.

Lydia turned away, feeling that the girl's coldness was a cruelty,
wondering at it. She herself could not have behaved so to one in dire
need.

She was going away, but Totty stopped her.

'You can't go back like that, in the rain. Take my umbrella.'

'What do I care for the rain!' Lydia cried. 'I must find Thyrza. I
thought you pretended to be her friend.'

She hastened into the street. Not many yards from the door she met the
man she desired to see. Ackroyd was coming to ask for Totty, for the
first time since Tuesday night. Lydia drew him to the opposite side of
the way, and hurriedly told him, showing him the scrap of paper.

'I've been to Totty,' she added. 'She didn't seem to wish to help me;
she spoke as if she didn't care, and said I'd better ask you. Do you
know anything more?'

He was mute at first. His mind naturally turned to one thought. Then he
said, speaking slowly:

'I know nothing more, except that lots of people have heard Bower's
story. Does Grail know?'

'Not unless he has heard since this morning.'

'I haven't seen much of him to-day, but I noticed he looked very queer.'

'That's because Thyrza asked him to put off the wedding for a week. I
never thought she'd leave me. We talked about everything that night
after I left you. I pretended I'd found it out myself; I durstn't let
her know that other people had noticed anything. She had a dreadful
night, but she seemed better since.'

'And did she tell you--everything?'

'Everything! She said he'd never spoken a word to her that he
shouldn't. I'm sure it was the truth; Thyrza wouldn't have deceived me
like that. He's gone away, somewhere out of London.'

Luke stopped her. He looked closely at her through the dusk, and said
in a low voice:

'He's gone away? Did _she_ tell you he was going away?'

'Yes. He said good-bye to her, and hoped she would be happy.'

'But, Lydia--if he's gone away--and now _she's_ gone--'

Lydia understood him.

'Oh! Don't think that!' she said, her eyes full of fear. 'No, no! I'm
sure that isn't true! He'd never said a word to her. He hadn't given
her to think he cared for her. She cried because he didn't.'

'But if she's so mad with love of him,' Luke said, dropping his eyes,
'who knows what she might do? You'd never have thought she could leave
you like this.'

The rain was falling more heavily. As Lydia stood, unable to utter any
argument against him, Ackroyd saw that her hair was quite wet.

'You mustn't stand out here,' he said. 'Come round into Paradise Street
with me, and I'll get you something of my sister's to go home in. Poor
girl! You came out like this as soon as you'd found she was gone? Come
quick, or you'll get your death.'

She accompanied him without speaking. Her mind was working on the
suggestion he had uttered. Against her will he compelled her to step
into the house whilst he procured a hat and a garment for her. He took
care that no one saw her, and when she was clad, he went out with her,
carrying an umbrella for her protection.

'Don't come with me,' she said.

'Yes, you must let me. I was going to try and see you tonight, Lydia,
to ask what--'

'And I wanted to see you. I felt I must tell you how well everything
seemed to be going. Oh, and now--How shall I tell Gilbert? How _shall_
I tell him? What ought I to do, Mr. Ackroyd? Thyrza made me promise
faithful I wouldn't tell her secret. She says that, in the note. I'm
sure she hasn't gone--gone to him. She couldn't marry Gilbert, and yet
she doesn't want him to lose the library. That's why she's gone; I know
it is. She believes I shall keep my promise. But what must I do? How
can I pretend I don't know anything?'

'I don't think you can.'

'I didn't care for anything as long as it helped her. Mr. Boddy sent
for me just now--that was why I had to go out. Mrs. Bower had been
telling him. I said it was all a lie from beginning to end. Didn't I do
right, Mr. Ackroyd? I'd say and do anything for Thyrza. But how can I
keep it from Gilbert flow?'

'You can't, Lydia. He's bound to hear from somebody. And if you feel so
sure that she hasn't gone--'

'She hasn't She hasn't! You promised me you wouldn't think harm of her.'

'Indeed I won't. But Grail's bound to know. I can't see that you'll
make it a bit better by denying.'

'But my promise to Thyrza! The last thing she ever asked of me. And
Gilbert 'll refuse the place; I know he will!'

'Yes, he will. There's no man could take it after this. I'm right down
sorry for poor Grail.'

They were in Walnut Tree Walk by this time.

'Don't come any farther,' Lydia said. 'Thank you for being so kind to
me. Here, take these things of your sister's; you can just carry them
back--or I'll leave them, if you like.'

'No, you shan't have that trouble. If Gilbert's home you ought to tell
him now. He'll go to the police station, and ask them to help to find
her. Let me know at once If you hear anything. She may come back.'

'No, she won't.'

'Run into the house at once.'

The parlour door opened as she entered the passage. Gilbert came out.

'Where has Thyrza gone to?' he asked, after examining her for an
instant.

She could not speak, and could not stir from the place. Her hope had
been to have time before she saw him.

'Lydia, where has Thyrza gone?'

She stepped into the room. The piece of paper was still crushed within
her hand; she held it closer still.

'She's gone away, Gilbert. I don't know where. I had to go out, and
when I came back she was gone. Perhaps she'll come back.'

Mrs. Grail was in the background. She was supporting herself by a
chair; her face gave proof of some agitation just experienced. Gilbert
was very pale, but when Lydia ended he seemed to master himself and
spoke with an unnatural calm.

'Have you heard anything,' he asked, 'of a calumny the Bowers have been
spreading, about your sister and Mr. Egremont?'

'Yes. I have heard it.'

'When did it first come to your knowledge?'

'On Wednesday night. Mr. Ackroyd told me.'

'And did Thyrza hear of it?'

'No, Gilbert. I think not.'

He moved in surprise.

'You say she has gone? What makes you think she has left us?'

To hide anything now was worse than useless. Without speaking, she held
to him the scrap of paper. He, having read, turned to his mother.

'Will you let us be alone, mother?'

The poor old woman went with bowed head from the room. Gilbert's voice
dropped to a lower note.

'Lydia, as you have shown me this, you must have decided that you
cannot keep the promise which is spoken of here.'

'I can't keep it, Gilbert, because you might think worse of Thyrza if I
do.'

'Think worse? Then you suppose I believe what is said about her--about
Thyrza?'

'I can't think you believe what Mr. Bower _wishes_ people to, but you
can't know how little she's been to blame.'

He was silent, then said:

'I came home a few minutes ago, thinking that what Bunce has just told
was a mere lie, set afloat by someone who wished us harm. I thought
Thyrza knew of the lie, and that it had made her ill--that she could
not bring herself to speak to me of it. But I see there's something
more.'

She stood before him like one guilty. His calmness was terrible to her.
She seemed to feel in herself all the anguish which he was repressing.
He continued:

'You told me yesterday morning that Thyrza still wished to marry me.
This note shows me why you said that, and in what sense you meant it. I
don't blame you, Lydia; you were loyal to your sister. But I must ask
you something else now, and your answer must be the simple truth. Does
Thyrza love Mr. Egremont?'

'Yes, Gilbert.'

She said it with failing voice, and, as soon as she had spoken, burst
into tears.

'Oh, I have broken the promise I made to my dear one! The last thing
she asked, and perhaps I shall never see her again! What could I do,
Gilbert? If I kept it back, you'd have thought there was something
worse. She seems to have behaved cruel to you, but you don't know what
she's gone through. She's so ill; she'll go somewhere and die, and I
shall never hear her speak to me again! I've been unkind to her so
often; she doesn't know how I love her! Gilbert, help me to find her! I
can't live without my sister. Don't be angry with her, Gilbert; she's
suffered dreadful; if you only knew! She tried so hard. Her last
thought was about you, and how she could spare you. Forgive her, and
bring her back to me. What shall we do to find her? Oh, I _can't_ lose
her, my little sister, my dear one!'

One would have thought Gilbert had no grief of his own, so anxiously
did he try to comfort her.

'Lyddy,' he said, when she could listen to him, 'you are _my_ sister,
and will always be. If I could think unkindly of Thyrza now, I should
show that I was never worthy of her. Don't hurt me by saying such
things. We will find her; have no fear, we will find her.'

'And you'll do as she wished? You'll still go to the library?'

'I can't think of myself yet, Lyddy. You must have her back again, and
there'll be time enough to think of trifles.'

'But let me tell you all I know, Gilbert. He doesn't love her; you
mustn't think that. There's never been a word between them. She went to
help him with the books, and so it came on her.'

'It's true, then,' he said gravely, 'that they met there?'

'He didn't encourage her. She told me again and again he didn't. She
went on Wednesday morning, and he never came. That was on purpose, I'm
sure.'

'But why wasn't I told about the books?'

'He wanted to surprise you. And now he's gone away, Gilbert. He told
her he wouldn't be back till after her marriage.'

'He's gone away?'

She raised her face, and continued eagerly:

'You see why he went, don't you? I had hard thoughts of him at first,
but now I know I was wrong. You think so much of him; you know he
wouldn't be so cowardly and wicked. Thyrza told me the solemn truth; I
would die rather than doubt her word. You must believe her, Gilbert.
It's all so hard! She couldn't help it. And you mustn't think harm of
him!'

He said under his breath:

'I must try not to.'

She sat down, overcome, yielding herself to voiceless misery. It was a
long time before Gilbert spoke.

'Do you know where he is gone to, Lyddy?'

'No, I don't.'

Again silence. Then he moved, and looked at the clock.

'Will you sit with my mother? This is a great blow to her as well, and
it is hard to bear at her age. I will go out and see what I can do.
Don't fear, we'll find her. You shall soon have her back. Do you feel
able to sit with mother?

'Yes, I will, Gilbert.'

'Thank you. It will be kindness. I don't think I shall be very late.'

In passing her, he just touched her hand.

In the meanwhile, Ackroyd had returned to Newport Street. He sent up
word by the landlady that he wished to see Totty. The latter sent a
reply to him that perhaps she would be coming out in about an hour, but
could not be certain.

He waited, standing in the rain, over against the house. Perhaps twenty
minutes passed; then he saw the girl come forth.

'We can't talk here,' Luke said, joining her. 'Will you come under the
archway yonder?'

'I don't see that we've got so much to talk about,' Totty answered,
indifferently.

'Yes, I've several things to ask you.'

'All right. But I can't wait out in the cold for long.'

They went in the direction away from Paradise Street, and found shelter
under a black vault of the railway. A train roared above their heads as
they entered.

'I've just seen Lydia Trent,' he began. 'Did you expect that anything
of this kind would happen?'

'I've told you already that I have nothing to do with Thyrza and her
goings on. I told Lydia she'd better go to you if she wanted to find
her sister. I hope you told her all you know.'

'What do you mean by that? How should I be able to help her to find
Thyrza?'

'Oh, don't bother me!' Totty exclaimed, with impatience. 'I'm sick of
it. If you've brought me out to talk in this way, you might as well
have let it alone.'

'What are you driving at, Totty? I tell you I don't understand you.
Speak plainly, if you please. You think that I know where Thyrza is?'

'I suppose you're as likely to as anybody.'

'Why? Confound it, why?'

She shrugged her shoulders, and turned away. He pressed his question
with growing impatience.

'Why, what did you come telling me the other night?' cried Totty at
length. 'It was like your impudence.'

'What did I tell you? I didn't tell you anything. I asked if you knew
of something, and you said you did. I don't see how I was impudent.
After hearing Bower's tale it was likely I should come and speak to you
about it.'

'Bower's tale? What tale?'

'You don't know that Bower's found it all out, and is telling
everybody?'

'Found all _what_ out? I haven't been to the shop for a week. What do
you mean?'

Ackroyd checked some impulsive words, and recommenced gravely:

'Look here, Totty. Will you please tell me in plain words what you
supposed I was asking you about on Tuesday night?'

'All right. It's nothing to me. You'd found out somehow that Thyrza was
foolish enough to want to have you instead of Mr. Grail, and so you was
so kind as to come and tell me. I quite understood; there's no need of
saying 'I beg your pardon.' You may go your way, and I go mine.'

'And you mean to say you believed that! Well, I don't wonder at you
being in the sulks. And that's why you send Lydia to me to ask about
Thyrza? By the Lord, if I ever heard the like of that! Well, I've got a
fair lot of cheek, but I couldn't quite manage that.'

'Then what _did_ you mean?' she cried angrily.

'Why, nothing at all. But what did _you_ mean by saying you knew all
about it?'

'About as much as you did,' she answered coldly.

'H'm. Then we both meant nothing. I'll say good-night, Totty.'

'No you won't. You'll please to tell me what you _did_ mean!'

He was about to answer lightly, but altered his intention and said:

'I can't do that. It's not my business.'

'As you please. I shall go and ask Mrs. Bower what's going on.'

'I can't prevent you. But listen here, Totty. If you repeat what they
tell you--if you repeat it once--you're not the girl I thought you.
It's more than half a cursed lie, and you can't tell one half the story
without meaning the other.'

'I shall know what to think when I've heard it, Mr. Ackroyd. And as to
repeating, I shall do as I think fit.'

'Look here! When you've heard that story, you'll just go and say to
everybody that ever mentions it to you that it's a lie from beginning
to end. You understand me?'

'I shall do as I please.'

'No, you'll do as _I_ please!'

'Indeed! And who made you my master, Mr. Ackroyd?'

'I've nothing more to say, but you've heard me. And you'll do it,
because your own heart 'll tell you it's the right thing to do. I don't
often use words like that, but I mean it to-night. Good-bye!'

She allowed him to walk away.




CHAPTER XXV

A BIRD OF THE AIR


When Paula had been three or four days wedded, it occurred to her to
examine her husband's countenance. They were at breakfast at Biarritz,
and certain words that fell from Mr. Dalmaine, as he sat sideways from
the table with his newspaper, led her eyes to rest for a few moments on
his face. He was smiling, but with depressed brows. Paula noted the
smile well, and it occupied her thoughts now and then during the day.
She was rather in want of something to think of just then, feeling a
little lonely, and wishing her mother, or her brother, or somebody whom
she really knew, were at hand to talk to.

It was with that same peculiar smile--the bushy eyebrows closing
together, the lips very tight--that her husband approached her late one
evening in the first week of May. They were in their house in
Kensington now; there had been a dinner party, the last guest was gone,
and Paula sat in the drawing-room, thinking how she had impressed a
certain polite old member of Parliament, a man whom it was worth while
impressing. Mr. Dalmaine took a seat near her, and leaned forward with
his hands clasped between his knees.

He asked: 'What were you saying to Puggerton when I passed and looked
at you--you remember? Something about working men and intelligent
voting.'

'Oh, I was telling that tale of yours about the candidate whose name
was Beere, and who got in so easily for--'

'I thought so,' he remarked, before she had finished. 'And you went on
to say that I thought it a pity that there were not more men on our
side with names of similar sound?'

'Yes, I did. Mr. Puggerton laughed ever so much.'

'H'm. Paula, my dear, I think it won't be amiss if you leave off
talking about politics.'

'Why? I'm sure I've been talking very cleverly all the evening. Mr.
Liggs said I was an acquisition to--something, I forget what.'

'No doubt. For all that, I think you had better give your attention to
other things. In fact--it's not a polite thing to say--but you're
making a fool of yourself.'

Paula's features hardened. She looked very beautiful tonight, and had,
in truth, been charming. Her appearance suffered when the delicate
curves of her face fell into hard lines. It was noteworthy that the
smile her husband now wore always caused this change in her expression.

'I'm glad you know that it isn't polite,' she answered, sourly. 'You
often need to be told.'

'I hope not. But you try my patience a little now and then. Surely it's
better that I should save you from making these ridiculous mistakes.
Once or twice this week I've heard most absurd remarks of yours
repeated. Please remember that it isn't only yourself you--stultify.
Politics may be a joke for you; for me it is a serious pursuit. I
mustn't have people associating my name with all kinds of nonsensical
chatter. I have a career before me, Paula.'

He said it with dignity, resting a hand on each knee, and letting his
smile fade into a look of ministerial importance.

'Why are you ashamed of having your stories repeated?'

'Well, I told you that when--when I didn't think of the need of
measuring my words with you. I've been more cautious lately. If you had
any understanding for such things at all, I could explain that a trifle
like that might be made to tell heavily against me by some political
enemy. Once more--if you are drawn into talk of that kind, you must
always speak of working people with the utmost respect--with reverence.
No matter how intimate a friend you may be speaking with--even with
your mother or your father--'

Paula laughed.

'You think papa would believe me if I told him I reverenced working
men, the free and independent electors?'

'There again: That's a phrase you must _not_ use; I say it absolutely;
you must forget the phrase. Yes, your father must believe you.'

'Do you think he believes _you_?'

Mr. Dalmaine drew himself up.

'I don't know what you mean, Paula.'

'And I don't know what _you_ mean. You are ridiculous.'

'Excuse me. That is the word that applies to you. However, I have no
wish to wrangle. Let it be understood that you gradually abandon
conversation such as this of to-night. For the sake of appearances you
must make no sudden and obvious change. If you take my advice, you'll
cultivate talk of a light, fashionable kind. Literature you mustn't
interfere with; I shouldn't advise you to say much about art, except
that of course you may admire the pictures at the Grosvenor Gallery.
You'd better read the Society journals carefully. In fact, keep to the
sphere which is distinctly womanly.'

'And what about your anxiety to see women take part in politics?'

'There are exceptions to every rule. And the programme of the platform,
be good enough to try and understand, doesn't always apply to domestic
circumstances. If one happens to have married a very pretty and
delightful girl--'

'Oh, of course!'

'I repeat, a very pretty and charming girl, with no turn whatever for
seriousness, one can't pretend to offer an instance in one's own house
of the political woman. Once more understand--in England politics must
be pursued with gravity. We don't fly about and chatter and scream like
Frenchmen. No man will succeed with us in politics who has not a
reputation for solid earnestness. Therefore, the more stupid a man, the
better chance he has. I am naturally fond of a joke, but to get a name
for that kind of thing would ruin me. You are clever, Paula, very
clever in your way, but you don't, and you never will, understand
politics. I beg of you not to damage my prospects. Cultivate a safe
habit of speech. You may talk of the events of the season, of pigeon
shooting, of horse racing, of the Prince and Princess of Wales, and so
on; it's what everybody expects in a fashionable lady. Of course if you
_had_ been able to take up politics in earnest--but, never mind. I like
you very well as you are. How well you look in that dress!'

'I rather think you're right,' Paula remarked, after a short pause,
turning about a bracelet on her wrist. 'It'll be better if you go your
way and I go mine.'

'Precisely; though that's an unkind way of putting it.'

He sat looking at the ground, and a smile of another kind came to his
face.

'By-the-by, I've something to tell you--something that'll amuse you
very much, and that you _may_ talk about, just as much as you like.'

She made no reply.

'Your friend Egremont has come out in a new part--his first appearance
in it, absolutely, though he can't be said to have created the _role_.
He's run away with a girl from Lambeth--in fact, the girl who was just
going to be married to his right-hand man, his librarian.'

Paula looked up in astonishment: then, with indignant incredulity, she
said:

'What do you mean? What's your object in talking nonsense of that kind?'

'Again and again I have to tell you that I never talk nonsense; I am a
politician. I heard the news this morning from Tasker. The man
Grail--Egremont's librarian--was to have been married two days ago,
Monday. Last Friday night his bride-elect disappeared. She's a very
pretty girl, Tasker tells me--wonderfully pretty for one in her
position, a work-girl. Egremont seems to have thought it a pity to let
her be wasted. He's been meeting her secretly for some time--in the
library, of all places, whilst the man Grail was at work, poor fellow!
And at last he carried her off. There's no getting on his track, I'm
told. The question is: What will become of the embryo library? The
whole thing's about the finest joke I've heard for some time.'

Paula had reddened. Her eyes flashed anger.

'I don't know whether you've invented it,' she said, 'or whether your
secretary has, but I know there isn't one word of truth in it.'

'My dear child, it's no invention at all. The affair is the common talk
of Lambeth.'

'Then do you mean to say Mr. Egremont has married this girl?'

'Well, I don't know that we'll discuss that point,' Dalmaine replied,
twiddling his thumbs. 'There's no information to hand.'

'I don't believe it! I tell you I don't believe it! Mr. Egremont is
engaged to my cousin Annabel; and besides, he couldn't do such a thing.
He isn't a man of that kind.'

'Your experience of men is not great, my dear Paula.'

'I don't care! I know Mr. Egremont. Even if you said he'd married her,
it isn't true. You mustn't judge every man by--'

'You were going to say?'

She rose and swept her train over a few yards of floor. Then she came
back and stood before him.

'You tell me that people are saying this?'

'A considerable number of my respected constituents--and their
wives--are saying it. Tasker shall give you judicial evidence, if you
please.'

'I'm sure I'm not going to talk to Mr. Tasker. I dislike him too much
to believe a word he says.'

'Of course. But he is absolutely trustworthy. I called at Egremont's
this afternoon to make sure that he was away from home. Now there is
something for you to talk about, Paula.'

'I shall take very good care that I don't speak a word of it to anyone.
It's contemptible to make up such a story about a man just because you
dislike him.'

'It seemed to me that you were not remarkably fond of him two months or
so ago.'

'Did it?' she said, sarcastically. 'If I know little of men, it's
certain you don't know much more of women.'

He leaned back and laughed. And whilst he laughed Paula quitted the
room.

Paula still kept up her habit of letter-writing. After breakfast next
morning she sat in her pretty boudoir, writing to Annabel. After
sentences referring to Annabel's expected arrival in London for the
season, she added this:

'A very shocking story has just come to my ears. I oughtn't really to
repeat it to you, dear, and yet in another way it is my duty to. Mr.
Egremont has disappeared, and with him the girl who was just going to
marry his librarian--the poor man you know of from him. There are no
means of knowing whether they have run away together to be married--or
not. Everybody knows about it; it is the talk of Lambeth. My husband
heard of it at once. The girl is said to be very good-looking. I wish I
could refuse to believe it, but _there is no doubt whatever_. You ought
to know at once; but perhaps you will have heard already. I never knew
anything more dreadful, and I can't say what I feel.'

There was not much more in the letter. Having fastened up the envelope,
Paula let it lie on her desk, whilst she walked about the room. Each
time she passed the desk she looked at the letter, and lingered a
little. Once she took it up and seemed about to open it again. Her
expression all this time was very strange; her colour came and went;
she bit her lips, and twisted her fingers together. At length she rang
the bell, and when the servant came, gave the letter to be posted
immediately.

Five minutes later she was in her bedroom, sitting in a low chair,
crying like a very unhappy child.

The letter reached Eastbourne two days before that appointed for the
departure of Annabel and her father for London. They had accepted Mrs.
Tyrrell's invitation to her house; Mr. Newthorpe might remain only a
fortnight, or might stay through the season--but Annabel would not come
back to Eastbourne before August. She said little, but her father saw
with what pleasure she anticipated this change. He wondered whether it
would do her good or harm. Her books lay almost unused; of late she had
attended chiefly to music, in such hours as were not spent out of
doors. Mr. Newthorpe's health was as far improved as he could hope it
ever would be. He too looked forward to associating once more with the
few friends he had in London.

It was in the evening that Annabel, entering after a long drive with
her father, found Paula's letter. She took it from the hall in passing
to her room.

At dinner she spoke very little. After the meal she said that she
wished to walk over to The Chestnuts. She left her father deep in a
French novel--he read much more of the lighter literature now than
formerly.

Mrs. Ormonde was upstairs with her children; they were singing to her;
Annabel heard the choir of young voices as she entered the garden. The
servant who went to announce her brought back a request that she would
ascend and hear a song.

She did so. The last song was to be 'Annie Laurie,' in which the
children were perfect. Annabel took the offered seat without speaking,
and listened.

Bessie Bunce was near Mrs. Ormonde. When the song was over she said:

'I'd like to hear Miss Trent sing that again; wouldn't you, mum?'

'Yes, I should, Bessie. Perhaps we shall have her here again some day.'

Mrs. Ormonde went down with Annabel to the drawing-room. She was in a
happy mood to-night, and, as they descended together, she put her arm
playfully about the girl's waist.

'I wonder where Mr. Grail has taken her?' she said. 'I can't get any
news from Mr. Egremont. I wrote to Jersey, and behold the letter is
returned to me, with 'Gone and left no address.' I wonder whether he's
back in town!'

'I have some news of him,' Annabel said quietly.

'Have you?'

There was no reply till they were in the drawing-room; then Annabel
held out her cousin's letter.

'Will you read that?'

Mrs. Ormonde complied, Annabel watching her face the while. The girl
looked for indignation, for scornful disbelief; she saw something quite
different. Mrs. Ormonde's hand trembled, but in a moment she had
overcome all weakness.

'Sit down, dear,' she said, calmly. 'You have just received this? Yes,
I see the date.'

Annabel remained standing.

'Your letter is returned from Jersey,' she remarked, with steady voice.
'Paula mentions no dates. Did he go to Jersey at all?'

'I have no means of knowing, save his own declaration, when he said
good-bye to me on Thursday of last week. And he told me he was going to
his old quarters at St. Aubin's.'

'Do you give credit to this, Mrs. Ormonde?'

'Annabel, I can say nothing. Yet, no! I do not believe it until it is
confirmed beyond all doubt. I owe that to him, as you also do.'

'But it does not seem to you incredible. I saw that on your face.'

'One thing suggested here is incredible, wholly incredible. If there is
any truth in the story at all, by this time she is his wife. So much we
know, you and I, Annabel.'

'Yes.'

'Remember, it is possible that he is in Jersey. The old rooms may have
been occupied.'

'The people would know where he had gone, I think, Though if he--if he
was not alone, probably he would go to a new place at once. He may have
told you the truth in saying he was going to Jersey.'

'Then it was needless to add the untruth. I did not ask him where he
would live. Sit down, dear.'

'Thank you. I shall not stay now. I thought it was better to come to
you with this at once. Please destroy the letter.'

Mrs. Ormonde mused.

'Can you still go to your aunt's?' she asked, when Annabel moved for
leave-taking.

'You are taking the truth for granted, Mrs. Ormonde.'

'I mean that we have no way of discovering whether it is true or not.'

'It will make no change. I shall not speak of it to father. There will
be no change, in any case.'

Again there fell a short silence.

'I can only wait in hope of hearing from him,' Mrs. Ormonde said.

'Of course. If my aunt says anything to me about it, I will write to
you. Good-bye.'

'I shall see you to-morrow, as we arranged?'

'Oh yes. But, please, we won't refer again to this.'

They parted as on an ordinary occasion.

But Annabel did not go home at once. She walked down to the shore, and
stood for a long time looking upon the dim sea. It was the very spot
where Thyrza had stood that Sunday morning when she came out in the
early sunlight.

Annabel had often thought how fitting it was that at this period of her
life she should leave the calm, voiceless shore of Ullswater for the
neighbourhood of the never-resting waves. The sea had a voice of
craving, and her heart responded with desire for completion of her
being, with desire for love.

The thought that she would be near Walter Egremont had a great part in
her anticipation of London.

She was not hitherto sure that she loved him. It was rather, 'Let me
see him again, and discover how his presence affects me.' Yet his
manifest coldness at the last meeting had caused her much vague
heartache. She blamed herself for being so cold: was it not natural
that he should take his tone from her? He would naturally watch to see
how she bore herself to him, and, remembering Ullswater, he could not
press for more than she seemed ready to give. Yet her reserve had been
involuntary; assuredly she was not then moved with a longing to recover
what she had rejected.

There was a change after the meeting with Thyrza Trent. It seemed to
her very foolish to remember so persistently that Egremont had said
nothing of the girl's strange loveliness, yet she could not help
thinking of the omission as something significant. She even recollected
that, in speaking to her of Thyrza, he had turned his eyes seaward.
Such trifles could mean nothing as regarded Egremont, but how in
reference to herself? How if she knew that he had given his love to
another woman? I think that would be hard to bear.

And it was hard to bear.

Passion had won it over everything. He had taken Thyrza at the eleventh
hour, and now she was married to him. She did not doubt it; she felt
that Mrs. Ormonde did not doubt it. It _had_ meant something--that
failure to speak of the girl's beauty, that evasion with the eyes.

The night was cold, but she sat down by the shore, and let her head
droop as she listened to the sea-dirge. She could love him, now that it
was in vain. She knew now the warm yearning for his presence which at
Ullswater had never troubled her, and it was too late. No tears came to
her eyes; she did not even breathe a deeper breath. Most likely it
would pass without a single outbreak of grief.

And perhaps the thought of another's misery somewhat dulled the edge of
her own. Gilbert Grail was only a name to her, but he lived very
vividly in her imagination. Of course she had idealised him, as was
natural in a woman thinking of a man who has been represented to her as
full of native nobleness. For him, as for herself, her heart was heavy.
She knew that he must return to his hated day-labour, and how would it
now be embittered! What anguish of resentment! What despair of
frustrate passion!

She wished she could know him, and take his hand, and soothe him with a
woman's tenderness. His lot was harder than hers; nay, it was mockery
to compare them.

Annabel rose, murmuring old words:

''Therefore I praised the dead which are already dead more than the
living which are yet alive. Yea, better is he than both they, which
hath not yet been, who hath not seen the evil work which is done under
the sun.''




CHAPTER XXVI

IDEALIST AND HIS FRIEND


Egremont alighted one evening at Charing Cross. He came direct from
Paris, and was alone. His absence from England had extended over a
fortnight.

He did not look better for his travels; one in the crowd waiting for
the arrival of the train might have supposed that he had suffered on
the sea-passage and was not yet quite recovered. Having bidden a porter
look after the bag which was his only luggage, he walked to the
book-stall to buy a periodical that he wished to take home with him.
And there he came face to face with two people whom he knew. Mr.
Dalmaine was just turning from the stall with an evening paper, and by
his side was Paula. Egremont had not seen either since their marriage.

The three pairs of eyes focussed on one point. Egremont saluted--did it
nervously, for he was prepared for nothing less than an encounter with
acquaintances. He saw a smile come to Paula's face; he saw her on the
point of extending her hand; then, to his amazement, he heard a sharp
'Paula!' from Dalmaine, and husband and wife turned from him. It was
the cut direct, or would have been, but for that little piece of
impulsiveness on Paula's part. The two walked towards one of the
platforms, and it was plain that Dalmaine was delivering himself in an
undertone of a gentlemanly reproof.

He stood disconcerted. What might this mean? Was it merely an urbane
way of reminding him that he had neglected certain civilities demanded
by the social code? Dalmaine would doubtless be punctilious; he was a
rising politician. Yet the insult was too pronounced: it suggested some
grave ground of offence.

As the cab bore him homewards, he felt that this was an ominous event
for the moment of his return to London. He had had no heart to come
back; from the steamer he had gazed sadly on the sunny shores of
France, and on landing at Dover the island air was hard to breathe. Yet
harder the air of London streets. The meeting in the station became a
symbol of stiff, awkward, pretentious Anglicism. He had unkind
sentiments towards his native country, and asked himself how he was
going to live in England henceforth.

His room in Great Russell Street seemed to have suffered neglect during
his absence; his return was unexpected; everything seemed unhomely and
unwelcoming. The great front of the British Museum frowned, as if to
express disapproval of such aimless running hither and thither in one
who should be spending his days soberly and strenuously: even the
pigeons walked or flew with balance of purpose, with English
respectability. It seemed to have rained all day; the evening sky was
heavy and featureless.

The landlady presented herself. She was grieved exceedingly that she
had not known of Mr. Egremont's coming, but everything should be made
comfortable in less than no time. He would have a fire? To be sure; it
was a little chilly, though really 'summer has come upon us all at a
jump, whilst you've been away, sir.'

'I got your telegram, sir, that I wasn't to send any letters on.
Gentlemen have called and I--'

'Indeed? Who has called?'

'Why, sir, on the day after you went--I dare say it was nine o'clock in
the evening, or a little later--someone came, wishing very much to see
you. He wouldn't give a name. I don't think it was a gentleman; it
seemed like somebody coming on business. He was very anxious to have
your address. Of course I didn't give it. I just said that any note he
liked to leave should be forwarded at once.'

'A dark man, with a beard? A working man?'

'No doubt the one you're thinking of, sir. He called again--let me see,
four or five days after.'

'Called again? Then it couldn't be the man I mean.'

He entered into a fuller description of Gilbert Grail. The landlady
identified the caller as Grail beyond all doubt.

'What day was it?'

'Why, sir, it 'ud be Wednesday; yes, Wednesday.'

'H'm! And you told him I had left Jersey?'

'Yes, sir. He said he knew that, and that--'

'Said he knew it?' repeated Egremont, astonished.

'Yes, sir, and that he wished to see if you had got home again.'

'Has he been since?'

'No, sir, but--I was coming in a night or two after, sir, and I saw him
standing on the opposite side of the way, looking at the house. He
hadn't called, however, and he didn't again.'

Egremont bent his eyes on the ground, and delayed a moment before
asking:

'Who else has been?'

'A gentleman; I don't know who it was. The servant went to the door. He
said he only wished to know if you were in town or not. He wouldn't
leave a name.'

Egremont's face changed to annoyance. He did not care to pursue the
subject.

'Let me have something to eat, please,' he said.

The landlady having withdrawn, he at once sat down to his desk and
wrote a note. It was to Grail, and ran in substance:

'I am just back from the Continent. Am I right in thinking that it is
you who have called here twice in my absence? If so, your second call
was at a time when I hoped you were out of London. Do let me see you as
soon as possible. Of course you received my letter from Jersey? Shall I
come to you, or will you come here? I will stay in to-night. I send
this by a messenger, as I wish you to receive it immediately.'

The landlady had a son at home, a lad of sixteen. Having discovered
that the boy's services were available, Egremont gave him directions.
He was to take a cab and drive to the library in Brook Street. If he
should not find Grail there, he was to proceed to Walnut Tree Walk. If
Grail would come back with him, so much the better.

Walter was left to refresh himself after his journey. He changed his
clothes, and presently sat down to a meal. But appetite by this time
failed him. He had the table cleared ten minutes after it was laid.

He was in the utmost uneasiness. Could it be Grail who had called? He
tried to assure himself that it must be a mistake. How could Grail
expect him to be in town, after reading that letter from Jersey? If
indeed the visitor were Gilbert, some catastrophe had befallen. But he
would not entertain such a fear. Then the second caller; that might be
any acquaintance. Still, it was strange that he too had refused his
name.

You know the state of mind in which, whatever one thinks of, a pain, a
fear, draws the thought another way. It was so with Egremont. The two
mysterious callers and the annoying scene at the railway station
plagued him successively, and for background to them all was a shadow
of indefinite apprehension.

He could scarcely endure his impatience. It seemed as though the
messenger would never return. The lad presented himself, however,
without undue delay. He had found Mr. Grail, he said, at the second
address.

'And whom did you see in Brook Street?'

'A woman, sir; she said Mr. Grail didn't live there.'

'He couldn't come with you?'

'No, sir. But he said he'd come very soon.'

'Thank you. That will do.'

So Grail was _not_ at the library. Then of a certainty something had
happened. Thyrza was ill; perhaps--

He walked about the room. That dread physical pain which clutches at
all the inner parts when one is waiting in agonised impatience for that
which will be misery when it comes, racked him so that at moments he
had to lean for support. He felt how the suffering of the last
fortnight, in vain fled from hither and thither, had reduced his
strength. Since he took leave of Thyrza, he had not known one moment of
calm. When passion was merciful for a time, fear had taken its turn to
torment him. It had not availed to demonstrate to himself that fear
_must_ be groundless. Love from of old has had a comrade superstition;
if he awoke from a wretched dream, he interpreted it as sympathy with
Thyrza in some dreadful trial. And behold! he had been right. His
flight had profited nothing; woe had come upon her he loved, and upon
the man he most desired to befriend.

Half an hour after the return of the messenger, the servant came to the
door and said that 'Mr. Grail' was below.

'Yes. I'll see him.'

He spoke the words with difficulty. He advanced to the middle of the
room. Gilbert came in, and the door was closed behind him.

The man looked as if he had risen from his death-bed to obey this
summons. The flesh of his face had shrunk, and left the lines of his
countenance sharp. His eye-sockets were cavernous; the dark eyes had an
unnatural lustre. His hair and beard were abandoned to neglect. His
garments hung with strange looseness about him. He stood there, just
within the door, his gaze fixed on Egremont, a gaze wherein suspicion
and reproach and all unutterable woe were blended.

Walter took a step forward, vainly holding out his hand.

'Grail, what has happened? You are ill. What does it mean?'

'Why have you sent for me, Mr. Egremont?'

The question was uttered with some sternness, but bodily weakness
subdued the voice, which shook. And when he had spoken, his eyes fell.

'Because I want to know what is the matter,' Egremont replied, in
quick, unnerved tones. 'Have you been here to try and see me?'

'Yes, I have.'

'Why? you knew I was away. What has happened, Grail?'

'I thought you knew, Mr. Egremont.'

'How should I know? I have heard nothing from London for a fortnight.
You speak to me in an unfriendly way. Tell me at once what you mean.'

Gilbert looked up for a moment, looked indignantly, bitterly. But his
eyes drooped again as he spoke.

'A fortnight ago Miss Trent left her home, and we can hear nothing of
her. I tried to find you, because I had reason to think that you knew
where she was.'

Walter felt it as a relief. He had waited for something worse. Only
after-thought could occupy itself with the charge distinctly made
against him. He said, as soon as he could command his voice:

'You were wrong in thinking so. I know nothing of Miss Trent. I have no
idea where she can have gone.'

It was only when he found Grail's eyes fixed upon him that he added,
after a pause:

'What were the reasons that led you to think so?'

'You know nothing?' Gilbert said, slowly.

'Nothing whatever. How could you think I did? I don't understand you.'

Walter was not used to speak untruthfully. He knew all this time that a
man upon whom a charge such as this had come as a sheer surprise would
have met it with quite other face and accent. Remembering all that had
passed between Thyrza and himself, remembering all that he had
undergone, all that he had at one moment proposed, he could not express
the astonishment which would have given evidence on his behalf. As yet
he had not even tried to affect indignation, for it was against his
nature to play the hypocrite. He knew that his manner was all but a
tacit admission that appearances were against him. But agitation drove
him to the brink of anger, and when Gilbert stood mute, with veiled
eyes, he continued impetuously:

'I tell you that you have amazed me by your news. Are you accusing me
of something? You must speak more plainly. Do you mean that suspicion
has fallen upon me? How? I don't--I can't understand you!'

'I thought you would understand me,' Gilbert replied, gravely, not
offensively, with far more dignity than the other had been able to
preserve. 'Several things compelled me to believe that you knew of her
leaving us. I was told of your meetings with her at the library.'

He paused. Like Egremont, he could not speak his whole thought. Whilst
there remained a possibility that Egremont indeed knew nothing of
Thyrza's disappearance, he might not strengthen his case by making use
of the girl's confession to her sister. He could only make use of
outward circumstances.

'The meetings at the library?' Egremont repeated. 'But do you think
they had any meaning that I can't at once and freely explain to you? It
was the idlest folly on my part. I had a plan that I would get books on
to the shelves that week, and at the end of it take you there and
surprise you. Didn't I imply that in my letter to you from Jersey? It
was childish, of course. On the Monday, Miss Trent surprised me at
work. She had happened to see a box being brought in, and naturally
came to see what was going on. I was unthinking enough to ask her to
keep the secret. By allowing her to help me, I encouraged her to come
again the next day. So much was wholly my fault, but surely not a very
grave one. Do you imagine, Grail, that anything passed between us on
those two mornings which you might not have heard? How is it possible
for you, for _you_, to pass from the fact of that foolish secret to
such suspicions as these?

In the pause Gilbert offered no word.

'And who told you about it? Evidently someone bent on mischief.'

Again a pause. Gilbert stood unmoving.

'You still suspect me? You think I am lying to you? Do you know me no
better than that?'

It rang false, it rang false. His own voice sounded to him as that of
an actor, who does his poor best to be forcible and pathetic. Yet what
lie had he told? Could he say all he thought he had read in Thyrza's
eyes? There was the parting that night beyond Lambeth Bridge; how could
he speak of that? Was he himself not absolutely innocent? Had he not by
a desperate struggle avoided as much as a glance of tenderness at the
girl for whom he was mad with love?

Gilbert spoke at length.

'I find it very hard to believe that you know nothing more. There are
other things. As soon as we knew that she was gone, that Friday night,
I came here to ask for you.'

'And why? Why to me?'

'Because she had been seen with you at the library, and people had
begun to talk. They told me you were gone, and I asked for your
address. They wouldn't give it me.'

'That meant nothing whatever. It was merely my landlady's idea of her
responsibility to me.'

'Yes, that may be. On Saturday night a letter came from you, from
Jersey.'

'Well? Was that the kind of letter I could have written if I had been
such a traitor to you?'

'I don't know what the letter would have seemed to me if I had been
able to judge it with my ordinary mind. I couldn't: I was going through
too much. I believed it false. On Monday I went to Southampton, and
from there at night to Jersey; it was the earliest that I could get
there.'

'You went to Jersey?'

'I had no choice. I had to see you. And I found you had gone away on
Saturday morning, gone to France. It was only Saturday night that I got
your letter. There was no word in it about going to France; instead of
that, you said plainly that you would be in Jersey for a week or more.'

'It is true. I see how I have made evidence against myself.'

He said it with impatience, but at once added in a steadier voice:

'I wrote the letter and posted it on Friday night, when I had only been
at St. Aubin's half a day. The very next morning I was compelled by
restlessness to give up my idea of remaining there. When I wrote to you
I had no thought of leaving the island.'

How pleasant it was to be able to speak with unshadowed veracity!
Walter all but smiled, and, when the other made no reply, he went on in
a voice almost of pleading:

'You believe this? Is your mind so set against me that you will accuse
me of any cowardice rather than credit my word?'

A change came over Gilbert's face. It was wrung with pain, and as he
looked up it seemed to cost him a horrible effort to speak.

'If,' he said, 'in a moment of temptation you did her the greatest
wrong that a man can do to a woman, you would perhaps say and do
anything rather than confess it.'

Walter tried to meet those eyes steadily, but failed. He broke forth
into passionate self-defence.

'That means you think the worst of me that one man can think of
another. You are wrong You are basely wrong! You speak of a moment of
temptation. Suppose me to have suffered that; what sort of temptation
do you suppose would have assailed me? A man is tempted according to
his fibre. Do you class me with those who can only be tempted by base
suggestions? What reason have I ever given you to think of me so?
Suppose me to have been tempted. You conclude that I must have aimed at
stealing the girl from you solely to gratify myself, heedless of her,
heedless of you. Such a motive as that is to outweigh every higher
instinct I possess, to blind me to past and future, to make me all at
once a heartless, unimaginative brute. That is your view of my
character, Grail!'

Gilbert had not the appearance of a man who listens. Since entering the
room, he had not moved from the spot where he stood, and now, with his
head again drooping, he seemed sunk in a reverie of the profoundest
sadness. But he heard, and he strove to believe. A fortnight ago he
would not have thought it possible for Walter Egremont to speak a word
of which the sincerity would seem doubtful. Since then he had spent
days and nights such as sap the foundations of a man's moral being and
shake convictions which appeared impregnable. The catastrophe which had
come upon him was proportionate in its effects to the immeasurable
happiness which preceded it. Remember that it was not only the
imaginary wrong from which his mind suffered; the fact that Thyrza
loved Egremont was in itself an agony almost enough to threaten his
reason. His love was not demonstrative; perhaps he did not himself know
all its force until jealousy taught him. How, think you, did he spend
that night on the Channel, voyaging from Southampton to Jersey? What
sort of companions were the winds and waves as he paced the deck in the
dim light before dawn, straining his eyes for the first sight of land?
To the end of all things that night would remain with him, a ghastly
memory. And since then he had not known one full hour of forgetfulness.
The days and the nights had succeeded each other as in a
torture-chamber. His body had wasted; his mind ever renewed its
capability of anguish. With all appearances against Egremont, could he
preserve the nice balance of his judgment through an experience such as
this?

Had he seen Egremont at once, after Thyrza's disappearance, it would
not have been so hard for him to credit the denial. The blow was not
felt to its full until the night had passed. Thyrza's exculpation of
Egremont would then have been strong upon the latter's side. But the
fruitless journey frenzied him. It was impossible for him to avoid the
belief that the letter had been contrived to deceive him. All the
suspicions he had entertained grew darker as his suffering increased.
His meeting with Egremont at the end of Newport Street on the Wednesday
night seemed to him beyond doubt condemnatory. He remembered the young
man's haste and obvious agitation. Then Thyrza's words ceased to have
weight; he thought them due to her desire to avert suspicion from her
lover. And now that he was at length face to face with the man whom in
his lonely woe he had cursed as the falsest friend, his ear was keen to
detect every note of treachery, his eyes read Egremont's countenance
with preternatural keenness. Walter could not sustain such proof; his
agitation spoke against him. Only when he at length passed from
uncertain argument and pleading to scornful repudiation of the charge,
did his utterances awake in the hearer the old associations of
sincerity and nobleness. How many a night Gilbert had hung on every
word that fell from him! Could he speak thus and be no more than a
contemptible hypocrite?

Walter paused for a few moments. When no reply came he continued with
the same warmth:

'I have told you that, on those two mornings, when she was with me in
the library, no word passed between us that you might not have heard.
It is true. But one thing I did say to her which doubtless would not
have been said in your presence. She was speaking to me as if to a
superior; I begged her to let there be an end of that, and to allow me
to call myself her friend. I meant it in the purest sense, and in that
sense she understood it. If I was wrong in taking that freedom with
her, at least there was no thought of wrong in my mind.'

'You met her on Wednesday night in that week,' Gilbert said, speaking
with uncertain voice. 'The night that you saw me and said you had been
to Bunce.'

'Do you know of that from some spy, her enemy and mine--or how?'

'I know it. I can't tell you how.'

'Yes, I met her that night. Not by appointment, as you suppose. It was
by mere chance, as I came away from Bunce's house. I told her I was
leaving town next day, and I said good-bye to her. Again, not a
syllable was uttered that any one might not have heard.'

'Were you coming away from her, then, when I saw you?' Gilbert asked,
in a hard voice.

'No, not straight from her.'

As is wont to be the case with us when we have recourse to
equivocation, Egremont thought that he read in his rival's countenance
a scornful surmise of the truth. As is also wont to happen, this sense
of detection heated his blood, and for a moment he could have found
pleasure in flinging out an angry defiance. But as he looked Grail in
the face, the latter's eyes fell, and something, some slight movement
of feature, touching once more Walter's sense of compassion, shamed him
from unworthy utterance. He said, in a lower voice:

'If I _had_ yielded to temptation, if I had so far lost control of
myself as to speak a word to her which at once and for ever altered our
relations, do you think I should have tried to keep secret what had
happened? Do you think I could have conceived a desire which had _her_
suffering for its end? Are you so embittered that you can imagine of me
nothing better than that? You think I could have made _her_ my victim?'

Grail read his face. The emphasis of this speech was deliberate, could
not be misunderstood. For the first time Gilbert turned and moved a
little apart.

Walter had not the exclusive privilege of being an idealist. When at
length he spoke out of his deepest feeling, when he revealed, though
but indirectly, the meaning of his agitation, of his evasions, and
doubtful behaviour, he had found the way of convincing his hearer. It
was a new blow to Gilbert, but it put an end to his darkest fears and
to the misery of his misjudgment. In the silence that followed all the
details of the story passed before him with a new significance. The
greatness of his own love--a love which drew into its service every
noblest element of his nature, enabled him, once the obscuring mists
dispelled, to interpret his rival's mind with justice. Regarding
Egremont again, he could read aright the signs of suffering that were
on his face. It was with a strange bitter joy that he recovered his
faith in the man who had been so much to him. Yet his first words
seemed to express more of passionate resentment than any he had yet
spoken.

'Then you acted wrongly!' he exclaimed, in a firm, clear voice. 'You
were wrong in allowing her to stay and help you in the library. You
were wrong in speaking to her as you did, in asking her to address you
as an equal, and to let you be her friend. You must have known then
what your real meaning was. It is only half a truth that you said and
did nothing to disturb her mind. You were not honest with yourself, and
you had no just regard for me. You _did_ yield to temptation, and all
you have said in defence of yourself has only been true in sound.'

'No! You go too far, Grail. You accused me of baseness, and I have
never had a base thought.'

Then came a long silence. Gilbert stood motionless, Egremont walked
slowly from place to place. The point at issue between the two men was
changed; anger and suspicion were at an end, but so was all hope of
restoring the old union.

Then Egremont said:

'You must tell me one thing plainly. Do you still doubt my word when I
say that I knew nothing of her flight from you, and know nothing of
where she now is?'

'I believe you,' was answered, simply.

'And more than that. Do you think me capable of wronging her and you in
the way you suspected?'

'I was wrong. I was unjust to you.'

Grail could suffer jealousy, but was incapable of malice. The stab of
the revelation that had been made might go through and through his
heart, but the wound would breed no evil humours. He made his admission
with the relief which comes of recovered self-respect.

'Thank you for that, Grail,' Walter replied, moved as a gentle nature
always is by magnanimity.

After another pause, he said:

'May I ask you anything more about her? Had she money? Could she have
gone far?'

'At most she had a few pence.'

'Did she leave no written word?'

'Yes. She wrote something for her sister.'

Walter hesitated. Grail, after a struggle with himself, repeated the
substance of Thyrza's note.

A few more words were interchanged, then Gilbert said:

'I will leave you now, Mr. Egremont.'

Walter dreaded this parting. Could he let Grail go from him and say no
word about the library? Yet what was to be said? Everything was
hopelessly at an end; the hint of favour from him to the other was
henceforth insult. Gilbert was moving towards him, but he could not
look up. Forcing himself to speak:

'If you find her--if you hear anything--will you tell me? I mean only,
will you let me know the fact that you have news?'

'Yes, I will.'

At length their eyes met. Then Grail held out his hand, and Egremont
clasped it firmly.

'This is not the end between us,' he said, huskily. 'You must wish that
you had never seen me, but I can never lose the hope that we may some
day be friends again.'

The haggard man went his way in silence. Egremont, throwing himself
upon a seat in utter weariness, felt more alone than ever yet in his
life....

Who or what was left to him now? A little while ago, when he had felt
that his connection with the world of wealth and refinement was
practically at an end, it seemed more than a substitute to look forward
to intimacy with that one household in Lambeth, and to associations
that would arise thence. He believed that it would henceforth content
him to have friends in the sphere to which he belonged by birth, and,
for the needs of his mind, to find companionship among his books. He
saw before him a career of practical usefulness such as only a man in
his peculiar position could pursue with unwavering zeal. What now was
to become of his future? Where were his friends?

Grail had said that in Lambeth people were gossiping evil of him. Such
gossip, he understood too well, would have its lasting effect. No
contradiction could avail against it. Even if Thyrza returned, it would
be impossible for her to resume her life in the old places; the truth
could never be so spread as to counteract the harm already done.
Lambeth had lost its free library. How long would it wait before
another man was found able and willing to do so much on its behalf?

Looking in the other direction, he could now explain that scene at
Charing Cross. Dalmaine, through his connection with Lambeth, had
already heard the story. He took this way of showing that he was
informed of everything, and of manifesting his august disapproval. It
needed only a word of admonition to Paula, and she at once recognised
how improper it would be to hold further relations with so unprincipled
a man. So they turned away, and, in the vulgar phrase, 'cut' him.

The Dalmaines knowing, of course their relatives and their friends
knew. The Tyrrells would by this time have discussed the whole shocking
affair, doubtless with the decision that they could no longer be 'at
home' to Mr. Egremont.

And if the Tyrrells--then Annabel Newthorpe.

Would Annabel give faith to such a charge against him? Perhaps such
evidence would be adduced to her that she could have no choice but to
judge and condemn him. Gilbert Grail had thought him infamous; perhaps
Annabel would hesitate as little. She would have remarked a strangeness
in his manner to her, explicable now. Believing, how she must scorn
him! How those beautiful eyes of hers would speak in one glance of cold
contempt, if ever he passed beneath them! She _might_ take the nobler
part; she _might_ hold it incredible till she had a confession from his
very lips. But were women magnanimous? And Annabel, very clear in
thought, very pure in soul--was she after all so far above her sisters
as to face all hazard of human weakness in defence of an ideal?

Annabel, now in London, would write the news to Mrs. Ormonde. Would it
receive credence from her--his dearest friend? Assuredly not, if she
had known nothing to give the calumny startling support. But there was
that letter he wrote to her about Thyrza; there was her recollection of
the interview in Great Russell Street, when it might be that he had
betrayed himself. She had found him in a state of perturbation which he
could not conceal; it was on the eve of his own departure from
London--of Thyrza's disappearance. Well, she too must form her own
judgment. If she wrote to him and asked plainly for information, he
would know how to reply. Till she wrote, he must keep silence.

So there was the head-roll of his friends. No, he had omitted Annabel's
father. Mr. Newthorpe was a student, and apt to be humorously cynical
in his judgment of men. To him the story would not appear incredible.
Youth, human nature, a passionate temperament; these explain so much to
the unprejudiced mind. Mr. Newthorpe must go with the rest.

For other acquaintances he cared nothing.

So his fate at last had declared itself. Even though the all but
impossible should befall, and Grail should still marry Thyrza, how
could the schemes for common activity survive this shock? Say what he
might, he had no longer even the desire to work personally for the old
aims. How hard to believe that he was the same man who had lectured to
that little band of hearers on English Literature, who had uttered with
such vehemence the 'Thoughts for the Present!' That period of his life
was gone by like smoke; the heart in which such enthusiasms were
nourished had been swept by an all-consuming fire. Henceforth he must
live for himself, the vainest of all lives. To such a one the world was
a sorry place. He had no mind to taste such pleasures as it offered to
a rich man with no ideal save physical enjoyment; he no longer cared to
search out its beautiful things, to probe its mysteries. To what end,
since all pleasure and all knowledge must end in himself? ...

Where at this moment was Thyrza? The thought had mingled with all those
others. Did she then love him so much that marriage with Grail had
become impossible--that she would rather face every hardship and peril
of a hidden life in some dark corner of London? For she lived; proof of
it seemed to be in the refusal of his mind to contemplate a fatal issue
of her trial. She lived, and held him in her heart--the strong,
passionate heart, source of music and of love. And he--could he foresee
the day when he should no longer love her?

But of that she knew nothing, and must never know of it. The one
outlook for his life lay yonder, where love was beckoning; grant him
leave to follow, and what limitless prospect opened in place of the
barren hills which now enclosed him! But follow he must not. In that
respect nothing was altered. When he thought of Thyrza, it must still
be with the hope that she would return and fulfil her promise to
Gilbert Grail.

At a late hour he went to his bedroom. He lay down with a weary brain,
and, in trying to ask himself what he should do on the morrow, fell
asleep.




CHAPTER XXVII

FOUND


Mrs. Ormonde waited anxiously for Annabel's first letter from London.
Neither of them had spoken of Egremont after Annabel's visit with the
news from Paula. The girl gave no sign of trouble; she appeared to
continue her preparations with the same enjoyment as before. It was
doubtful whether, in writing, she would make any reference to Egremont,
but Mrs. Ormonde hoped there would be some word.

The letter came five days after Annabel's arrival in London, and was
short. It mentioned visits to the Academy and the Grosvenor, made a few
comments, spoke of this and that old acquaintance reseen; then came a
concluding paragraph:

'Father called at Mr. Egremont's two days ago, but did not see him. He
learnt that Mr. Egremont had been at home for one day, but was gone out
of town again. My aunt, as I gather from a chance word, takes the least
charitable view; I fear that was to be expected. We, however, _know_
the truth--do we not? It is sad, but not shameful. I have no means of
hearing anything about the library. I believe father has been to
Lambeth, but he and I do not speak on the subject. Paula, for some
reason, avoids me.'

It was one of several letters that arrived that morning. After opening
two appeals from charitable institutions, Mrs. Ormonde found an
envelope which, from the handwriting upon it, she judged to be a
similar communication from a private source. The address was
laboriously scrawled, and ill-spelt; the postage stamp was badly
affixed; there were finger-marks on the back. Such envelopes generally
came from the parents of children who had been in the Home, and
frequently--dirtiness announced such cases--made appeal for temporary
assistance. The present missive, however, was misleading; its contents
proved to be these:


'Madam,--We have a young girl with us as lies very bad. She come to us
not more than three week ago and asked for ployment, and me and my
husband wasn't unwilling for to give her a chance, seeing she looked
respectable, though we thought it wasn't unlikely as there might be
something wrong, because of her looks and her clothing, which wasn't
neither of them like the girl out of work, and then it's true she
couldn't give no reference. And now she's had fainting fits, and lies
very bad, having broke two dishes with falling, and which of course she
couldn't help, and we don't say as she could. My husband told me as I
ought for to look in her pocket, and which I did, and there I found a
envelope as had wrote your name and address on it. So I take the
liberty of writing, and which I am not much of a scholar, because she
do lie very bad, and if so be she has friends, they had ought to know.
I do what I can for her, but I have the customers to tend to, because
we keep a coffee-shop, which you'll find it at Number seventeen, Bank
Street, off the Caledonian Road. And I beg to end. From yours obedient,

SARAH GANDLE.'


There could be little doubt who this young girl was. Bad spelling and
worse writing rendered the letter difficult to translate into English,
but from the first sentence Mrs. Ormonde thought of Thyrza Trent. The
description would apply to Thyrza, and Thyrza might by some chance have
kept in her pocket the address which, as Mrs. Ormonde knew, Bunce had
given her when she brought Bessie to Eastbourne.

Her first emotion was of joy. This was quickly succeeded by doubts and
fears in plenty, for it was difficult to explain Thyrza's taking such a
step as this letter suggested. But the course to be pursued was clear.
She took the first train to London.

Caledonian Road is a great channel of traffic running directly north
from King's Cross to Holloway. It is doubtful whether London can show
any thoroughfare of importance more offensive to eye and ear and
nostril. You stand at the entrance to it, and gaze into a region of
supreme ugliness; every house front is marked with meanness and
inveterate grime; every shop seems breaking forth with mould or
dry-rot; the people who walk here appear one and all to be employed in
labour that soils body and spirit. Journey on the top of a tram-car
from King's Cross to Holloway, and civilisation has taught you its
ultimate achievement in ignoble hideousness. You look off into narrow
side-channels where unconscious degradation has made its inexpugnable
home, and sits veiled with refuse. You pass above lines of railway,
which cleave the region with black-breathing fissure. You see the
pavements half occupied with the paltriest and most sordid wares; the
sign of the pawnbroker is on every hand; the public-houses look and
reek more intolerably than in other places. The population is dense,
the poverty is undisguised. All this northward-bearing tract, between
Camden Town on the one hand and Islington on the other, is the valley
of the shadow of vilest servitude. Its public monument is a cyclopean
prison: save for the desert around the Great Northern Goods Depot, its
only open ground is a malodorous cattle-market. In comparison, Lambeth
is picturesque and venerable, St. Giles's is romantic, Hoxton is clean
and suggestive of domesticity, Whitechapel is full of poetry, Limehouse
is sweet with sea-breathings.

Hither Mrs. Ormonde drove from Victoria Station. The neighbourhood was
unknown to her save by name. On entering the Caledonian Road, her
cabman had to make inquiries for Bank Street, which he at length found
not far from the prison. He drew up before a small coffee-shop, on the
window whereof was pasted this advertisement: 'Dine here! Best quality.
Largest quantity! Lowest price.' Over the door was the name 'Gandle.'

Mrs. Ormonde bade the driver wait, and entered. It was the dinner-hour
of this part of the world. Every available place was occupied by men,
some in their shirt-sleeves, who were doing ample justice to the fare
set before them by Mrs. Gandle and her daughter. Beyond the space
assigned to the public was a partition of wood, four feet high, with a
door in the middle; this concealed the kitchen, whence came clouds of
steam, and the sound of frying, and odours manifold. At the entrance of
a lady--a lady without qualification--such of the feeders as happened
to look from their plates stared in wonderment. It was an embarrassing
position. Mrs. Ormonde walked quickly down the narrow gangway, and to
the door in the partition. A young woman was just coming forth, with
steaming plates on a tray.

'Can I see Mrs. Gandle?' the visitor asked.

The girl cried out: 'Mother, you're wanted!' and pushed past, with
grins bestowed on either side.

Above the partition appeared a face like a harvest moon.

'I have come in reply to your letter,' Mrs. Ormonde said, 'the letter
about the girl who is ill.'

'Oh, you've come, have you, mum!' was the reply, in a voice at once
respectful and surprised. 'Would you be so good as step inside, mum?
Please push the door.'

Mrs. Ormonde was relieved to pass into the privacy of the kitchen. It
was a room of some ten feet square, insufferably hot, very dirty, a
factory for the production of human fodder. On a side table stood a
great red dripping mass, whence Mrs. Gandle severed portions to be
supplied as roast beef. Vessels on the range held a green substance
which was called cabbage, and yellow lumps doled forth as potatoes.
Before the fire, bacon and sausages were frizzling; above it was
spluttering a beef-steak. On a sink in one corner were piled eating
utensils which awaited the wipe of a very loathsome rag hanging hard
by. Other objects lay about in indescribable confusion.

Mrs. Gandle was a very stout woman, with bare arms. She perspired
freely, and was not a little disconcerted by the appearance of her
visitor. Her moon-face had a simple and not disagreeable look.

'You won't mind me a-getting on with my work the whiles I talk, mum?'
she said. 'The men's tied to time, most of em, and I've often lost a
customer by keepin' him waitin'. They're not too sweet-tempered in
these parts. I was born and bred in Peckham myself, and only come here
when I married my second husband, which he's a plumber by trade. I
can't so much as ask you for to sit down, mum. You see, we have to
'conomise room, as my husband says. But I can talk and work, both; only
I've got to keep one ear open--'

A shrill voice cried from the shop:

'Two beefs, 'taters an' greens! One steak-pie, 'taters! Two cups o'
tea!'

'Right!' cried Mrs. Gandle, and proceeded to execute the orders.

'What is this poor girl's name?' Mrs. Ormonde asked. 'You didn't
mention it.'

'Well, mum, she calls herself Mary Wood. Do you know any one o' that
name?'

'I think not.'

'Now come along, 'Lizabeth!' screamed the woman of a sudden, at the top
of her voice. 'Don't stand a-talkin' there! Two beefs, 'taters and
greens.'

'That's right, Mrs. Gandle!' roared some man. 'You give it her. It's
the usial Bow-bells with her an' Sandy Dick 'ere!'

There was laughter, and 'Lizabeth came running for her orders. Mrs.
Gandle, with endless interruptions, proceeded thus:

'Between you and me, mum, I don't believe as that is her name. But she
give it at first, and she's stuck to it. No, I don't think she's worse
to-day, though she talked a lot in the night. Yes, we've had a doctor.
She wouldn't have me send for nobody, and said as there was nothing
ailed her, but then it come as she couldn't stand on her feet. She's a
littlish girl, may be seventeen or eighteen, with yellow-like hair. I
haven't knowed well what to do; I thought I'd ought to send her to the
'orspital, but then I found the henvelope in her pocket, an' we thought
we'd just wait a day to see if anybody answered us. And I didn't like
to act heartless with her, neither; she's a motherless thing, so she
says, an' only wants for to earn her keep and her sleep; an' I don't
think there's no harm in her, s'far as I can see. She come into the
shop last night was three weeks, just after eleven o'clock, and she
says, 'If you please, mum,' she says, speakin' very nice, 'can you give
me a bed for sevenpence?' 'Why, I don't know about that,' says I, 'I
haven't a bedroom as I let usial under a shilling.' Then she was for
goin' straight away, without another word. And she was so quiet like,
it took me as I couldn't send her off without asking her something
about herself. And she said she hadn't got no 'ome in London, and only
sevenpence in her pocket, and as how she wanted to find work. And she
must have walked about a deal, she looked that dead beat.

'Well, I just went in and spoke a word to Mr. Gandle. It's true as we
wanted someone to help me 'an 'Lizabeth; we've wanted someone bad for a
long time. And this young girl wouldn't be amiss, we thought, for
waitin' in the shop; the men likes to see a noo face, you know, mum,
an' all the more if it's a good-looking 'un. If she'd been a orn'ary
lookin' girl, of course I couldn't have not so much as thought of it,
as things was. She told me plain an' straightforward as she couldn't
say who she was and where she come from. And it was something in her
way o' speakin', a kind o' quietness like, as you don't hoften get in
young girls nowadays. They're so for'ard, as their parents ain't got
the same 'old on 'em as they had when I was young. I shouldn't wonder
if you've noticed the same thing with your servants, mum. An' so I said
as I'd let her have a bed for sevenpence; and if you'd a' seen how
thankful she looked. She wasn't the kind to go an' sleep anywhere, an'
goodness only knows what might a' come to her at that hour o' the
night. And the next mornin' she did look that white an' poorly, when I
met her a-comin' down the stairs. 'Well,' says I, 'an' what about
breakfast, eh?' She went a bit red like, an' said as it didn't matter;
she'd go out an' find work. 'Well, look here now,' says I, 'suppose you
wash up them things there to pay for a cup o' tea and two slices?' An'
then she looked at me thankful again, an' says as it was kind o' me.
Well, of course, you may say as it isn't everybody 'ud a' took her in
for sevenpence, but then, as I was a-sayin', we did want somebody to
help me an' 'Lizabeth, an' I don't take much to myself for what I did.'

'You acted well and kindly, Mrs. Gandle,' said Mrs. Ormonde.

So the long story went on. The girl had been only too glad to stay as
general servant, and worked well, worked as hard as any one could
expect, Mrs. Gandle said. But she was far from well, and every day,
after the first week, her strength fell off. At length she had a
fainting fit, falling with two dishes in her hands. Her work had to be
lightened. But the fainting was several times repeated, and, now three
days ago, illness it was impossible to struggle against kept her to her
bed.

'Well, I begged an' I prayed of her as she'd tell me where she
belonged, and where her friends was. But she could only cry an' say as
she'd go away, and wouldn't be a burden. 'Don't talk silly, child,' I
kep' sayin'. 'How can you go away in this state? Unless you're goin' to
your friends?' But she said no, as she hadn't no friends to go to. An'
she cried so, it fair went to my heart, the poor thing! An' I begun to
be that afraid as she'd die. I am that glad as you've come, mum. If you
don't mind waitin' another ten minutes, the worst o' this 'll be over,
an' then I can leave 'Lizabeth to it, and go upstairs with you.'

'Is she conscious at present?'

'She was, a little while ago. It is the nights is worst, of course.
Last night she talked an' talked: it's easy to see she has some trouble
on her mind. I haven't got nobody as can sit with her when we have the
shop full. But I was with her up to three o'clock this morning; then
'Lizabeth took my place till the shop was opened for the early corfee.
I don't think she's no worse, and the doctor he don't think so. He's a
clever man, I believe; at all events he has that name, as I may say,
and he lives just round here in Winter Street, a house with
green-painted railing, and 'Spensary' wrote up on the window.'

'Will he call again to-day?'

'I don't suppose as he _would_, but he's sure to be at 'ome in an hour,
and, if you'd like, mum, I'd just send 'Lizabeth round.'

'Thank you; I think I'll go and see him.'

At last the burden of the dinner-hour was over, and 'Lizabeth could be
left alone for a little. Mrs. Gandle washed her hands, in a perfunctory
way, and guided her visitor to a dark flight of stairs. They ascended.
On the top floor the woman stopped and whispered:

'That's the room. Should I just look in first, mum?'

'Please.'

Mrs. Gandle entered and came forth again.

'She seems to me to be asleep, mum. She lays very still, and her eyes
is shut.'

'I'll go in. I shall sit with her for an hour and then go to see the
doctor.'

Mrs. Ormonde passed in. It was a mean little room, not as tidy as it
might have been, and far from as clean. There on the low pillow was a
pale face, with golden hair disordered about the brow; a face so wasted
that it was not easy in the first moment to identify it with that which
had been so wonderful in its spell-bound beauty by the sea-shore. But
it was Thyrza.

Her eyes were only half closed, and it was not a natural sleep that
held her. Mrs. Ormonde examined her for several moments, then just
touched her forehead. Thyrza stirred and muttered something, but gave
no sign of consciousness.

The hour went by very slowly. The traffic in the street was incessant
and noisy; two men, who were selling coals from a cart, for a long time
vied with each other in the utterance of roars drawn out in afflicting
cadence. Mrs. Ormonde now sat by the bed, regarding Thyrza, now went to
the window and looked at the grimy houses opposite. The prescribed
interval had almost elapsed, when Thyrza suddenly raised herself and
said with distinctness:

'You promised me, Lyddy; you know you promised!'

Mrs. Ormonde was standing at the foot of the bed. She drew nearer, and,
as the sick girl regarded her, asked:

'Do you know me, Thyrza?'

Thyrza fell back, fear-stricken. She spoke a few disconnected words,
then her eyes half-closed again, and the lethargy returned upon her.

In a few minutes Mrs. Ormonde left the room and sought her acquaintance
in the cooking department. Mrs. Gandle gave her the exact address of
the medical man, and she found the house without difficulty.

She had to wait for a quarter of an hour in a bare, dusty,
drug-smelling ante-chamber, where also sat a woman who coughed without
ceasing, and a boy who had a formidable bandage athwart his face. The
practitioner, when he presented himself, failed to inspire her with
confidence. He expressed himself so ambiguously about Thyrza's
condition and gave on the whole such scanty proof of intelligence that
Mrs. Ormonde felt it unsafe to leave him in charge of a case such as
this. She easily obtained his permission to summon a doctor with whom
she was acquainted.

She drove to the latter's abode, and was fortunate enough to find him
at luncheon. She was on terms of intimacy with the family, and accepted
very willingly an invitation to join them at their meal. But the doctor
could not get to Caledonian Road before the evening. Having made an
appointment with him for seven o'clock, she next drove to the east side
of Regent's Park, where, in a street of small houses, she knocked at a
door and made inquiries for 'Mrs. Emerson.' This lady was at home, the
servant said. Mrs. Ormonde went up the first floor and entered a
sitting-room.

Its one occupant was a young woman, probably of six-and-twenty, who sat
in out-of-doors attire. Her look suggested that she had come home too
weary even to take her bonnet off before resting. She had the air of an
educated person; her dress, which was plain and decent in the same
rather depressing way as the appointment of her room, put it beyond
doubt that she spent her days in some one of the manifold kinds of
teaching; a roll upon her lap plainly consisted of music. She could not
lay claim to good looks, save in the sense that her features were
impressed with agreeable womanliness; the smile which followed speedily
upon her expression of surprise when Mrs. Ormonde appeared, was
natural, homely, and sweet. She threw the roll away, and sprang up with
a joyous exclamation:

'To think that you should come just on this day and at this time, Mrs.
Ormonde! It's just by chance that I'm at home. I've only this moment
come back from Notting Hill, where I found a pupil too unwell to have
her lesson. And in half an hour I have to go to St. John's Wood. Just
by a chance that I'm here. How vexed I should have been if I'd heard of
you coming whilst I was away! _Isn't_ it annoying for people to call
whilst one's away? I mean, of course, people one really wants to see.'

'Certainly, things don't often happen so well. I'm in town on very
doleful business, and have come to see if you can help me.'

'Help you? How? I do hope I can.'

'Have you still your spare room?'

'Oh, yes.'

'Then I may perhaps ask you to let me have it in a few days. I must
tell you how it is. A poor girl, in whom I have a great interest, has
fallen ill in very dreary lodgings. I don't think it would be possible
to move her at present; I don't in fact yet know the nature of her
illness exactly, and, of course, if it's anything to be afraid of, I
shouldn't bring her. But that is scarcely likely; I fancy she will want
only careful nursing. Dr. Lambe is going to see her this evening, and
he's just promised me to send a nurse from some institution where he
has to call. If we can safely move her presently, may I bring her here?'

'Of course you may, Mrs. Ormonde! I'll get everything ready to night.
Will you come up and tell me of anything you'd like me to do?'

'Not now. You look tired, and must rest before you go out again. I'll
come and see you again to-morrow.'

'To-morrow? Let me see; I shall be here at twelve, but only for a few
minutes; then I shan't be home again till half-past nine. Could you
come after then, Mrs. Ormonde?'

'Yes. But what a long day that is! I hope you're not often so late?'

'Oh, I don't mind it a bit,' said the other, cheerfully. 'It's a pupil
at Seven Oaks, piano and singing. Indeed I'm very glad. The more the
better. They keep me out of mischief.'

Mrs. Ormonde smiled moderately in reply to the laugh with which Mrs.
Emerson completed her jest.

'How is your husband?'

'Still far from well. I'm so sorry he isn't in now. I think he's--no,
I'm not quite sure where he is; he had to go somewhere on business.'

'He is able to get to business again?' Mrs. Ormonde asked, without
looking at the other.

'Not to his regular business. Oh no, that wouldn't be safe yet. He
begins to look better, but he's very weak still. It must be very hard
for a man of his age to be compelled to guard against all sorts of
little things that other people think nothing of, mustn't it?'

'Yes, it must be trying,' Mrs. Ormonde replied, quietly.

Mr. Emerson was a young gentleman of leisurely habits and precarious
income. Mrs. Ormonde suspected, and with reason, that he nurtured a
feeble constitution at the expense of his wife's labour; he was seldom
at home, and the persons interested in Mrs. Emerson had a difficulty in
making his nearer acquaintance.

'And I can't think there's another man in the world who would bear it
so uncomplainingly. But you know,' she added, laughing again, 'that I'm
very proud of my husband. I always make you smile at me, Mrs. Ormonde.
But now, I am so very, very sorry, but I'm obliged to go. I manage to
catch a 'bus just at the top of the street; if I missed it, I should be
half an hour late, and these are very particular people. Oh, I've such
a laughable story to tell you about them, but it must wait till
to-morrow, Harold says I tell it so well; he's sure I could write a
novel if I tried. I think I will try some day; I believe people make a
great deal of money out of novels, don't they, Mrs. Ormonde?'

'I have heard of one or two who tried to, but didn't.'

'I do hope the poor girl will soon be well enough to come. I'll get the
room thoroughly in order to-night.'

They left the house together. Mrs. Emerson ran in the direction of the
omnibus she wished to catch; the other shortly found a vehicle, and
drove back again to Bank Street, Caledonian Road.

Thyrza still lay in the same condition. In a little more than half an
hour came the trained nurse of Dr. Lambe's sending, and forthwith the
sick-room was got into a more tolerable condition, Mrs. Ormonde
procuring whatever the nurse desired. Much private talk passed
downstairs between Mrs. Gandle and 'Lizabeth, who were greatly
astonished at the fuss made over the girl they had supposed friendless.

'Now let this be a lesson to you, 'Lizabeth.' said the good woman,
several times. 'It ain't often as you'll lose by doin' a bit o'
kindness, and the chance always is as it'll be paid back to you more
than you'd never think. Any one can see as this Mrs. Ormonde's a real
lady, and when it comes to settlin' up, you'll see if she doesn't know
how to behave _like_ a lady.'

Mrs. Ormonde took a room at a private hotel near King's Cross, whither
her travelling bag was brought from Victoria. She avoided the part of
the town in which acquaintances might hear of her, for her business had
to be kept secret. A necessary letter despatched to Mrs. Mapper at The
Chestnuts, she went once more to Bank Street and met her friend Dr.
Lambe.

She told him, in general terms, all she knew of the circumstances which
might have led to Thyrza's illness. At first she had been in doubt
whether or not to go to Lambeth and see Lydia Trent, but on the whole
it seemed better to take no steps in that direction for the present.
Should the case be declared dangerous, Lydia of course must be sent
for, but that was a dark possibility from which her thoughts willingly
averted themselves. The sister could doubtless throw some light on
Thyrza's strange calamity. What did the child's 'You know you promised
me' mean? But that would be no aid to the physician, upon whom for the
present most depended. Nor did Dr. Lambe exhibit much curiosity. He
seemed quickly to gather all it was really necessary for him to know,
and, though he admitted that the disorder was likely to be troublesome,
he gave an assurance that there was no occasion for alarm.

'You are not associated in her mind with anything distressing?' he
asked of Mrs. Ormonde.

'I believe, the opposite.'

'Good. Then be by her side as often as you can, so that she may
recognise you as soon as possible.' He added with a smile: 'I needn't
inform Mrs. Ormonde how to behave when she _is_ recognised!'

They were at a little distance from the bed, and both looked at the
unconscious face.

'A very beautiful girl,' the doctor murmured.

'But you should see her in health.'

'No. I am a trifle susceptible. Well, well, we shall have her through
it, no doubt.'

We have to jest a little in the presence of suffering, or how should we
live our lives?

The recognition came late on the following afternoon. Thyrza had lain
for a time with eyes open, watching the movements of the nurse, but
seemingly with no desire to speak. Then Mrs. Ormonde came in. The
watchful look at once turned upon her; for a moment that former fear
showed itself, and Thyrza made an effort to rise from the pillow. Her
strength was too far wasted. But as Mrs. Ormonde drew near, she was
plainly known.

'Thyrza, you know me now?'

'Mrs. Ormonde,' was whispered, still with look of alarm and troubled
inability to comprehend.

'You have been ill, dear, and I have come to sit with you,' the other
went on, in a soothing voice. 'Shall I stay?'

There was no answer for a little, then Thyrza, with sudden revival of
memory like a light kindled in her eyes, said painfully:

'Lyddy?--does Lyddy know?'

'Not yet. Do you wish her to?

'No!--Don't tell Lyddy!--I shall be better--'

'No one shall know, Thyrza. Don't speak now. I am going to sit by you.'

Much mental disturbance was evident on the pale face for some time
after this, but Thyrza did not speak again, and presently she appeared
to sleep. Mrs. Ormonde left the house at midnight and was back again
before nine the next morning. Thyrza had been perfectly conscious since
daybreak, and had several times asked for the absent friend. She smiled
when Mrs. Ormonde came at length and kissed her forehead.

'Better this morning?'

'Much better, I think, Mrs. Ormonde. But I can't lift my arm--it's so
heavy.'

The doctor came late in the morning. He was agreeably surprised at the
course things were taking. But Thyrza was forbidden to speak, and for
much of the day she relapsed into an apathetic, scarcely conscious
state. Mrs. Ormonde had preferred not to leave her the evening before,
and had explained by telegram her failure to keep her appointment with
Mrs. Emerson. To-night she visited her friends by Regent's Park. On
looking in at the eating-house before going to her hotel for the night,
she found the patient feverish and excited.

'She has been asking for you ever since you went away,' whispered the
nurse.

Thyrza inquired anxiously, as if the thought were newly come to her:

'How did you know where I was, Mrs. Ormonde?'

'Mrs. Gandle found my name and address in your pocket, and wrote to me.'

'In my pocket? Why should she look in my pocket?'

'She was anxious to have a friend come to you, Thyrza.'

'Does any one else know? Lyddy doesn't--nor anybody?'

'Nobody.'

'Yes, it was in my pocket. I kept it from that time when I went
to--to--oh, I can't remember!'

'To Eastbourne, dear.'

'Yes--Eastbourne!'

The only way of quieting her was for Mrs. Ormonde to sit holding her
hand. It was nearly dawn when the fit of fever was allayed and sleep
came.

A week passed before it was possible to think of removing her from
these miserable quarters to the other room which awaited her. Mrs.
Ormonde's presence had doubtless been a great aid to the sufferer in
her struggle with intermittent fever and mental pain. As Thyrza
recovered her power of continuous thought, she showed less disposition
to talk; the trouble which still hung above her seemed to impose
silence. She was never quite still save when Mrs. Ormonde sat by her,
but at those times she generally kept her face averted, closing her
eyes if either of her nurses seemed to watch her. She asked no
questions. Mrs. Gandle came up occasionally, and to her Thyrza spoke
very gently and gratefully. She asked to see 'Lizabeth, and that damsel
made an elaborate toilette for the ceremony of introduction to the
transformed sickroom.

'I don't believe as she's a workin' girl at all,' 'Lizabeth remarked
mysteriously to her mother, afterwards. 'She's Mrs. Ormind's daughter,
as has runned away from her 'ome, an' that's the truth of it.'

'Don't be silly, 'Lizabeth! Why, there ain't no more likeness than in
that there cabbage!'

'I don't care. That's what I think, an' think it I always shall, choose
what!'

'You always was obstinit!'

'Dessay I was, an' it's good as some people is. It wouldn't do for us
all to think the same way; it 'ud spoil our appetites.'

One day of the week Mrs. Ormonde spent at Eastbourne. During her
absence from home no letter had come from Egremont; she expected daily
to hear from Mrs. Mapper that he had called at The Chestnuts, but
nothing was seen of him. She preferred to keep silence, though her
anxiety was constant. Out of the disparaging rumours which had found
ready credence in the circle of the Tyrrells, and the facts which she
had under her own eyes, it was not difficult for her to construct a
story whereby this catastrophe could be explained without attributing
anything more than misfortune to either Egremont or Thyrza. Her
suppositions came very near to the truth. A natural, inevitable, error
was that she imagined a scene of mutual declaration between the two.
She could only conjecture that in some way they had frequently met,
with the result which, the characters of both being understood, might
have been foreseen. Possibly Egremont had thrown aside every
consideration and had asked Thyrza to abandon Grail for his sake; in
that case, it might be that Thyrza had fled from what she regarded as
dishonourable selfishness, unable to keep her promise to Grail, alike
unable to find her own happiness at his expense.

This was supposing the best. But, as a woman who knew the world, she
could not altogether deny approach to fears which, in speaking with
Annabel, she would not glance at. It was unlike Egremont to pass
through a crisis such as this without having recourse to her sympathy,
which had so long been to him as that of a mother. Perhaps he could not
speak to her.

In any case, the immediate future was full of difficulties. It was a
simple matter to take Thyrza to the Emersons' lodgings and get her
restored to health, but what must then become of her? The best hope was
that even yet she might marry Grail. Between the latter and Egremont
doubtless everything was at an end; all the better, if there remained a
possibility of Thyrza's forgetting this trial and some day fulfilling
her promise. But in the meantime--a period, perhaps, of years--what
must be done? The sisters might of course live together as hitherto and
earn their living in the accustomed way, but Mrs. Ormonde understood
too well the dangers of an attempt to patch together old and new. There
was no foreseeing the effect of her sufferings on Thyrza's character;
in spite of idealisms, suffering more often does harm than good.

In fact, she must become acquainted with the truth of the case before
she could reasonably advise or help. It had seemed wise as yet to keep
the discovery of Thyrza a secret, even though by disclosing it she
might have alleviated others' pain. When Lydia should at length be
told, perhaps difficulties would in one way or another be lessened.

Mrs. Ormonde at length spoke to the invalid of the plan for removing
her. Thyrza made no reply, but, when her friend went on to speak of the
people in whose care she would be, averted her eyes as if in trouble.
Mrs. Ormonde was silent for a while, then asked:

'Would you like your sister to come, when you are in the other house?'

Thyrza shook her head. She would have spoken, but instead sobbed.

'But she must be in dreadful trouble, Thyrza.'

'Will you write to her, please, Mrs. Ormonde? Don't tell her where I
am, but say that I am well again. I can't see her yet--not till I have
begun to work again. Do you think I can soon go and find work?'

'Do you wish, then, to live by yourself?' Mrs. Ormonde asked, hoping
that the conversation might lead Thyrza to reveal her story.

'Yes, I must live by myself. I mustn't see any one for a long time. I
can earn as much as I need. If I can't find anything else, Mrs. Gandle
will let me stay with her.'

There was silence. Then she turned her face to Mrs. Ormonde, and, with
drooping eyelids, asked in a low voice:

'Do you know why I left home, Mrs. Ormonde?'

'No, I don't, Thyrza,' the other replied gently. 'I have not seen any
of your friends. I think very likely you are the only one that could
tell me the truth.'

'Lyddy knows,' was spoken presently, after the shedding of a few quiet
tears. 'I left a letter for her. Besides, she knew before--knew that--'

The voice faltered and ceased.

'Can you tell me what it was, Thyrza?'

'I didn't do anything wrong, Mrs. Ormonde. But I was going to be
married--do you remember about Mr. Grail?'

'Yes, dear.'

'I couldn't marry him--I didn't love him.'

She turned her face upon the pillow. Mrs. Ormonde touched her with kind
hand, and, when she saw that the girl could tell no more, tried to
soothe her.

'I understand now, Thyrza. I know it must have been a great trouble
that drove you to this. I will do nothing that you don't wish. But we
must let Lyddy know that you are in safety. Suppose you write a letter
and tell her that you have been ill, but that you are quite well again,
and with friends. You needn't put any address on it, and you had better
not mention my name. It will be enough for the present to relieve her
mind.'

'Yes, I'll do that, Mrs. Ormonde, if I can write.'

'You will be able to, very soon. It would frighten Lyddy, if the letter
came to her written in a strange hand.'

Mrs. Ormonde made up her mind not to let it be known that she was in
communication with Thyrza. Much was still dubious, but clearly it would
be the wise course to avoid the possibility of Egremont's discovering
Thyrza's place of abode. For the sake of the long future, a little more
must be borne in the present. She had more than Thyrza's interests to
keep in mind. Egremont's happiness was also at stake, and that, after
all, was the first concern with her. By prudent management, perhaps the
lives of both could be saved from this seeming wreck, and sped upon
their several ways--ways surely very diverse.

But Thyrza was troubled with desire to ask something. When tears had
heightened the relief of having told as much as she might, she asked
timidly:

'Do you know if Mr. Grail has gone to the library--Mr. Egremont's
library?'

'I have not heard. Could he go after this happening, Thyrza?'

'Yes,' she replied eagerly, 'he would go just the same. Why shouldn't
he? It wouldn't prevent that, just because I didn't marry him. He would
go and live there with Mrs. Grail, his mother. I said, when I wrote to
Lyddy, that he'd go to the library just the same. There was no reason
why he shouldn't, Mrs. Ormonde.'

She grew so agitated that Mrs. Ormonde, whilst asking herself what
further light this threw on the matter, endeavoured to remove her
trouble.

'Then no doubt he has gone, Thyrza. We shall hear all about it very
soon.'

'You think he really has? We were to have been away for a week, and
then have gone to live at the library. Haven't you heard anything
from--'

'From whom, dear?'

'Anything from Mr. Egremont? He was beginning to put the books on the
shelves--I was told about that. It was all ready for Gilbert to go and
begin. Haven't you heard about it, Mrs. Ormonde?'

'I've been away from home, you see. No doubt there are letters for me.'

'I shall be so glad when I know, Mrs. Ormonde. You'll tell me, when
you've heard, won't you, please? I've been thinking about it a long
time--before I was ill, and again since I got my thoughts back. I want
to be sure of that, more than anything. I'm sure he must have gone. Mr.
Egremont was going away somewhere, and when he came back of course he
would be told about--about me, and he wouldn't let that make any
difference to Gilbert. And then I told Lyddy in the letter that I
should come back some day. I'm quite sure it wouldn't keep him from
going to the library.'

Mrs. Ormonde was herself very desirous of knowing what turn things had
taken in Lambeth. She had no ready means of inquiry. But doubtless Mr.
Newthorpe would have intelligence; it was only too certain that the
affair was being discussed to its minutest details among the people who
knew Egremont. She determined to see Mr. Newthorpe as soon as Thyrza
was transported to the house by Regent's Park.

This took place on the following day, with care which could not have
been exceeded had the invalid been a person as important and precious
as even the late Miss Paula Tyrrell. Mrs. Gandle was adequately
recompensed; her conviction that Mrs. Ormonde was a real lady suffered
no shock under this most delicate of tests. Mrs. Ormonde bade farewell
to Bank Street and Caledonian Road with a great hope that duty or
necessity might never lead her thither again.

Thyrza still, of course, needed the nurse's attendance, and
accommodation was found for that person under the same roof. When the
party arrived, at mid-day, Mrs. Emerson was at home by appointment. She
assisted in carrying the invalid upstairs, where a bright warm room was
in readiness--as pleasant a change after the garret in Bank Street as
any one could have desired.




CHAPTER XXVIII

HOPE SURPRISED


Mrs. Tyrrell and Annabel were lunching with friends somewhere: Mr.
Newthorpe had just taken a solitary meal in the room which he used for
a study. Thither Mrs. Ormonde was conducted.

She noticed that he looked by no means so well as he had done before
leaving Eastbourne. His greeting was nervous. He would not sit down,
preferring to move restlessly from one position to another.

'I was about to write to you,' he said. 'What news do you bring?'

'I have come to you for news.'

'But you have seen Egremont?'

'Neither seen nor heard from him.'

'Then I suppose that settles the matter. I went to his place once, but
could hear nothing of him, and since then I have just waited till the
muddy water should strain itself clear again.'

'But I am in ignorance yet of the state of things in Lambeth,' said
Mrs. Ormonde. 'Do you know anything about the library?'

'Dalmaine keeps our world supplied with the latest information,' Mr.
Newthorpe replied, with cold sarcasm. 'The library scheme, I suppose,
is at an end. The man Grail, we are told, pursues his old occupation.'

Mrs. Ormonde kept silence. The other continued, assuming a tone of
cheerful impartiality:

'Really it is very instructive, an affair of this kind. One knows very
well, theoretically, how average humanity fears and hates a nature
superior to itself; but one has not often an opportunity of seeing it
so well illustrated in practice. Tyrrell's attitude has especially
amused me; his lungs begin to crow like chanticleer as often as the
story comes up for discussion. He has a good deal of personal liking
for Egremont, but to see 'the idealist' in the mud he finds altogether
too delicious. His wife feels exactly in the same way, though she
expresses her feeling differently. And Dalmaine--if I were an
able-bodied man I rather think I should have kicked Dalmaine downstairs
before this. 'Lo you, what comes of lofty priggishness!'--that is his
text, and he enlarges on it in a manner worthy of himself. And the
amazing thing is that it never occurs to these people to explain what
has happened on any but the least charitable hypothesis.'

'What of Annabel?' Mrs. Ormonde asked.

'She seems to have no interest in the matter. So far so good, perhaps.'
He added, with a smile, 'She is revenging herself for her years of
retirement.'

'I supposed so. And really seems to be enjoying herself?'

'Astonishingly. I don't see much of her. She came in the other night to
tell me that a Captain Somebody had proposed to her after six minutes
of acquaintance, and laughed more gaily over it than I ever saw her.
It's part of her education, of course; probably it was wise to postpone
it no longer. I wait with curiosity to hear her opinion of this world
at the end of July.'

Mrs. Ormonde mused. Mr. Newthorpe walked about a little, then asked:

'What do you prophesy of their future?

'Of whose future?'

'Egremont's and his wife.'

'You are premature. He is not married.'

'Oh, then you are not altogether without news?'

'I shall take you into my confidence. I find the responsibility a
little too burdensome. The fact is, this girl, Thyrza Trent, is at
present in my care.'

She gave a succinct account of the recent events, and explained them as
far as her information allowed. The all-important point still remained
obscure, but she showed her reasons for believing that something had
passed between Egremont and Thyrza which could lead to but one result
if they met again, now that the old objections were at an end.

'My desire is,' she pursued, 'to prevent that meeting. I have racked my
brains over the matter, with no better result than Mrs. Grundy would at
once have arrived at by noble intuition. It would be a grave mistake
for Walter to marry this girl.'

'On general grounds, or from your special knowledge of her character?'

'Both. A third reason is--that I have long ago made up my mind whom he
is to marry.'

'Yes,' said Mr. Newthorpe, gravely, the worry he no longer cared to
conceal making him look old and feeble, 'yes, but that project has
hardly become more hopeful during the last few weeks.'

'We have to think of a lifetime. I have by no means lost hope. I fear
the atmosphere in which you are living has some effect upon you. The
case stands thus: Walter has done nothing in the least dishonourable,
but he has been carried away, as any imaginative young fellow would
probably have been under the circumstances. The girl is very beautiful,
wonderfully sweet and lovable; if a man ruined himself to obtain her I
dare say it would be a long time before he repented.'

'At least six months.'

'No, I can't joke about Thyrza. I love her myself, and if I can by any
means guide her life into a smooth channel it will make me very happy.
But she must not marry Walter; that would assuredly _not_ be for her
happiness. The prospect before her was ideal, too good, of course, to
be realised. We must devise some other future for her.'

'You think of taking her definitively from her former sphere?'

'There is no choice. She can't go and work for her living in the old
way; I foresee too well what the end of _that_ would be. She must
either be raised or fall into the black gulfs--so beautifully is our
society constructed. For the present she has to recover her health; the
doctor tells me her constitution is very delicate. She must come to the
sea-side as soon as she is well enough. I mustn't have her in my house,
because Walter may come any day; but it will have to be Eastbourne, I
fancy, as I don't know how to make plans for her elsewhere. And in the
meantime we must think.'

'A question occurs to me. Is it quite certain that she won't of her own
motion communicate with Egremont?'

'It is a question, of course. But I can't do more than take all
reasonable precautions. I have a hope, though, that before long she
will confide in me completely. The poor child knows nothing of this
scandal; she even believes that Mr. Grail will take the librarianship
as if nothing had happened. I can't with certainty foresee what effect
it will have upon her when she hears the truth. Of course she must see
her sister before very long. In the meantime, I have to tell her that
things are going on quite smoothly; it is the only way to keep her
calm.'

'What of the sister? Is she a person to be trusted?'

'I don't know her; but from the way in which Thyrza always speaks of
her, I should think she is very trustworthy. She is some years older.'

After some further conversation, Mr. Newthorpe asked:

'What is Egremont doing, then, do you suppose?'

'I can form no idea.'

'Won't you write to him?'

'I think not. The poor fellow is, no doubt, going through his
'everlasting Nay,' as he used to say a few years ago; I fear it has
come in earnest this time. He will come to me when I can really be of
use to him. If I see him just now I shall have to act too much--I am
bad at that.'

'Had I better try to find him?'

'Write, if you like, and see what answer you get.'

'A gloomy business for that poor fellow in Lambeth.'

'Yes, it's hard that one can give so little thought to him. If I speak
the very truth, I still have a secret hope that she may marry him. But
all in good time. What a blessed thing Time is! It makes everything
easy.'

'It does. Most of all, when it destroys itself.'

He said it with a sad smile. Mrs. Ormonde turned again to the subject
of Annabel. They decided that it was better to say nothing to her as
yet.

In a fortnight Thyrza went to Eastbourne. She had written a letter to
Lydia a few days after her establishment with Mrs. Emerson--a letter
without any address at the head of it. Mrs. Emerson posted it in a
remote district, that the office stamp might give no clue. Mrs. Ormonde
provided her with lodgings at the side of Eastbourne farthest from The
Chestnuts, in the house of a decent woman who did sewing for the Home.
That her days might not become wearisome for lack of occupation, it was
arranged that Thyrza should give her landlady occasional help with the
needle.

Her main task, however, was to recover health and strength. The sea air
helped her a little, but the heaviness of her heart kept her frame
languid. At first she could walk only the shortest distances; as soon
as she reached the sands, she would sit down wearily and fix her eyes
seawards, gazing with what other thoughts than when that horizon met
her vision for the first time! She had great need of uttering all her
sorrow, but could not do so to Mrs. Ormonde; it seemed to her that it
would be an unpardonable presumption to speak of Mr. Egremont as she
thought of him, and perhaps she could not have brought herself to tell
such a secret, whoever had been involved in it, to one who, kind as she
was, remained in many senses a stranger. To Lyddy, and to her alone,
she could have poured out all her heart. The longing for her sister was
now ceaseless. She grieved that she had left London without seeing her.
In the night she sometimes cried for hours because Lyddy was so far
from her.

Mrs. Ormonde came to see her every other day. Though nothing had been
said on the point, Thyrza understood that, for some reason, she was not
expected to go to The Chestnuts. And, indeed, it was too far for her to
walk in her present weak state.

But one evening she was drawn in that direction. Her landlady had gone
to Hastings, and would be absent till the next day. It was not the day
for Mrs. Ormonde's visit, and rain since morning had made it impossible
to leave the house; the hours had dragged wearily. After tea the clouds
broke, and soon there were warm rays from the westering sun. Thyrza was
glad to leave her room. She walked into the main street of the town,
for her solitude was become a pain, and she felt a desire to be among
people, even though she could speak to no one. She came to the
tree-shadowed road which, as she well remembered, led to Mrs. Ormonde's
house. It tempted her on: she would like to look at the house. A friend
lived there, and her heart ached to be near someone who cared for her.
The prime need of her life was love, and love alone could restore her
strength and give her courage to live.

It was nearer than she thought. Though troubled by the consciousness
that she ought not to have come so far in this direction, and that
perhaps her strength would be overtaxed before she could reach home
again, she went still on and on, until, reaching the point where
another road joined that by which she had come, she found The Chestnuts
just before her. Beyond the house, the hill rose darkly and hid the
setting sun. As she stood, a man issued from the adjoining road and
walked straight towards the entrance of the garden. Her eyes followed
him, and, though for a moment she did not believe their evidence, they
told her that Egremont had passed so near to her that a whisper would
have drawn his attention.

She was in the shade of thick trees; perhaps that circumstance, and the
dark colour of her dress, accounted for his not observing her. He was
walking quickly, too, and was looking fixedly at the house.

She followed. Had her voice been at her command, in that instant of
recognition she would have called to him. But all her powers seemed to
desert her, and she was rather borne onwards than advanced by any
effort of her own.

He had passed through the gate when she reached the end of the garden
wall. Losing him from sight, she understood what she was doing, and
stayed her steps. A sense of having escaped a great danger made her
tremble so that she feared she must fall to the ground if she could not
find some place in which to rest. A few steps brought her into a piece
of common ground, which lay in the rear of the garden, and here, at the
foot of the wall, were some pieces of timber, the severed limbs of a
tree that had fallen in the past winter. Here she could sit, leaning
against the brickwork and letting her heart throb itself into quietness.

The wall was a low one, and above it in this place rose a screen of
trellis, overgrown with creepers, making the rear of a spacious
summer-house, which Mrs. Ormonde had had constructed for the use of
children who had to be sheltered from too much either of sun or breeze
when they were brought out of doors. Thyrza had not been resting for
more than a minute or two, when a voice spoke from the other side of
the wall, so plainly that she started, thinking she was observed and
addressed. The voice was Mrs. Ormonde's.

'So at last,' she said, 'you have come.'

There was a brief silence, then the tones for which she waited once
more fell upon her ear.

'You are alone to-night?' asked Egremont.

'Quite. I have been reading and thinking. Shall we go into the house?'

'If you will let me, I had rather sit with you here.'

Again there was silence. When Mrs. Ormonde spoke, it was in a lower
voice, and such as one uses in reply to a look of affection.

'Why have you kept me in anxiety about you for so long, Walter?'

'I have had no mind to speak to any one, not even to you. I had nothing
to tell you that would please you to hear. Often I have resolved to
leave England for good, and give no account of myself to any one. It
seemed unkind of you not to write. I waited till I knew you must have
heard all that people had to say of me, and then every day I expected
your letter. You could only be silent for one reason.'

'Why, then, have you come now?'

'Because I am ill and can be alone no longer.'

Thyrza scarcely breathed. It was as though all her senses had merged in
one--that of hearing. Her eyes beheld nothing, and she was conscious of
no more bodily pain. She listened for the very breathing of the two,
who were so close to her that she might almost have touched them.

'How do you know that people are occupying themselves with your
concerns at all?'

'From Jersey I went to France. When I reached London again, knowing
nothing of what had happened whilst I was away, I met Dalmaine and his
wife at Charing Cross station. They turned away, and refused to speak
to me. When I got home, I found what it meant. Grail told me plainly
what the general opinion was.'

'You saw Grail?'

'Of course. You think, naturally, that I should have hidden my face
from him.'

'Don't be so harsh with me. You forget that I have still to learn
everything.'

'Yes, I will tell you; I will explain; I will defend myself. I want
your sympathy, and I will do my best to prove that I am not
contemptible.'

'Hush! Be quiet for a moment. I have not written to you because I
thought it needless to make conjectures, and ask questions, and give
assurances, when you were sure, sooner or later, to come and tell me
the whole story. I won't pretend that I have not had my moments of
uneasiness. For instance, I wrote to you to Jersey, and the letter was
returned to me; that came disagreeably, in connection with news I just
then had from London; it was only human to suppose that for some reason
you had talked of going to Jersey, and then had not gone there at all.'

'Grail followed me there, and, failing to find me, of course had the
same thought.'

'And yet, you know, I could think more calmly than was possible for
him. Now tell me all that you wish. What had happened, that this
suspicion fell upon you?'

Thyrza heard a complete and truthful account of all that had passed
between herself and Egremont, from the first meeting in the library to
their parting near Lambeth Bridge.

Then Mrs. Ormonde asked:

'And where is she?'

'If only I knew: She has written to her sister, but without saying
where she is, only that she has been ill, and is safe with people who
are kind to her.'

'And what is your explanation of her disappearance?'

'I believe she could not marry Grail, loving another man.'

The silence that followed seemed very long to the listener. She dreaded
lest they should end their conversation here. In that story of those
meetings and partings, as told by Egremont, there had now and then been
a word, a tone, that seemed to bear meaning yet incredible to her. By
degrees she was realising all that her flight had entailed upon those
she left, things undreamt of hitherto. But the last word of explanation
was still to come. She did not dare to anticipate it, yet her life
seemed to depend upon his saying something more.

'Have you made efforts to find her?' Mrs. Ormonde at length asked.

'Every possible effort.'

'With what purpose?'

'Need I tell you?

'You think it is your duty to offer her reparation for what she has
suffered, because you were unwillingly the cause of it?'

'Yes, if that is the same thing as saying that I love her, and that I
wish to make her my wife.'

'In a sense I suppose it is the same thing. You have been compelled to
think so much of her, that pity and a desire to do your best for an
unhappy girl have come to seem love. Remember that, by your own
admission, you are ill; you cannot judge soundly of anything, even of
your own feelings. You have done a good deal of harm, Walter, though
unintentionally; do you wish to do yet more?'

'How?'

'By binding yourself for life to a poor girl who can never by any
possibility be a fit companion for you. I have seen such marriages; I
have seen the beginning of them and the end. You, least of all men,
should fall into such an error. Oh yes, I know; you are not brutal; you
would never as much as speak an unkind word. No, but you would do what
in this case would be worse. Brutally treated, Thyrza would die and be
out of her misery; with you, she would drag through years of increasing
wretchedness. Your thwarted life would be her long torture. Remember
how often I have told you that you have much that is feminine in your
character. You have little real energy; you are passive in great
trials; it is easier to you to suffer than to act. Your idealism is
often noble, but never heroic. You have talked to me of your natural
nearness to people of the working class, and I firmly believe that you
are further from them--for any such purpose as this in question--than
many a man who counts kindred among the peerage. You have a great deal
of spiritual pride, and it will increase as your mind matures. You
think you _are_ mature; tell me in ten years (if I am alive, old woman
that I am!) how you look back on your present self. Walter Egremont, if
ever you ask Thyrza to marry you, you will be acting with cruel
selfishness--yes, selfishness, for all that you would pay bitterly for
it in the end. You will be acting in a way utterly unworthy of a man
who has studied and reflected.'

Thyrza heard Egremont laugh.

'To hear all this from you,' he said, 'surprises me very much.'

'You credit me with so little power of mind?'

'I thought you were the last to talk the common talk of the world that
has outlived its generous instincts.'

'Pray believe that there is such a thing as outliving youthful passion,
and yet retaining all the generous feeling that you speak of. I am not
an ignoble schemer, and you know that I am not. Think over my arguments
before you scorn me.'

'You think me so boyish and weak-minded that I cannot distinguish
between pure love and base? One thing I left out of my narrative just
now. I ought to have said that I was _not_ wholly without blame in that
intercourse. I strove with myself to seem nothing more than friendly to
her, and yet I know that at times I spoke as no mere friend would have
done, and simply because I could not help it. I loved Thyrza even then
with more intensity of pure feeling than I had ever before known, and
now I love her with a love which lasts a lifetime. You have no right to
pronounce so confidently upon her fitness or unfitness to mate with me;
your knowledge of her is very slight. I know her as a woman can only be
known by the man who loves her. You cannot judge for me in this case;
no one could judge for me. I shall act on my conviction; it is poor
waste of life to do otherwise.'

A pause, whereof the seconds were to one ear beaten out in
heart-throbs. Then Mrs. Ormonde said, very quietly:

'You have told Mr. Grail of this intention?'

'Yes.'

'It has never occurred to you that the great wrongs this man has
suffered might yet be repaired, perchance, if you were willing to let
them be?'

'I have suffered on his account more than I can say. But it is certain
that he and Thyrza would never marry after this.'

'I see no such certainty.'

'Then it merely comes to this, that he and I love the same woman, and
must abide by her decision.'

'The library?'

'Gone. I can give no thought to it, for I am suffering a greater lose.
Be human! Be honest! Would you not despise me if, loving her as I do, I
came to you and puled about the overthrow of my schemes for founding a
public library? Let it go! Let the people rust and rot in ignorance! I
am a man of flesh and blood, and the one woman that the world contains
is lost to me!'

Mrs. Ormonde seemed to think long over this passionate outcry. Egremont
broke the silence.

'Once more, be human! She writes to her sister that she has been ill,
but is now taken care of by friends. What friends? You are not ignorant
of the world. How small a chance it is that she has fallen among people
who will protect her! A girl with her beauty, and so simple, so
trustful--friends, indeed! I am all but frenzied to think of the
dangers that may surround her. She is more to me than my life's blood,
and perhaps even now she is in terrible need of some honest man to
protect her. And you can talk coldly about prudence, about what we
shall think and say years hence! Well, I can talk no more. To-morrow
morning I shall go back to London and go on searching for her, walking
about the streets day and night, wearing my life away in longing for
her. I have done with the past, and all those I used to call my
friends. There is no room in my thought for anything but her memory and
the desire to find her. Let us say good-bye, Mrs. Ormonde. If I am
wrong and selfish as you say, then it is beyond my power to conquer the
faults.'

The listener heard a deep sigh. Then:

'Walter, sit down; you are not going from me like that.'

'I can't stay; I can't talk as you wish to! I am so utterably
miserable, and I came to you because I had always known you gentle and
sympathetic.'

'I would never be anything else with you. But listen--have you entirely
forgotten Annabel?'

'She is as little to me as if I had never seen her. You cannot say that
I have any obligation to her. I asked her to be my wife, and she
refused me; that was the end. There indeed, if you like, I was misled.
I admired and respected her, and made myself believe that it was love.
Again and again I doubted myself, even then. Since I first knew that I
loved Thyrza, I have never doubted one moment. You, for all your subtle
analysis of my character, do not know me. You think I must have a woman
of fine intellect for my companion. You are wrong. What I need, I have
seen in one face, and one only.'

Mrs. Ormonde spoke in a changed voice.

'On one point I can set your mind at rest, and I will, for I cannot
bear to see you suffering. It is true that Thyrza is with friends. I
know the people with whom she is living.'

'You know them? You know where Thyrza is?'

'I found her where she lay ill; the chance of her having my address in
her possession led the people of the house to send for me. I took her
away, and put her in good care.'

'And you could keep this from me?'

'You see why I did. Can I trust you not to abuse my kindness?'

'You mean--?'

'That it will be wholly dishonourable if you make any attempt to
discover her after this. Do so, and we are friends no longer.'

'How can you exact any such promise as that?'

'Because I am within my right in exacting it. I make a bargain with
you, Walter. For two years from now Thyrza remains under my
guardianship. At the end of that time, you are at liberty to see her. I
give you my word that neither directly nor indirectly will I seek to
influence her affections as regards either you or Grail; I shall never
speak to her on such subjects, nor will any one with whom I have
authority. Is it agreed?'

Poor heart, again beating out the seconds!

'Will Grail know where she is living?'

'He will not. She must see her sister from time to time, but it shall
be away from her ordinary dwelling, and Thyrza will understand the
conditions. I shall offer her no explanation; it shall merely be my
desire, and if she prove untrustworthy in this small matter, I think
you will admit that no harm has been done--you and I will only have a
new light on her character. It is very simple, provided that we two can
trust each other, and that Thyrza is what you think her. I need not
say, by-the-by, that she will not be living here; you can freely come
to me as often as you please.'

Would he never reply?

'For two years? That is a long time.'

'Not at all, the circumstances considered. Are you afraid of submitting
your love to the test?'

'You asked me to trust you implicitly. It is a great thing, you being
my enemy to begin with.'

'Your enemy? Well, then, your enemy; and still I ask you to trust me. I
have never yet betrayed man or woman, Walter.'

'Never; that I know well! Forgive me. On this day, this day of the
month, two years hence, I may go to her?'

'On this day of the month, two years hence. Is it a bargain?'

'I agree. Thyrza could not be in safer keeping.'

He went on:

'What a load you have lifted from me! If that suspense had continued
much longer, I don't know how I should have borne it. And you were with
her in her illness? Tell me about her. Was she gravely ill? Tell me
where you found her.'

'No; it is needless. I am a bad one to hear love confidences; I get
impatient, and am apt to be satirical. I shall never talk to you of
Thyrza.'

'But if she falls ill again, I must know.'

'I hope for better things. Tell me just one thing, before we change the
subject. What is your opinion of her sister? What do you really know of
her?'

'I know nothing save what I have gathered from Thyrza's talk, and from
Grail's. I never saw her. But there can be little doubt that she is of
sterling character.'

'Well, let it be. Now come in with me. I suppose you have had no
thought for such a foolish ceremony as dinner?'

Their voices passed into silence. By this time it was dark, and the
tall chestnuts beyond the house rustled in a cool breeze from the sea.
Thyrza did not move for several minutes; when at length she endeavoured
to rise, her numbed limbs would scarcely sustain her. She looked up and
saw the yellow crescent of a young moon sailing in a sky of delicate
pearl hue.

One glance at the upper windows of the house, and then, with strength
which seemed to pass into her limbs from the sharp air, she set out for
the cottage which was her present home.




CHAPTER XXIX

TOGETHER AGAIN


Lydia held desperately to hope through the days and the nights. From
all others Thyrza might hide away, but could she persist in cruelty to
her sister? Surely in some way a message, if only a message, would be
delivered; at least there would come a word to relieve this unendurable
suspense. Every added day of silence was an added fear.

Unable to associate with acquaintances to whom Thyrza's name had become
an unfailing source of vulgar gossip, she changed her place of work.
Work had still to be done, be her heart ever so sore; the meals must be
earned, though now they were eaten in solitude. And she worked harder
than ever, for it was her dread that at any moment she might hear of
Thyrza in distress or danger, and she must have money laid by for such
an emergency. All means of inquiry were used, save that of going to the
police-court and having the event made public through the newspapers.
Neither Lydia nor Gilbert could bear to do that, even after they felt
assured that the child was somewhere wandering alone.

Totty Nancarrow was an active ally in the search, though Lydia did not
know it. Totty, as soon as that unfortunate game of cross-purposes with
Luke Ackroyd had come to an end, experienced a revival of all her
kindness for Thyrza. Privately she was of opinion that no faith
whatever should be given to Egremont's self-defence. In concert with
Ackroyd, she even planned an elaborate scheme for tracking Egremont in
his goings hither and thither. They discovered that he was very seldom
at his rooms in Great Russell Street, but their resources did not allow
them to keep a watch upon him when he was away from town, which
appeared to be very frequently the case. Circumstances of a darkly
suggestive kind they accumulated in abundance, and for weeks constantly
believed themselves on the point of discovering something. Bunce was
taken into their confidence, but he, poor fellow, had occupation enough
for his leisure at home, since Bessie was at Eastbourne. Little Nelly
Bunce often fretted in vain for the attentions of 'Miss Nanco,' upon
whom she had begun to feel a claim. 'Miss Nanco,' for the nonce a
female detective, had little time for nursing.

And Gilbert Grail was once more going to his daily labour, not at the
same factory, however, for he too could not mix with men who knew him.
About a fortnight after the day on which he should have been married,
he got a place at candle-works in Battersea. He could not leave the
house in Walnut Tree Walk, for he, as persistently as Lydia, clung to
the hope that Thyrza might reappear in her home some night. To go away
would be to say good-bye for ever to that dream which had so glorified
a few months of his life, and in spite of all he could not do that.

In comparison with his own, the suffering of others seemed trifling.
When his mother went about in silence, bending more than she had done,
all interest in the things of life and in her studies of Swedenborg at
an end, he thought that much of it was due to her wish to show sympathy
with him. When Lydia sat through an hour with her face hidden in her
hands, he knew that the day had been very dark and weary with her, but
said in himself that a sister's love was little compared with such as
his. He would not reason on what had happened, save when to do so with
Lydia brought him comfort; alone, he brooded over his hope. It was the
only way to save himself from madness.

On the day after seeing Egremont he received a long letter from him.
Egremont wrote from his heart, and with a force of sincerity which must
have swept away any doubts, had such still lingered with the reader.
The inevitable antagonism of the personal interview was a pain in his
memory; if the intercourse of friendship was for ever at an end for
them, he could not bear to part in this way, with hesitating words,
with doubts and reticences. 'In your bitter misery,' he said, 'you may
accuse me of affecting sympathy which I do not feel, and may scorn my
expressions of grief as a cheap way of saving my self-respect. I will
not compare my suffering with yours, but none the less it is intense.
This is the first great sorrow of my life, and I do not think a keener
one will ever befall me. Keep this letter by you; do not be content to
read it once and throw it aside, for I have spoken to you out of my
deepest feeling, and in time you will do me more justice than you can
now.' And further on: 'As to that which has parted us, there must be no
ambiguity, no pretence of superhuman generosity. I should lie if I said
that I do not wish to find Thyrza for my own sake. If I find her, I
shall ask her to be my wife. I wanted to say this when we spoke
together, but could not; neither was I calm enough to express this
rightly, nor you rightly to hear it.'

Gilbert allowed a day or two to go by, then made answer. He wrote
briefly, but enough to show Egremont that the man's natural nobility
could triumph over his natural resentment. It was a moving letter, its
pathos lying in the fact that its writer shunned all attempt to be
pathetic. 'Now that I know the truth,' he said, 'I can only ask your
pardon for the thoughts I had of you; you have not wronged me, and I
can have no ill-feeling against you. If Thyrza is ever your wife, I
hope your happiness may be hers. As for the other things, do not
reproach yourself. You wished to befriend me, and I think I was not
unworthy of it. Few things in life turn out as we desire; to have done
one's best with a good intention is much to look back upon--very few
have more.'

Gilbert did not show this letter to Lydia, nor had he told her of what
he had learnt in the conversation with Egremont. The fear would have
seemed more intolerable if he had uttered it. But the hope which
supported him was proof against even such a danger as this. To his mind
there was something unnatural in a union between Egremont and Thyrza;
try as he would, he could not realise it as having come to pass. The
two were parted by so vast a social distinction, and, let Nature say
what it will, the artificialities of life are wont to prevail. He could
imagine an unpermitted bond between them, with the necessary end in
Thyrza's sacrifice to the world's injustice; but their marriage
appeared to him among the things so unlikely as to be in practice
impossible. Of course the wish was father to the thought. But he
reasoned upon the hope which would not abandon him. Thyrza had again
and again proved the extreme sensitiveness of her nature; she could not
bear to inflict pain. He remembered how she had once come back after
saying good-night, because it seemed to her that she had spoken with
insufficient kindness. The instance was typical. And now, though
tempted by every motive that can tempt a woman, she had abandoned
herself to unimagined trials rather than seek her own welfare at
another's expense. To fulfil her promise had been beyond her power,
but, if there must be suffering, she would share it. And now, in that
wretched exile, he knew that self-pity could not absorb her. She would
think of him constantly, and of such thought would come compassion and
repentance. Those feelings might bring her back. If only she came back,
it was enough. She could not undo what she had done, but neither could
she forbid him to live with eyes on the future.

Reasoning so, he did his daily work and lived waiting.

Then came the day which put a term to the mere blank of desolation, and
excited new hopes, new fears. Thyrza's letter arrived. It was delivered
in the afternoon, and Lydia found it pushed under her door when she
returned from work. She listened for Gilbert's coming home, then ran
down to the sitting-room, and, without speaking, put the letter into
his hand. Mrs. Grail was present.

'I knew it had come,' she said, in her low voice, which of late had
begun to quaver with the feebleness of age. 'Mrs. Jarmey brought it
here to show me, because she guessed who it was from.'

Gilbert said very few words, and when he returned the letter, Lydia
went upstairs with it, to nurse the treasure in solitude. It lay on her
lap, and again and again she read it through. Every word she probed for
meanings, every stroke of the pen she dwelt on as possibly revealing
something. 'I have been poorly, dear, but I am quite well again now.'
That sentence was the one her eye always turned to. The writing was not
quite the same as Thyrza's used to be; it showed weakness, she thought.
She had foreseen this, that Thyrza would fall ill; in fear of that she
had deprived herself of all save the barest necessaries, that she might
save a little money. But strangers had tended her sister, and with her
gladness at receiving news mingled jealousy of the hands that had been
preferred to her own. Only now the bitterness of separation seemed to
be tasted to the full.

At half-past nine she went downstairs again, knowing that she would
find Gilbert alone. He was sitting unoccupied, as always now in the
evenings, for his books gathered dust on the unregarded shelves. Seeing
that she had the letter with her, he held out his hand for it in
silence.

'There's one thing I'm afraid of,' Lydia began, when she had glanced at
him once or twice. 'Do you think it's friends of _his_ that she's with?'

He shook his head.

'He would have told me if he'd found her.'

'Are you quite sure?'

'Yes, I am sure. He wouldn't have said where she was, very likely, but
he'd tell us that she was found.'

Gilbert had reason to think of Lydia as a great power on his side. The
girl was now implacable against Egremont. She had ceased to utter her
thoughts about him, since she knew that they pained her friend, but in
her heart she kept a determined enmity. The fact of Thyrza's love in no
way influenced her: her imagination was not strong enough to enable her
to put herself in Thyrza's place and see Egremont as her sister saw
him. With the narrowness of view which is common enough in good and
warm-hearted women, she could only regard him as the disturber of
happiness, the ruin of Thyrza's prospects. Lydia was not ambitious; she
had never been enthusiastic about Gilbert's promotion to the
librarianship, and doubtless it would have pleased her just as well for
Thyrza to marry Grail if the latter had had no thought of quitting his
familiar work. Consequently it was no difficulty to her to leave
altogether out of sight Egremont's purposed benefits to Gilbert. She no
longer believed that he was innocent of designs in his intercourse with
Thyrza. This change was a natural enough consequence of Lydia's
character, just as it had been perfectly natural for her to think and
speak as she had done under the first shock of her sister's flight.
Since then she had suffered terribly, and the suffering turned her
against him who was the plain cause of it.

'What is the post-mark on the envelope?' Gilbert asked, Lydia
continuing to brood over her jealousies and dreads.

The stamp was 'Charing Cross.' Small help derivable from that.

'She doesn't even say whether she'll write again,' Lydia murmured.

Gilbert said presently: 'I shall write to Mr. Egremont, and tell him
that we have heard.'

'Oh no!' Lydia protested, indignantly. 'Why should you tell him? You
mustn't do that, Gilbert; I don't want him to know.'

'I promised him, Lyddy. Of course I shouldn't tell him where she was,
if we knew, but I promised to let him hear if we had any news.'

'Then I don't see why you promised such a thing. It doesn't concern
him.'

Gilbert was troubled by this persistence. Lydia spoke with earnest
disapproval. He could not do as he wished in defiance of her, yet he
must certainly keep his promise to Egremont.

'You must remember,' he said gently, 'that he has reason to be anxious,
as well as we.'

'What have we to do with that?' she replied, stubbornly. 'He has no
right to think anything about her.'

'I mean, Lyddy, that he is troubled because of our trouble. All I want
to do is to tell him that a letter has come from Thyrza, without
address, and that she says she has found friends. Won't you consent to
that?'

After a short silence, Lydia replied:

'I won't say any more, Gilbert. As you like.'

'No, that's not enough. I must have your full agreement. It's either
right or wrong to do it, and you must make up your mind clearly.'

'I shouldn't wonder if he knows,' she said briefly.

'He doesn't know. I shall not distrust him again. He would have told
me.'

'Then you had better write.'

'You see that I ought to?'

'Yes, as you promised. But I can't see why you did.'

This form of consent had to suffice, feminine as it was. But Gilbert
knew Lydia well by this time, and no trifling fault could touch his
deep affection and respect for her.

She was very lonely in these days, Lydia. Of her own sex, she had now
no friend, unless it were poor old Mrs. Grail. By changing her place of
employment, she had lost even the satisfaction of being among familiar
faces, and her new work-mates thought her dull. The jokes and gossip of
each morning were things of the past; she plied her needle every moment
of the working day, her thoughts fixed on one unchanging subject. Yes,
for she could not really think even of Ackroyd; he was always, it is
true, a presence in her mind, but there was no more pondering about
him. Every stitch at the lining of a hat meant a fraction of a coin,
and each day's result was to have earned something towards the money
saved for Thyrza's assistance.

With Mary Bower she spoke no longer, not even formal words. That insult
on the miserable night had been a blow Mary could not soon forgive, for
it came just at the moment when, having heard her parents' talk about
Thyrza, she was sincerely anxious to reunite herself to her former
friend and be what comfort to her she might. So now, whenever Lydia
went to see Mr. Boddy, she gave a private signal at the side door, and
the old man descended to admit her. Then, Totty Nancarrow. Strangely,
Lydia could now have been almost friends with Totty; she did not know
why. She met her by chance occasionally, and nodded, or at most spoke a
brief greeting, yet each time she would have liked to stop and talk a
little. Totty had been Thyrza's close friend; that formerly had been a
source of jealous feeling, now it seemed to have become an attraction.
Totty gave looks that were not unkind, but did not make advances; she
was a little ashamed of the way she had behaved when Lydia came to her
for help.

Lydia did not think it necessary to tell Gilbert that she too wanted to
let someone know that there was news from Thyrza. After leaving the
parlour, she ran out to a little shop in Kennington Road and purchased
a sheet of note-paper and an envelope. Writing a letter was by no means
a simple thing to Lyddy; it was after midnight before she had schemed
the sentences--or rather, the one long hyper-Attic sentence--in which
she should convey her intelligence to Ackroyd. Several things were to
be considered in this composition. First, it must be as brief as
possible; then, it must be very formal in its mode of address. Both
these necessities came of the consideration that the letter would of
course be shown to Totty Nancarrow, and Totty must have no cause of
complaint. 'Dear Mr. Ackroyd'--that was written, but might it stand? It
meant so much, so much. But how else to begin? Did not everybody begin
letters in that way? She really could not say 'Dear Sir.' Then--for the
letter _must_ be finished, the hour was getting so late--'Yours truly,
Lydia Trent.' Surely that was commonplace enough. Yes, but to say
'yours;' that too meant so much. Was she not indeed his? And might not
Totty suspect something in that 'yours?' You see that Lyddy was made a
very philosopher by love; she had acquired all at once the power of
seeing through the outward show of things, of perceiving what really
lies below our conventional forms. Well, the letter had to stand; she
had no second sheet of note-paper, and she had no more time, for the
weary eyes and hands must get their rest for to-morrow's toil. She
closed the envelope and addressed it; then, the ink being dry, she put
the written name just for an instant to her lips. Totty could not
divine that, and it was not so great a wrong. Perhaps Lydia would not
have done it, but that the great burden upon her was for the moment
lightened, and she longed to tell someone how thankful she was.

Would he reply by letter? Or would he make an opportunity of seeing
her? Since the forming of that sudden intimacy under the pressure of
misery, he and she had not seen each other often. They always spoke if
they met, and Lydia was very grateful to him for the invariable
kindness of his voice and his look, but of course it was not to be
expected, not to be desired, that they should sustain the habit of
conversing together as close friends. Ackroyd had evidently remembered
that it was unwise; perhaps he had reported the matter to Totty, with
the result that Totty had pronounced a quiet opinion, which it was only
becoming in him to respect.

He wrote back; the letter came as speedily as could have been expected.
'Dear Miss Trent,' and 'Yours truly'--even as she had written. How can
one write such words and mean nothing by them? But he said, 'Believe
me, yours truly;' ah, she would never have ventured upon that! To be
sure, it meant nothing, nothing; but she liked that 'Believe me.' He
said he was very glad indeed that Thyrza had written, and he hoped
earnestly that more satisfactory news would come before long. Very
short. Lydia put away the note with that she had received from the same
writer one sad morning in the work-room. How long ago that seemed!

More than a month of summer went by, and Lydia waited still for another
word from her sister. After each day's disappointment, she closed her
eyes saying, 'It will come to-morrow.' During the hours she spent at
home the only event that interested her was the passing of the postman.
She watched constantly from the window at the times when letters were
delivered, and if, a rare chance, the man in uniform stopped at the
door below, she sprang to the top of the stairs and hung there
breathless, to see if someone would come up. No, the letter was never
for her. On coming home from work she always threw open her door
eagerly, for perhaps she would see the white envelope lying on the
floor again. The defeat of hope always made the whole room seem barren
and cold. Sunday was of all days in the week the longest and gloomiest;
on that day there was no postman.

But at length came the evening when, looking down by mere dull habit as
she opened her room door, behold the white envelope lay there. She
could not believe that at last it was really in her hand. As she took
the letter out, there fell from it a light slip of paper; with surprise
she saw that it was a post-office order. This time a full address stood
at the head of the page.

'Eastbourne!' she uttered. 'Then she is with Mrs. Ormonde, and Mrs.
Ormonde is _his_ friend.'

Hastily her eyes sought the sense of what was written. Thyrza said that
she was well, but could not live longer without seeing her sister.
Lydia was to come by as early a train as possible on the following
morning; money was enclosed to provide for her expenses. No news could
be sent, but in a few hours they would talk to each other. Finally, the
address was to be kept a secret, to be kept even from Gilbert; she
depended upon Lydia to obey her in this. A postscript added: 'You will
easily find the house. I would come to the station and meet every
train, but I couldn't bear to see you there first.'

Lydia had deep misgivings, but they did not occupy her mind for long.
She was going to see Thyrza; that, as she realised it, rang a peal of
joy in her ears and made her forget all else. But the money she would
not use; she had enough to pay her fare, and in any case she would
somehow have obtained it rather than spend this, which came she knew
not from whom. It might be that Thyrza had earned it, but perhaps it
was given to her by an enemy--under this name Lydia had come to think
of Egremont.

She told Gilbert in private. The concealment from him of Thyrza's
address he seemed to accept as something quite natural. He drew a sigh
of relief, and, as Lydia left him, gave her a look whose meaning was
not hard to understand.

The new day did come at last, and at last Lydia was in the train; she
had remembered that by which Thyrza went with Bessie, and she took the
same. A strange feeling she had as, instead of going to the work-room,
she set off through the sunshine to the railway station; a holiday
feeling, had she known what holiday meant. That she was going for the
first time to the sea-side was nothing; her anticipation was only of
Thyrza's look and Thyrza's first kiss. Why were all the other people
who went by the same train so joyous and so full of hope? Were they too
going to meet someone very dear to them?

She had copied the address on to a piece of paper, which she kept
inside her glove; impossible that she should forget, but even
impossibilities must be provided for. When she descended at Eastbourne,
she was so agitated and so perplexed by the novelty of the experience
that with difficulty she found her way into the street. She hurried on
a little way, then remembered that the first thing was to ask a
direction. On inquiring from a woman who stood in a shop-door, she at
once had her course clearly indicated. Forwards then, as quickly as she
could walk. How astonishingly clean the streets were! What great green
trees grew everywhere! How bright and hot was the sunshine!--Yes, this
turn; but to make quite sure she would ask again. A policeman, in an
unfamiliar uniform, reassured her. Now a turn to the right--and of a
sudden everything ceased; there seemed to be nothing but blue sky
before her. Ah, that was the sea, then; its breath came with wondrous
sweetness on her heated face. But what was the sea to her! Along here
to the left again. She must be very near now. Again she asked, and in
so uncertain a voice that she had to repeat her question before it was
understood. Number so-and-so; why, it was just over yonder; the cottage
that seemed to be built of some glistening white stone. And so she
stood at the door.

A child opened, and, without questioning, laughed and said, 'Come in,
please.' She found herself at once in a comfortable kitchen. The child
pointed to an inner door, which, in the same moment, softly opened.

'Lyddy!'

So it had come at last. Once again they were heart to heart, Lydia
cried as though something dreadful had befallen her; Thyrza sobbed once
or twice, but she had shed so many tears for misery that none would
come at the bidding of joy.

They were in a little room which looked through a diamond-paned lattice
upon the flat beach which lies at this side of Eastbourne. In front was
a black, tar-smeared house of wood for the keeping of fishers' nets,
and fishing boats lay about it. When Lydia's emotion had spent itself,
Thyrza drew her to the window, threw back the lattice, and said 'Look!'

'I can't look at anything but you, dearest,' was the answer.

'But let us look together, just for a minute, then we shall come fresh
again to each other's faces. The sea, Lyddy! I love it; it seems to me
the best friend I ever had.'

'You're very pale still, darling. You've been ill, and you wouldn't
send for me. How cruel that was of you, Thyrza! You might have got so
bad you couldn't send; you might have died before I could know
anything. Dear, you don't love me as I love you. I couldn't have given
you that pain, no, not for any one, not for any one in the world. Oh,
why didn't you let me go away with you? I'd have gone anywhere; I'd
have done anything you asked me. Are you sure you're well again? Do you
feel strong?--What is it?'

Thyrza had let herself sink upon a chair, and her face, which had
indeed been strangely colourless, was for a moment touched with pain.
But she laughed.

'It's only with exciting myself so, Lyddy. I haven't stood or sat still
a minute since I got up. Oh, I'm as well as ever I was, better than
ever I was in my life. Don't I look happy? I only wanted you; that was
the only thing. I never felt so well and happy.'

Somebody knocked at the door.

'That's something for you to eat after your journey,' said Thyrza.
'It's too early for dinner yet, but you must have just a mouthful.'

She went out and came back with a tray, on which was milk and cake.

Lydia shook her head.

'I can't eat, Thyrza. I want you to tell me everything.'

'I shan't tell you anything at all till you've had a glass of milk. Let
me take your things off. You're going to stay with me to-night, you
know. Sit still, and let me take them off. Dear, good old Lyddy! Oh,
will you do my hair for me tomorrow morning? Think of doing my hair
again! Poor old Lyddy, you always did cry when you were glad, and never
for anything else. Shall I sit on your lap, like I used to do after I'd
been naughty, years and years ago? Oh, years and years; you don't know
how old I am, Lyddy. You don't think you're still older than me, do
you? No, that's all altered. Mrs. Guest here asked me how old I was the
other day, and I wouldn't tell her, because the truth wasn't true. I
was so ill, Lyddy dear; I did think I should die, and I should have
wished to, but for you. I couldn't send for you: I was ashamed to. I'd
behaved too bad to you and to everybody. But people were kind, much
kinder than they'd need have been. Some day I'll go and see Mrs. Gandle
and tell her I haven't forgotten her kindness. You shall go with me,
Lyddy. But no, no; you wouldn't like. We'll forget all about that.'

'Where was that, Thyrza?'

'A place where I got work. Do you know where the Caledonian Road is?'

Lydia tightened her embrace, as if shame and hardship still threatened
her dear one and she would guard her from them.

'But how did you get better? What happened then?'

'When I was very bad, Mrs. Gandle one night looked in my pocket to see
if I'd anything about me to show where I belonged. And she found that
bit of paper with Mrs. Ormonde's name and address. But wait, Lyddy;
I've something to say. Did you do as I asked, about not telling any one
where I was?'

'I didn't tell any one, Thyrza. Nobody knew where I was going. I mean,
of course I told Gilbert that I was going to you, but not where you
were.'

Thyrza, after a short pause, asked very quietly:

'How is Gilbert, Lyddy?'

'He seems pretty well, dear.'

'Has he--has he felt it very hard?'

She kept her eyes veiled, and pressed her head closer to Lydia's
shoulder.

'He's had a great deal to go through, dear.'

The touch of severity in Lydia's voice came of her thoughts turning to
Egremont. But Thyrza felt herself judged and rebuked; she trembled.

'What is he doing?' she asked, in a voice barely audible.

'He goes to work, as usual. It's a new place.'

'Poor Gilbert Oh, I'm sorry for him! He never deserved this of me.
Lyddy,' she added in a whisper, 'it makes you so cruel to other people
when you love anyone.'

Lydia found no answer. She was gazing through the open window, but saw
nothing of sea or sky. She, then, did not know what it was to love?
Well, love is of many kinds.

'But I was going to say something, Lyddy,' Thyrza pursued, when a kiss
upon her hair assured her that from one at all events there was no need
to ask forgiveness. 'It's Mrs. Ormonde that has done everything for me,
and she doesn't want anybody to know--nobody except you. She's very
kind, but--she's a little hard in some things, and she thinks--I can't
quite explain it all. Will you promise not to tell any one when you go
back?'

'But are you going to stay here, Thyrza?'

'No, dear; I'm going to London. Mrs. Ormonde is going to send me to
some friends of hers. I'm not allowed to tell you where it is, and you
won't be able to come and see me there; but we shall see each other
somewhere sometimes. You'll keep it secret?'

'Then we're going to be parted always?' Lydia asked, slowly.

'No, no; not always, dear sister. Just for a time; oh, not long. I told
Mrs. Ormonde that I knew you'd do as I asked.'

'Thyrza,' said the other gravely, 'I broke the other promise. I showed
Gilbert the letter you left for me, and I told him all you'd told me.'

'Yes,' Thyrza uttered mechanically.

'It couldn't be helped. People had begun to talk, and Gilbert had heard
about--about the library, you know. Mrs. Bower got to know somehow.'

'Lyddy, I told you all the truth; I told you every word of the truth!'

'I'm sure you did, Thyrza--all you knew.'

'Everything! What did people say about me? No, I don't want to hear;
don't tell me. That's all over now. And you couldn't help telling
Gilbert; I understand how it was. But will you promise me this other
thing, Lyddy?'

She raised herself, and looked solemnly into her sister's face.

'It'll mean more to me than you think, if you refuse, or if you break
your promise. I don't think you would do me harm, Lyddy?'

The answer was long in coming. At last Lydia made inquiry:

'Why does Mrs. Ormonde want to hide you?'

Thyrza grew agitated.

'She means it for my good. She believes she's doing the best. She's
been kind to me, and I can't say a word against her. I think I ought to
do as she wants. She seems to like me, only--I can't tell you how it
is, Lyddy; I can't tell any one; no, not even you!'

'Don't worry yourself so, dearest.'

'Lyddy, you might promise me!' Thyrza went on, shaken with emotion, one
would have said, with fear. 'I've done wrong to you and to Gilbert, but
do try and forgive me. Why are you so quiet? Haven't you love enough
for me to do just this?'

She stood up, flushed and with wild eyes.

'Be quiet, Thyrza dearest!' pleaded her sister.

'Then answer me, Lyddy I Promise me!'

'I want to know one thing first. Have you seen Mr. Egremont?'

'I haven't spoken to him since that night when I said good-bye to him
by the river. Can't you believe me?'

'I don't think you'd tell me an untruth.'

'If I'd spoken to him, Lyddy, I'd tell you at once; I would! I'd tell
you everything!'

'I must say what I mean, Thyrza; it's no good doing anything else. Tell
me this: does Mrs. Ormonde want you to marry him?'

Thyrza laughed strangely. Then she exclaimed:

'She doesn't! She wouldn't hear of such a thing, not for the world! She
wants to be kind to me in her own way, but not that; not that! How you
distrust me! Are _you_ against me, then? What are you thinking about? I
hoped you would be kind to me in everything. You don't look like my
Lyddy now.'

'It's because I don't understand you,' said the other, in a subdued
voice, her eyes on the ground. 'You're not open with me, Thyrza. If
it's true that Mrs. Ormonde thinks in that way, why do you--'

She broke off.

'I can't talk about it! It's very hard to bear. We shall never be what
we were to each other, Thyrza. Something's come between us, and it
always will be between us. You must take your own way, dear. Yes, I
promise, and there's an end of it.'

Thyrza sprang forward.

'What is it you're afraid of?' she pleaded. 'Why do you speak like
this? What are you thinking?'

'I think that Mr. Egremont 'll know where you are.'

'Lyddy, he won't know! I give you my solemn word he won't know.'

'Do you write to him? Perhaps you meant that, when you said you hadn't
_spoken_ to him?'

'I meant what I said, that I've neither written nor spoken, nor him to
me. He won't know where I am; I shall have nothing to do with him in
any way. But of course if you refuse to believe me, what's the use of
saying it!'

There was a strange intonation in Thyrza's voice as she added these
words. She looked and spoke with a certain pride, which Lydia had never
before remarked in her. Lydia mused a little, then said:

'I don't doubt the truth of your words, Thyrza. I promise not to tell
any one anything about you, and I'll keep my promise. But can't you
tell me what you're going to do?'

'I don't really know myself. Mrs. Ormonde took me to her house the day
before yesterday, and there was a lady there that I had to sing to. I
think she wanted to see what sort of a voice I had. She played a sound
on the piano, and asked me to sing the same, if I could. She seemed
satisfied, I thought, though she didn't say anything. Then Mrs. Ormonde
brought me back in her carriage, but she didn't say anything about the
singing. She's very strange in some things, you know.'

Lydia asked presently:

'Then was it Mrs. Ormonde gave you this money?'

And she took the post-office order from her pocket.

'What! you didn't use it?'

'No; I had enough of my own. Please give it back.'

'Oh, Lyddy, how proud you are! You never would take any help from
anybody, and yet you went on so about grandad when he made bother. Oh,
how is poor grandad?'

'The same as usual, dear.'

'And you go to work every day just the same? My poor Lyddy!'

The contention was over, and the tenderness came back.

'Speak something for me to Gilbert, Lyddy! Say I--what can I say? I do
feel for him; I can never forget his goodness as long as I live. Tell
him to forget all about me, How wrong I was ever to say that I loved
him!'

Then again, in a whisper:

'What about Mr. Ackroyd, dearest?'

'The same. They're not married yet. I dare say they will be soon.'

They spent long hours together by the ebb and flow of the tide. Lydia
almost forgot her troubles now and then. As for Thyrza, she seemed to
drink ecstasy from the live air.

'It's a good friend to me,' she said several times, looking out upon
the grey old deep. 'It's made me well again, Lyddy. I shall always love
the sound of it, and the salt taste on my lips!'




CHAPTER XXX

MOVEMENTS


'We are going first of all to the Pilkingtons', in Warwickshire,' said
Annabel, talking with Mrs. Ormonde at the latter's hotel in the last
week of July. 'Mr. Lanyard--the poet, you know--will be there; I am
curious to see him. Father remembers him a 'scrubby starveling'--to use
his phrase--a reviewer of novels for some literary paper. He has just
married Lady Emily Quell--you heard of it? How paltry it is for people
to laugh and sneer whenever a poor man marries a rich woman. I know
nothing of him except from his poetry, but that convinces me that he is
above sordid motives.'

'Then you do still retain some of your idealism, Bell?'

'All that I ever had, I hope. Why? You have feared for me?'

'Pitch! Pitch!'

'Yes, I know,' Annabel answered, rather absently, letting her eyes
stray. 'Never mind. You had something particular to say to me, Mrs.
Ormonde.'

'Yes, I have a good-bye for you from an old acquaintance.'

Annabel's complexion had not borne the season as well as those of women
whose whole and sole preoccupation it is to combat Nature in the matter
of their personal appearance. Her tint was, as they say, a little
fatigued. Fatigued, too, were her eyes, which seemed ever looking for
something lost; that gaze she had in sitting by Ullswater with 'Sesame
and Lilies' on her lap would not be easily recovered. Her beauty was of
rarer quality and infinitely more suggestive than on that day something
more than a year ago; to the modern mind nothing is complete that has
not an element of morbidity. At Mrs. Ormonde's words she turned with
grave interest.

'Where, then, is he going?' she asked, just smiling.

'To a small manufacturing town in Pennsylvania. His firm has just
opened works there, and he has it in view to prepare himself for
superintending them.'

'You are serious?'

'Quite. I think it was chiefly my persuasion that decided him. I have
no doubt that in a year or two he will thank me, though he is not very
ardent about it at present.'

'But surely he--No, I think you are right.'

'I have not advised him to become an American,' Mrs. Ormonde continued,
smiling, when Annabel abandoned an apparent intention of saying more.
'No doubt he will come to England now and then, and probably, with his
disposition, he will some day make his home here again. I hardly expect
to see him for some two years.'

'I hope it is right. I think it is.'

Annabel paused a little, then made an unforced transition to other
matters. She rose to leave before long. Whilst her hand was in Mrs.
Ormonde's, she asked:

'May I know anything more than father told me?'

She had said it with a little difficulty, but without confusion of face.

'What did your father tell you?'

'Only that she is in your care, and that you think her voice can be
cultivated, so as to serve her.'

'Yes, I will tell you more than that, dear. He is absolutely without
bond as regards her. They have never met since her flight from home,
and, more, she has no suspicion that he ever took an interest in her
save as Mr. Grail's future wife.'

'She does not know that?'

'She has no idea of it. They have never exchanged a more than friendly
word. He believed, when absent from England, that she was already
married, and of _his_ movements since then she is wholly ignorant.'

She listened with frank surprise; her face showed nothing more than
that.

'But,' she said, hesitatingly, 'I cannot quite understand. He holds
himself quite without responsibility? He leaves England without
troubling about her future?'

'Not at all. He knows I have her in my care. She being my ward, I have
a perfect right to demand that the child's fate shall not be trifled
with, that she shall be allowed to grow older and wiser before any one
asks her to take an irrevocable step--say for the space of two years.
Mr. Egremont grants my right, and I have never yet had real grounds for
doubting his honour.'

'I never doubted it, even on seeming grounds,' said Annabel, quietly.

'You are justified, Bell. Well, as you asked me, I thought it better to
tell you thus much. He leaves England morally as free as if he had
never heard her name.'

'One more question. How do you _know_ that she has no assurance of
his--affection?'

'He has himself told me that there has been not a word of that between
them. The only other possible source was her sister, who has seen her.
I did not see Lydia before the interview, because it was repugnant to
me to do so; their love for each other is something very sacred, and a
stranger had no right to come between them before they met. But I
subsequently saw Lydia in London. She soon spoke to me very freely, and
I found that she almost hated me because she thought I was planning to
marry her sister to Mr. Egremont. I also found out--I am old, you know,
Bell, and can be very deceitful--that Lydia, no more than her sister,
suspects serious feeling on his part. She scorned the suggestion of
such a possibility. It is her greatest hope that Thyrza may yet marry
Mr. Grail.'

'And what can you tell me of Thyrza herself?'

'She has been ill, but seems now in very fair health, The day she spent
with Lydia evidently did her a vast amount of good. That natural
affection is an invaluable resource to her, and, if I am not mistaken,
it will be the means of recovering happiness for me. She is quiet, but
not seriously depressed--sometimes she is even bright. The singing
lessons have begun, and she enjoys them; I think a new interest has
been given her.'

'Then I hope a very sad beautiful face will no longer haunt me.'

Thus did two ladies transact the most weighty part of their business
after shaking hands for good-bye--an analogy to the proverbial
postscript, perhaps.

The same evening there was a dinner-party at the Tyrrells'. Mr.
Newthorpe had, as usual, kept to his own room. Annabel went thither to
sit with him for a while after the visitors were gone.

He had a poem that he wished to read to her; there was generally some
scrap of prose or verse waiting for her when she went into the study.
To-night Annabel could not give the usual attention. Mr. Newthorpe
noticed this, and, laying the book aside, made one or two inquiries
about the company of the evening. She replied briefly, then, after
hesitation, asked:

'Do you very much want to go to the Pilkingtons', father?'

He regarded her with amazement.

'I? Since when have I had a passionate desire to camp in strangers'
houses and eat strange flesh?'

'Then you do _not_ greatly care about it--even for the sake of meeting
Mr. Lanyard?'

'Lanyard? Great Heavens! The fellow has done some fine things, but
spiritual converse with him is quite enough for me.'

'Then will you please to discover all at once that you are really not
so well as you thought, and that, after your season's dancing and
theatre-going, you feel obliged to get hack either to Eastbourne or
Ullswater as soon as possible?'

'The fact is, Bell, I haven't felt by any means up to the mark these
last few days.'

'Dear father, don't say that! I am wrong to speak lightly of such
things.'

'I only say it because you ask me to, sweet-and-twenty. In truth I feel
very comfortable, but I shall be far more sure of remaining so at
Eastbourne than at the Pilkingtons'.'

'Eastbourne, you think?'

'Nay, as you please, Bell.'

'Yes, Eastbourne again.' She came to her father and took his hands.
'I'm tired, tired, tired of it all, dear; tired and weary unutterably!
If ever we come to London again, let us tell nobody, and take quiet
rooms in some shabby quarter, and go to the National Gallery, and to
the marbles at the Museum, and all places where we are sure of never
meeting a soul who belongs to the fashionable world. If we go to a
concert, we'll sit in the gallery, among people who come because they
really want to hear music--'

'_Eheu_! The stairs are portentous, Bell!'

'Never mind the stairs! Nay then, we won't go to public concerts at
all, but I will play for you and myself, beginning when we like, and
leaving off when we like, and using imagination--thank goodness, we
both have some!--to make up for the defects. We'll go back to our
books--oh! _you_ have never left them; but I, poor sinner that I am--!
Give me my Dante, and let me feel him between my hands! Where is Virgil?

  Heu! fuge crudeles terras, fuge litus avarum.

Is it quoted right? Is it apropos?'

'Savonarola's word of fate.'

'Then mine too! How have you been so patient with me? A London
season--and I still have Homer to read! Still have Sophocles for an
unknown land! My father, I have gone far, very far, astray, and you did
not so much as rebuke me.'

'My dearest, it is infinitely better to hear you rebuke yourself. Nor
that, either. A chapter in your education was lacking; now you can go
on smoothly.'

'Now read the poem over again, father. I can hear it now.'

Paula came to the house next morning. She and Annabel had seen very
little of each other throughout the season, but, on the last two or
three occasions of their meeting, Paula had betrayed a sort of timid
desire to speak with more intimacy than was her wont. Annabel was not
eager in response, hut, in spite of that letter which you remember, she
had always judged her cousin with much tolerance, and a suspicion that
Paula Dalmaine was not quite so happy a person as Paula Tyrrell had
been, inclined her to speak with gentleness. They were alone together
this morning in the drawing-room.

'So you're going to the Pilkingtons',' Paula said, when she had
fluttered about a good deal.

'No. We have changed our minds. We go back to Eastbourne.'

'Ah! How's that, Bell?'

'We are a little tired of society, and father needs quietness again.
Where do you go?'

'To Scotland, with the Scalpers. Lord Glenroich is going down with us.
He's promised to teach me to shoot.'

Paula spoke of these arrangements with less gusto than might have been
expected of her. She was fidgety and absent. Suddenly she asked:

'What has become of Mr. Egremont, Bell?'

'He has either gone, or is just going, to America, to live there, I
believe, for some time.'

'Oh, indeed!--_with_ anybody, I wonder?'

'He has not told me anything of his affairs, Paula.'

'Then you have seen him?'

'No, I haven't.'

'Don't be cross with me, Bell. I don't mean anything. I only wanted to
know something true about him; I can hear lies enough whenever I
choose.'

It was pathetic enough, because, for once, evidently sincere. Annabel
smiled and made no reply. Then, with abrupt change of subject, Paula
remarked:

'I think I shall come and see you at Eastbourne, if you'll let me.'

'I shall be glad.'

'No, you won't exactly be glad, Bell--but, of course, I know you
couldn't say you'll be sorry. Still, I shall come, for a day or two,
all by myself.'

'Come, and heartily welcome, Paula.'

'Well now, that does sound a little different, I don't often hear
people speak like that.'

She nodded a careless good-bye, and at once left the house. She went
straight home. Mr. Dalmaine was absent at luncheon-time; Paula ate
nothing and talked fretfully to the servant about the provision that
was made for her--though she never took the least trouble to see that
her domestic concerns went properly. She idled about the drawing-room
till three o'clock. A visitor came; her instructions were: 'Not at
home.' At half-past three she ordered a hansom to be summoned, instead
of her own carriage, and, having dressed with nervous rapidity, she ran
downstairs and entered the vehicle. 'Drive to the British Museum,' she
spoke up to the cabman through the trap.

But just as the horse was starting, it stopped again. Looking about her
in annoyance, she found that her husband had bidden the driver pull up,
and that he was standing by the wheel.

'Where are you going?' he asked, smilingly.

'To see a friend. Why do you stop me when I'm in a hurry? Tell him to
drive on at once.'

She was obeyed, and, as the vehicle rolled on, she leaned back,
suffering a little from palpitation. It was a long drive to Great
Russell Street, and once or twice she all but altered her direction to
the man. However, she was on the pavement by the Museum gates at last.
When the cab had driven away, she crossed the street. She went to the
house where Egremont had his rooms.

'Yes, Mr. Egremont was at home.'

'Then please to give him this card, and ask if he is at liberty.'

She was guided up to the first floor; she entered a room, and found
Egremont standing in the midst of packing-cases. He affected to be in
no way surprised at the visit, and shook hands naturally.

'You find me in a state of disorder, Mrs. Dalmaine,' he said. 'Pray
excuse it; I start on a long journey to-morrow morning.'

Paula murmured phrases. She was hot, and wished in her heart that she
had not done this crazy thing; really she could not quite say why she
had done it.

'So you're going to America again, Mr. Egremont?'

'Yes.'

'I heard so. I knew you wouldn't come to say good-bye to me, so I came
to you.'

She was looking about for signs of female occupation; none whatever
were discoverable.

'You are kind.'

'I won't stay, of course. You are very busy--'

'I hope you will let me give you a cup of tea?'

'Oh no, thank you. It was only just to speak a word--and to ask you to
forget some very bad behaviour of mine. You know what I mean, of
course. I was ashamed of myself, but I couldn't help it. I'm so glad I
came just in time to see you; I should have been awfully vexed if I--if
I couldn't have asked you to forgive me.'

'I have nothing whatever to forgive, but I think it very kind of you to
have come.'

'You'll come back again--some day?'

'Very likely, I think.'

'Then I'll say good-bye.'

He looked into her face, and saw how pretty and sweet it was, and felt
sorry for her--he did not know why. Their hands held together a moment
or two.

'There's no--no message I can deliver for you, Mr. Egremont? I'm to be
trusted--I am, indeed.'

'I'm very sure you are, Miss Tyrrell--Oh, pardon me!'

'No, no! I shan't forgive you.' She was laughing, yet almost crying at
the same time. 'You must ask me to do something for you, in return for
that. How strange that did seem! It was like having been dead and
coming to life again, wasn't it?'

'I have no message whatever for anybody, Mrs. Dalmaine; thank you very
much.'

'Good-bye, then. No, no, don't come down. Good-bye!'

She drove back home.

She had been sitting for an hour in her boudoir, when Dalmaine came in.
He smiled, but looked rather grim for all that. Seating himself
opposite her, he asked:

'Paula, what was your business in Great Russell Street this afternoon?'

She trembled, but returned his gaze scornfully.

'So you followed me?'

'I followed you. It is not exactly usual, I believe, for young married
ladies to visit men in their rooms; if I have misunderstood the social
rules in this matter, you will of course correct me.'

Mr. Dalmaine was to the core a politician. He was fond of Paula in a
way, but he had discovered since his marriage that she had a certain
individuality very distinct from his own, and till this was crushed he
could not be satisfied. It was his home policy, at present, to crush
Paula's will. He practised upon her the faculties which he would have
liked to use in terrorising a people. Since she had given up talking
politics, her drawing-room had been full of people whom Dalmaine
regarded with contempt--mere butterflies of the season. She had
aggressively emphasised the difference between his social tastes and
hers. He bore with it temporarily, till he could elaborate a plan of
campaign. Now the plan had formed itself in most unhoped completeness,
and he was happy.

'What did you want with that fellow?' he asked, coldly.

'Mr. Egremont is going to America, and I wanted to say good-bye to him.
He was my friend long before I knew you.'

She rose, and would have gone; but he stopped her with a gentle hand.

'Paula, this is very unsatisfactory.'

'What do you want? What am I to do?'

'To sit down and listen. As I have such very grave grounds for
distrusting you, I can only pursue one course. I must claim your entire
obedience to certain commands I am now going to detail. Refusal will,
of course, drive me to the most painful extremities.'

'What do you want?'

'To-morrow you were to give your last dinner-party. You will at once
send a notice to all your guests that you are ill and cannot receive
them.'

'Absurd! How can I do such a thing?'

'You will do it. We spoke of going to Scotland with the Scalpers.
Instead of that, you accompany me to Manchester when Parliament rises,
and you live with me there in retirement whilst I am occupied with my
study of the factory questions which immediately interest me.'

Paula was silent.

'These are my commands. The alternative to obedience is--you know what.
Pray let me know your decision.'

'Why do you behave to me in this way? What have I done to be treated
like this?'

'Pray do not ask me. I wait for your answer.'

'I can only give in to you, and you're coward enough to take advantage
of it.'

'You undertake to obey me?'

'I want to go to my room. Can I do so without asking?'

'You are mistress of my house, Paula, as long as you obey me in
essential matters.'

Paula disappeared, and Mr. Dalmaine sat reflecting with much
self-approbation on the firmness and suavity he had displayed.




CHAPTER XXXI

AN OLD MAN'S REST


It was not without much reluctance, much debate with conscience, that
Bunce allowed his child to remain at Eastbourne. He could not, of
course, have finally refused consent to a plan which might be the means
of saving Bessie's life, and to be relieved of the cost of her support,
receiving into the bargain a small monthly sum which Mrs. Ormonde
represented as the value to her of Bessie's services at The Chestnuts,
was a great consideration to a man in his perpetual state of struggle
to make ends meet. But he had a suspicion that Mrs. Ormonde desired to
get the girl away from him that Bessie might be, as he would have
phrased it, perverted to the debasing superstition of Christianity.

Mrs. Ormonde had interviews with him, and it helped her to understand
the man. She soon found out what it was that troubled him, and went
directly to the point with an assurance that no attempt whatever should
be made to prejudice Bessie against her father's views. Any printed
matter he chose to send her would be uninterfered with. Another woman
would have thought Bunce a mere bear when she parted with him, but Mrs.
Ormonde had that blessed gift of divination which comes of vast
charity; she did not misjudge him. And he in turn, though he went away
with his face still set in the look of half-aggressive pride which it
had assumed when he entered, found in a day or two that Mrs. Ormonde's
tones made a memory as pleasant as any he had. He felt a little
uncomfortable in remembering how ungraciously he had borne himself.

Another woman there was who had begun to exercise influence of an
indefinable kind on the rugged fellow, a woman whom he saw a good deal
of; and to whom he had grown accustomed to look for a good deal of
help. This was Miss Totty Nancarrow. Totty was no slight help with
little Nelly, and even with Jack. For the former she ceased to be 'Miss
Nanco,' and became 'Totty' simply; to Jack she was a most estimable
acquaintance, who never grudged flattering wonder at his school
achievements, even though they involved no more than a mastery of
compound multiplication, and occasionally he felt a wish that some one
of his schoolfellows would call Miss Nancarrow names, that he might
punch the rascal's head. But in the father's mind there was an obstacle
to complete appreciation. Totty was a Roman Catholic. She often went to
St. George's Cathedral, in Southwark, and even for the purpose of
confession. When this fact was strongly before Bunce's consciousness,
he was inclined to scorn Totty and to feel an uneasiness about her
associating with his children. Somehow, the scorn and the mistrust
would not hold out in Totty's presence. He found himself taking more
pains to be polite to her than to any other person. When she had had
Nelly in her room, and brought the child to him on his coming home, he
invented excuses to get her to talk for a few moments. Unfortunately,
Totty appeared little disposed to talk.

Luke Ackroyd was not infrequently in Bunce's room. These two discussed
religion and politics together, and their remarks on these subjects
lacked neither vigour nor perspicuity. Ye gods! how they went to the
root of things! Ackroyd had persevered in his pronounced Antinomianism;
he did not take life as 'hard' as his companion, and consequently was
not as sincere in his revolt, but he represented very fairly the modern
type of brain-endowed workman, who is from birth at issue with the
lingering old world. That is, he represented it intellectually; there
was, however, much in his character which does not mark the proletarian
as such. Essentially his nature was very gentle and ductile, and he had
strong affections. Probably he could not have told you, with any
approach to accuracy, how often he had been in love, or fancied himself
so, and for Ackroyd being in love was, to tell the truth, a matter of
vastly more importance than all the political and social and religious
questions in the world.

He and Totty were still on the terms of that compact which had
Christmas in view. His own part was discharged conscientiously; he
visited no public-houses and was steady at his work. In fact, he had
never had those tastes which bring a man to hopeless sottishness. More
than half his dissipation had come of that kind of vanity whereof young
gentlemen of the best families have by no means the monopoly. He liked
people to talk about him; he liked to know that it was deemed a pity
for such a clever young fellow to go to the dogs. Even in his
recklessness after the loss of Thyrza there was much of this element;
disappointment in love is known to make one interesting, and if Luke
could have brought on a mild fever, so that people could say he was in
danger of dying, it would probably not have displeased him. That was
over now. He persuaded himself that he was in love with Totty, and he
told himself daily how glad he was in the thought of marrying her
shortly after Christmas.

For all that, they quarrelled, he and she. It would not be easy to say
how many times they quarrelled and made it up again during the latter
half of the year. There was a certain unlikeness of temperament, which
perpetually made them think more of their difficulties in getting on
together than of the pleasure they received from each other's society.
Ackroyd frequently pondered on the question of how this matter would
arrange itself after they were married; at times he was secretly not a
little alarmed. As his wont was, he talked over the question
exhaustively with his sister, Mrs. Poole. The latter for a time refused
to converse on the subject at all. She was by no means sure that Miss
Nancarrow was in any sense a desirable acquisition to the family,
having conceived a great prejudice against her from the night when
Ackroyd had dealings with the police. A hint to this effect led to a
furious outbreak on Luke's part; he was insulted, he would leave the
house and find quarters elsewhere, his sister was a narrow-minded,
calumniating woman. He was bidden to take his departure as soon as he
liked, but somehow he did not do so. Then Mrs. Poole got her husband to
make private inquiries about Miss Nancarrow. Good-natured Jim obeyed
her, and had to confess that the report was tolerable enough; the girl
was perhaps a little harum-scarum, no worse.

'Oh, you're always so soft when there's talk about women!' exclaimed
his wife, disappointed. 'I declare you're as bad as Luke himself. I
shall see what I can find out for myself.'

She too found that no evil report was current about Totty, save that
she was a Roman Catholic. To be sure, this was bad enough, but could
not perhaps be made a ground of serious objection to the girl. So Mrs.
Poole fell back on an old line of argument.

'I'm tired of hearing about your girls!' she exclaimed, when Luke next
broached the subject. 'When it ain't one, it's another. You must find
somebody else to talk to. One thing I _do_ know--if I was a girl, I
wouldn't marry you, no, not if you'd a fortune.'

But in the end she yielded, for she saw that the matter was serious.

'I want to bring Totty here,' Luke said one night. 'I can't always see
her in the street, and there's no other handy place. What do you say,
Jane?'

'You must do as you like. There's the parlour you're welcome to. But
you mustn't go bringing her down here, mind. I've an idea her and me
won't quite hit it. You're welcome to the parlour.'

Further quarrels and reconcilements led to a modification of this
standpoint; Mrs. Poole at length said that she was willing to be
introduced to Totty, and sent an invitation to tea for Sunday evening.

'Let him get married, and have done with it,' she said to her husband.
'I shall have no peace till he does. He worrits my life out.'

'He'll worrit you a good deal more afterwards, if I'm not mistook,'
remarked Jim, with a dry chuckle.

But an unforeseen difficulty presented itself. Totty positively
declined to visit Mrs. Poole at present. There was plenty of time for
that, she said; wait till Christmas was nearer.

So Ackroyd and Totty once more fell out, and this time very gravely.
For a fortnight they did not see each other. And even when the
inevitable renewal of kindness came about, Totty made it a condition
that she must not be asked to visit Mrs. Poole. Time enough for that.

Mrs. Poole was, of course, offended. It took her longer than a
fortnight before she could hear any reference to Totty.

Early in December Totty had a bit of news to impart which gave Ackroyd
a good deal of anxiety. She had been talking with Mrs. Bower, and that
lady had as good as said that she could no longer keep old Mr. Boddy in
her house.

'He's three weeks behind with his rent,' Totty said, 'and he's sold
everything he had to sell, except his fiddle, to pay even so long.'

'But do you think Lydia Trent knows that?'

'I can't say. I should think most likely she doesn't. She's nothing to
do with none of the Bowers, and hasn't had for a long time; and you may
be quite sure Mr. Boddy wouldn't be the first to tell her how things
was. Thyrza often said what work they had to get him to take anything
from them.'

'He's got no work then?'

'Only a shilling now and then. Mrs. Bower says he's getting too slow
for the people as employed him. I shouldn't wonder if he's as good as
starved most days.'

'What brutes those Bowers are! And now, I suppose, they're going to
turn the old man into the street. That's the Christianity that their
girl has taught them. I tell you what, I'll see if I can't find a bit
of something for him to do. But then, what's the good? It'll only keep
him a day or two. Lydia 'll have to be told about it.'

'It's all very well,' remarked Totty, 'but I don't see how she's to
keep him. Besides, I think she might have found out for herself how
things was going before now.'

'You may depend upon it, it's only because the old man's hidden it from
her so that she couldn't have an idea. I don't like to hear you speak
like that of Lydia, Totty.'

'I don't see that there's any harm in what I said.'

'Well, I know you didn't mean it to be unkind, but it sounded so.'

'You're always very sharp about Lydia.'

'I know I am. She's a good girl, and she's a great deal to bear. I
think everybody ought to respect her.'

It was perilously near a misunderstanding, but Totty was not altogether
in earnest, and had good sense enough to refrain from unworthy
suggestions on such a subject. Ackroyd had sometimes half suspected
that she quarrelled on trivial grounds of set purpose, for he was well
aware of her native sincerity and honest plainness of dealing.

Her bad news was unfortunately true enough. For half a year Mr. Boddy
had been breaking up; the process began very suddenly, and was all the
harder to bear. Under any circumstances he could not have held his own
in the battle with society much longer--the battle for the day's food
of which society does its best to rob each individual--and the
catastrophe in the home of the girls who were dear to him as though
they had been his own children, sounded the note of retreat. Thyrza was
not so much to him as Lydia, but still was very much, and the sorrow
which darkened Lydia's life was to him the beginning of the end of all
things.

Yes, he hid the state of things very skilfully from Lydia's eyes. He
told her that he was working, when he had no work to do; he laughed at
her questions as to whether he had comfortable meals, when he had had
no meal at all. The Bowers never invited him to come to the parlour now
and sit at their table; they were so indifferent about him, so long as
he paid his rent, that for a long time they did not know how hard beset
he was. Lydia had ventured to ask him if he would change his lodgings,
provided she found him a room in a house where she could visit him
without unpleasantness; but the old man avoided her request. If he
moved, all sorts of things would become known to Lydia which at present
he was able to conceal.

One thing he could not hide. His hand had become so unsteady that the
bow would no longer strike true notes from the violin; so he ceased to
play to the girl when she came. Lydia did not press him, thinking that
probably it was too painful for him to revive memories of the old days.
When hardships thickened, he would have sold the instrument, in spite
of every pang, but for the certainty that Lydia would miss it from his
room.

He lived more and more to himself. Till the beginning of November he
was able just to keep body and soul together after paying his rent,
then the rent was no longer forthcoming. Not one article remained to
him for which he could obtain money, not one save the violin. He durst
not sell it. In spite of everything, he clung to a vague hope that
someone would find work for him. To Ackroyd he could not go; that would
be the same as telling Lydia, for he could trust no one in the state of
mind which he had reached; even to strangers he was afraid to appeal
with overmuch earnestness, lest stories should get about. Still an odd
shilling came to him now and then. Poor old fellow, he did sad things.
One morning he took the old blacking-brushes which he had used for
years for his one boot, and a little pot of blacking, and an old box,
and walked far away across the river, to a place where no one could
know him, and there tried to earn a little by rivalling with the
shoeblacks. It was useless; in three days he had earned but as many
pence; he could not waste time thus. It was a terrible moment when he
had first to tell Mrs. Bower that he could not discharge his due to
her. He tried to put on a half-jesting air, to make out that his
difficulty was of the most passing kind. Mrs. Bower ungraciously bade
him not to trouble himself, to pay as soon as he could. But when the
second day of default came, the landlady was even less gracious.

'I ain't an unreasonable woman, Mr. Boddy,' she said, 'and nobody could
never say I was. But then I've a 'ome to keep up, as you know. Isn't it
time as you thought things over a bit? I dessay there's them as 'll see
you don't want, if only you'll speak a word. I don't want to be
disagreeable to a old lodger, but then reason _is_ reason, ain't it?'

That Saturday night hunger drove him out. He stumped painfully into the
busy region on the south side of London Bridge, and there, at midnight,
he succeeded in begging a handful of fried potatoes from a fish-shop
that was just closing. It was all he could do, after a dozen vain
efforts to earn a copper.

But, when he got home in the early morning, a strange thing had
happened. On his table lay half a loaf of bread, a piece of butter, and
some tea twisted up in paper. How came these things here? He was in
anguish lest Lydia had left them, lest Lydia had somehow discovered his
condition and had come in his absence.

But it was not so. Lydia came, as usual, on Sunday afternoon, and
clearly knew nothing of that gift. He had eaten, and was able once more
to talk so cheerfully--in his great relief--that the girl went away
happy in the thought that he had got over a turn of ill-health. They
had talked, as always, of Thyrza. With Thyrza it was well, outwardly at
all events; Lydia had just seen her, and could report that she seemed
even happy. Mr. Boddy rejoiced at this. Might not _he_ see the little
one some day? Yes, surely he should; Lydia would try for that.

Who had left him the food, then? No one entered his room to do anything
for him, save at intervals of a fortnight, when Mrs. Bower sent up a
charwoman; otherwise he had always waited upon himself. Two days went
by, then the offering was renewed, just in the same way, and this time
with the addition of some sugar. The giver could be but one person.
Mary Bower knew of his need, and was doing what she could for him. He
knew it in meeting her on the stairs the morning after; she said a kind
'Good-day,' and reddened, and went by with her head bent.

But it was bitter to receive such help. He could not refuse it, for
otherwise he must have lain down in helplessness, and he trusted yet
that there would come a turn in things. The winter cold began. Mrs.
Bower had not refused coals; he always burned so little that fuel was
allowed to be covered by the rent. But now he scarcely ventured to keep
his fire alight long enough to boil his kettle; he still had a little
supply for burning, and felt that he durst not go down to the cellar
for more, when that was done.

Then came the day when his landlady told him with decisive brevity that
she could trust him no longer. He must not be a foolish old man, but
must ask help from those whose duty it was to give it him.

That was in the afternoon. Mrs. Bower had come up to his room and had
asked for the rent. He waited until it was dark, then stole out of the
house, carrying his violin.

He would not sell it, only borrow a sum at the pawn-broker's, then he
could some day recover the instrument. Nor must he go to a pawn-shop in
this neighbourhood, whence tales would spread. He stumped over into
Southwark, and found a quiet street where the three brass halls hung
above an illuminated shop front. The entrance to the pawning department
was beneath a dark archway. At the door he stopped; there was a great
lump in his throat, and suddenly, with great physical anguish, tears
broke from his eyes. He stood away from the door until he could master
the flow of tears; then he went in, carefully selected a box which was
empty, and pledged the violin for ten shillings. The man refused to
lend him more, and he could not argue.

That fit of weeping seemed to have affected him for ill; going forth
again into the cold, he trembled violently, and by no effort could
recover himself. He had to sit down upon a door-step. The chillness of
his blood, which yet beat feverishly at his temples, affected him with
a dread lest he should not have strength to reach home. His thoughts
would not obey his will; again and again he fell into torment of
apprehension, asking himself how to find money for the rent that was
due, and only with a painful effort of mind remembering the ten
shillings in his pocket. The door beneath which he was sitting suddenly
opened; he staggered up and onwards.

But the cold and the weakness and the anguish of dread grew upon him.
He could not remember the streets by which he had come. He stumped on,
fancying that he recognised this and that object, and at length knew
that he had reached Westminster Bridge Road, The joy of drawing near
home supported him. He had only to go the length of Hercules Buildings,
and then he would be close to the end of Paradise Street. He reached
the grave-yard, walking for the most part as in a terrible dream, among
strange distorted shapes of men and women, the houses tottering black
on either hand, and ever that anvil-beat of the blood at his temples.
Then of a sudden his wooden limb slipped, and he fell to the ground.

He was precisely in front of the Pooles' house. A woman just passing,
who happened to know Mrs. Poole, ran up to the door and knocked, and,
when Mrs. Poole came, asked for some water to throw over a poor old man
who was in a fit on the pavement. Jane, going in for the water, spoke
to her brother, who was sitting in the kitchen. Ackroyd went forth to
see what could be done.

'Why, it's Boddy!' he exclaimed. 'We must carry him in. Jane, go and
tell Jim to come here.'

Of course a crowd had already collected, dark as the street was.

'Hadn't we better take him over to the Bowers'?' asked Jim.

'Yes, it's old Mr. Boddy!' cried a voice. 'He lives at Mrs. Bower's.'

'I know that very well,' said Ackroyd, 'but it's no good taking him
there. Lend a hand, Jim; see, he's coming round a bit.' And he added,
muttering, 'I expect he's starved to death, that's about it.'

Only the night before, Totty had told him of the old man's position,
and he had been casting about for a way of giving help. He did not like
to tell Lydia what was going on, yet the inquiries he had made of the
men who occasionally employed Mr. Boddy convinced him that there was no
hope of the latter's continuing to support himself. In his present
state, the old man must at least have friends about him, and not
cold-blooded pinchers and parers, who had come to dislike him because
of his relation to the Trent girls. With characteristic impulsiveness,
Luke made up his mind that Mr. Boddy should be brought into the house
and kept there; if need be he would provide for him out of his own
pocket.

Mrs. Poole was no grumbler when a fellow-creature needed her kindness.
In a moment a match was put to the fire in the parlour; thither Jim and
Ackroyd bore the old man, and laid him upon the couch.

He did not seem wholly unconscious, for his eyes regarded first one,
then the other, of those who were ministering to him, but he made no
effort to speak; spoken to, he gave no sign of understanding. It was
found that there was blood upon his head; he must have injured himself
in falling. For a quarter of an hour the attempts at restoring him were
vain. Then Luke said:

'I shall have to run round for the doctor. For all we know, he may be
dying, for want of the proper things.'

'Aye, go, lad,' assented Jim. 'I don't like the look of his face. Do
you, Jane?'

Husband and wife whispered together during Luke's absence. They knew
from the latter into what a miserable state the old man had sunk, and
Jane was vigorous in reprobation of the Bowers. Ackroyd returned,
saying that the doctor would be at hand in a minute or two.

'Oughtn't you to go and tell Miss Trent?' Jane asked him, as all three
stood helpless, waiting.

'I've thought of it, but I'd rather not, if it can be helped. Wait till
the doctor comes.'

The old man lay quite still, breathing heavily. His eyes were yet open,
but had fixed themselves in one direction.

The doctor came. He directed that the sufferer should at once be put
into a warm bed.

'My room, then,' said Luke. 'Come and help, Jim.'

The directions were soon carried out, and the doctor went off, asking
someone to follow for medicine.

The wound proved to be of no moment; graver causes must have led to the
state of coma in which the old man lay. When Luke returned from the
doctor's, he reported that the latter had spoken rather seriously.

'I must go and see Lydia,' he said to his sister. 'You don't mind this
bother, Jane, eh? You'll sit by him?'

'Of course I will. Go and fetch her; it's my belief he hasn't very long
to live.'

It seemed to Ackroyd a long time since he had knocked at the door in
Walnut Tree Walk; very much had come about since then. Impatient, he
had to repeat his knock before any one came. Then Mr. Jarmey appeared.
No, he knew Miss Trent was not in; she had gone out with his wife half
an hour ago, but it was getting late, and they were sure to be soon
back.

'Is Mr. Grail in?'

'I think so. I'll just knock and see.'

Gilbert was at home, and Ackroyd went into the parlour. The two were
very friendly whenever they met, but that was seldom; Grail was
surprised at the visit. He was sitting with his mother; they seemed to
have been talking, for no book lay on the table. Luke explained why he
had come to the house.

'Will you let me sit here till she comes in, Grail?'

A chair was at once brought forward, with quiet readiness. One chair
there was in the room which no one ever used, though at evening it was
always put in a particular position, between the table and the
fireplace. Gilbert kept his hand on the back of it as he talked.

Ackroyd railed against the Bowers. Gilbert did not seem able to express
very strong feeling, even when he had heard all that the other knew and
suspected; his brows darkened, however, and he was anxious on Lydia's
account.

An oppressive silence had fallen upon the three, when at length they
heard the front-door open.

'Would you like mother to go upstairs to her and tell her?' Gilbert
asked.

'I should. It would be kind of you, Mrs. Grail. But only just speak as
if it was an accident; I wouldn't say anything else.'

Mrs. Grail left the room without speaking. She returned in a few
minutes, and, leaving the door a little open, said in her very low,
tremulous voice, that Lydia was waiting in the passage. Ackroyd shook
hands with the two, and went out.

Lydia looked eagerly into his face.

'Is he very bad, Mr. Ackroyd?' she whispered.

'I hope he's come round by this time,' was his reply. 'My sister's
attending to him, and we've got things for him from the doctor.'

They passed into the street, and walked quickly side by side.

'It was very good of you to take him in,' Lydia said. 'It would have
been very hard to ask Mrs. Bower for help.'

'Yes, yes; We don't want them.'

Lydia and Mrs. Poole had never met. They looked with interest at each
other. Ackroyd went down into the kitchen, leaving them together in the
room with the old man.

The night went on. Ackroyd and his brother-in-law smoked innumerable
pipes by the kitchen fire. Jim often nodded, but Luke was far from
sleep; the sad still half-hour spent with the Grails had troubled his
imagination, and thoughts of Thyrza had been revived in him. Yes, he
had loved Thyrza; all folly put aside, he knew that the memory of the
sweet-voiced, golden-haired girl would for ever remain with him. And
all this night he did not once think of Totty Nancarrow.

Fortunately, as it was Saturday, they had no need to think of work next
morning. Jim would not go to bed; he kept up the most determined
struggle with sleep, subduer of mortals. His wife came down now and
then, and was angry with him for his useless obstinacy, so plain it was
that he could scarcely hold up his great thick head. There was nothing
good to report of the patient; he had not recovered consciousness.

At five o'clock, when, in spite of fire and lamp, the little kitchen
looked haggard, Mrs. Poole entered hurriedly.

'Do you think the doctor 'ud come, Luke, if you went for him? He can't
get breath. Lydia does want the doctor fetching.'

Luke was off in an instant.

Lydia stood by the bed, pale, anguished. Happily, that struggle, which
seemed of death, did not last very long. The worn old face, almost
venerable at length in spite of the grotesqueness of its features, fell
into calm. Then, almost as in a natural waking from sleep, the eyes
opened and were aware of things.

'Are you feeling better, grandad dear?' Lydia asked.

He looked surprised, tried to speak; but there was no voice.

Luke was long.

The two women stood side by side. The old man kept endeavouring to
utter words; his powerlessness was dreadful to him, his face showed.
But at length he spoke.

'Lyddy!--Thyrza!'

'She shall come and see you, grandad. She shall come very soon.'

Again a vain endeavour to speak. His face altered; it expressed Lydia
knew not what. A supreme effort, and he again spoke.

'Mary Bower gave me all I wanted, Be friends with her, Lyddy!'

No more than that. Gradually, an end of struggle, an end of pain, an
end of all things.

The doctor came. He said that no doubt there would have to be an
inquest.

They left Lydia alone in the room, When it was midway through the
winter morning, Mrs. Poole came down and told Luke that the girl wished
to speak to him; he would find her in the parlour.

She had swollen eyes, but spoke with perfect calmness.

'Mr. Ackroyd, what did he mean? The last thing he said was, 'Mary Bower
gave me all I wanted.' I don't know what he meant. Your sister says
you'll tell me.'

Luke could only guess at the sense of the words, but he told her all he
knew.

'I only heard it on Friday night, from Totty,' he said. 'I was thinking
of every way I could to help him.'

'Oh, but to think that you never told me!' she exclaimed. 'You'd no
right to keep such a thing from me. It wasn't kindness; it wasn't
kindness at all, See what's come of it!

'I do wish I had told you.'

Early in the afternoon Lydia went home. But before leaving, she
searched in the poor old garments to see if; indeed, he had been
penniless. The discovery of the money at first astonished her, but
immediately after she found the pawn ticket. It was proof enough.

She was sitting in her room, at nightfall, when someone knocked. She
went to the door. Mary Bower was there.

'May I come in, Lydia?' Mary asked, with eyes downcast.

Lydia had started. She drew back, leaving the door open. Mary entered,
closed the door behind her, and stood in agitation.

'I know you hate me more than ever, Lydia,' she began, tremulously;
'but I did what I could for him. I want to tell you that I did what I
could for him, and I'd never have let mother give him notice. I told
her last night that, if she did, I'd leave home. I put food in his
room, and nobody knew about it. Perhaps you don't believe me; if he
could speak, he'd tell you someone did, and it was me.'

Lydia covered her face and wept. Mary, drawing nearer, went on with
broken voice:

'I've been very much to blame, Lydia. I've been hard and unforgiving.
But that night when you told me you hated me, I wanted to say how sorry
I was for you. I never spoke a word against Thyrza, not a word. And now
I couldn't help coming to you. I want to be friends again, Lyddy dear.
Don't send me away! I've been to blame in everything; I've been
bad-hearted. You might well not believe my religion when you saw me
acting as I did.'

She ceased, drawn to Lydia's heart and kissed with more than the old
affection.

'I know what you did for him, Mary. He told me--the last words he
spoke. He asked me to be friends with you again. I do want a friend,
Mary; I'm very lonely. I'll love you as long as I live for being kind
to him.'

They lit no light, but sat together by the glow of the fire, speaking
in very low voices, often with long intervals of silence. Two poor
girls, the one as ignorant as the other, but speaking with awed spirit
of death and the hope that is thereafter.




CHAPTER XXXII

TOTTY'S LUCK


'The Little Shop with the Large Heart' had suffered a grave loss: Miss
Totty Nancarrow had withdrawn her custom from it.

Totty had patronised Mrs. Bower very steadily for some five years. It
was true that the large-hearted shop put a rather large price on
certain things, in comparison with what they _could_ be bought for in
Lambeth. If you wanted a pot of marmalade, for instance, Mrs. Bower
sold it for sixpence, whereas it was notoriously purchasable for
fivepence-halfpenny at grocers in Lambeth Walk. If you went for a
quarter of a pound of butter, you had no choice of quality, and paid
fourpence three farthings, whilst in Lambeth Walk you obtained a better
article for the even fourpence. Totty, however, had a principle that
one ought to deal rather with acquaintances than with strangers, and
another principle that it was better to pay a halfpenny more for an
article to be had by crossing the street than a halfpenny less and go a
whole street's length for it. True girl of the people was Totty, herein
as in other respects. It was a simple fact that Mrs. Bower's business
depended on the indolence and indifference to small economies of those
women who lived in her immediate neighbourhood. It is the same kind of
thing that leads working people to pay for having meat badly cooked at
the baker's instead of cooking it cheaply and well themselves; that
leads them to buy expensive, ready-prepared suppers at the pork
butcher's and the fried-fish shop, instead of tossing up an equally
good and very cheap supper for themselves.

Considering her income, Totty had spent a great deal with Mrs. Bower,
as you remember that lady once remarking. Totty had a mind to live on
luxuries; if she had not money enough for both bread and marmalade, she
chose to have the marmalade alone; if she could not buy meat and
pickles at the same time, she would have pickles and go without meat.
Marmalade and pickles she deemed the indispensables of life; if you
could not get those--well, it was no uncommon thing for poor creatures
to be driven to the workhouse. And the strange thing was that she
looked so well on such diet. Since the age of fifteen, when, in truth,
she had been a little peaked and terribly tenuous at the waist, her
personal appearance had steadily improved. Her spirits had, by degrees,
reached their present point of perpetual effervescence. But Totty could
be grave, and, if occasion were, sad.

She had been both grave and sad many a time since Thyrza had gone away.
She reproached herself in secret for her 'nastiness' to the little one
at their last meeting, nastiness for which, as it proved, there was no
justification whatever. Now she was sad for poor old Mr. Boddy's death.
She knew that it was another hard blow to Lydia, and, as you are aware,
in her heart she respected Lydia profoundly. Her sorrow led to that one
practical result--no more marmalade and pickles from Mrs. Bower. The
Bowers had behaved vilely; from every point of view, that was
demonstrable. Under the circumstances, they ought to have done without
their rent, if need were, till Doomsday when, as Totty understood, all
such arrears are made good to one with the utmost accuracy--nay, with
interest to boot. She had not seen any reason for quarrelling with the
Bowers on the score of the scandal they spread about Thyrza, since
there really seemed ground for their stories; and it was right that
'goings on' of that kind should be put a stop to. Totty would
always--that is, as often as she could--be scrupulously just. But this
last affair was beyond endurance. Not another penny went from her
pocket to 'The Little Shop with the Large Heart.'

Her income this past year had fallen short of what she usually counted
upon; not to a great extent, but the sum deducted had been wont to come
to her as a pure grace, and she felt the loss of it. Her uncle had
omitted to send his usual present on her birthday. Nor had he visited
her to renew the proposal that she should surrender her liberty in
return for being housed and dressed respectably. What did this mean?
Had he--it was probable enough--grown tired of her, and said to himself
that, as she wished to go her own way, go her own way she should? He
was a crusty old fellow. Totty had often wondered that he 'stood her
cheek' so good-humouredly. Yet somehow she did not think it likely that
he would break off intercourse with her in this abrupt way; no, it was
not like him. He would have, at all events, seen her for a last time,
and have given her a well-understood last chance. Was he dead? Possible
enough; his age must be nearer seventy than sixty. If dead, well, there
was an end of it. No more birthday presents; no more offers to 'be made
a lady of.'

It did not greatly matter, of course. Totty could not be expected to
nurture an affection for her crusty uncle with his shop in Tottenham
Court Road; in fact, he had behaved badly to her branch of the family,
and such behaviour cannot always be made up for. As to the offer, she
had declined it in perfect good faith. Yes, she preferred her liberty,
her innocent nights at the Canterbury Music Hall, her scampering about
the streets at all hours, her marmalade and pickles eaten off a table
covered with a newspaper in company with half a dozen friends as
harum-scarum as herself. Deliberately, she preferred these joys to
anything she could imagine as entering into the life of a 'lady.'

However, it was a fact that Christmas was very near, also a fact that
she stood pledged to marry Luke Ackroyd any day after Christmas that he
chose to claim her. She was a little sorry that she could not inform
her uncle in Tottenham Court Road of the change she was about to make
in her life; there was no knowing how he might have behaved on such an
occasion. Luke had been saving a little money of late, but it was
naturally a very little; he, foolish fellow, had a way of buying her
things which she did not in the least want, but which she could not
refuse since it gave him such enormous pleasure to offer them. Luke was
very generous, whatever his faults might be. Certain presents of his
she had returned to him, in wrath, probably once a fortnight, and when,
in the course of things, she had to take them back again, some object
was always added. The presents cost little, it is true; Totty did not
ask the price of them, but liked the kindness which suggested their
purchase. She liked many things about Luke Ackroyd; whether she really
liked him himself, liked him in 'the proper way'--well, that was a
question she asked herself often enough without any very definite
answer.

No matter, she had promised to marry him, and she was not the girl to
break her word. Now, if her uncle had still been in communication with
her, was it not a very likely thing that he would have felt a desire
to--in fact, to do something for them? It was not nice to begin married
life in furnished lodgings, especially if prudence dictated the living
in a single room, as such numbers of her acquaintances did. Totty had
discovered that couples who wedded and went to live in one furnished
room seldom got along well together. It was well if the wife did not
shortly go about with ugly-looking bruises on her face, or with her arm
in a sling. No, to be sure, Luke Ackroyd was not a man of that kind; it
was inconceivable that he should ever be harsh to her, let alone
brutal. Still, it was _not_ nice to begin in furnished lodgings. And
perhaps her uncle in Tottenham Court Road--he was, in fact, a furniture
dealer--would have seen his way to garnish for them a modest couple of
rooms, by way of wedding present. But, he having drawn back from
communication, Totty could not bring herself to his notice again, not
she.

She was thinking over all these things a week before Christmas. It was
Sunday afternoon, and, for a wonder, she was sitting alone in her room.
Mr. Bunce was at home, or she would have had little Nelly to keep her
company. Still, she said to herself that she was not sorry to have a
minute or two to put certain things straight in her mind. What a mind
it was, Totty Nancarrow's!

The landlady looked in at the door.

'Here's a gemman wants to see you, Miss Nancarrow.'

'Oh? What sort of a gentleman?'

'Why, oldish--five-an'-forty, I dessay. Greyish beard and a big nose.
Speaks very loud and important like.'

Not her uncle; he had no beard and a very small nose, and could not
thus have altered since she last saw him.

'All right. I'll go and ask him what he wants.'

Totty gave a glance at her six square inches of looking-glass, made a
movement with her hand which was like a box on each ear, then went
downstairs in her usual way, swinging by the banisters down three steps
at a time. At the door she found a person answering very fairly to the
landlady's graphic description. The experienced eye would have
perceived that he was not, in the restricted sense of the word, a
gentleman; still, he wore good clothing, and had of a truth an
important air.

'You want me, sir?' Totty asked, coming to a sudden stand in front of
him, and examining him with steady eye.

He returned the gaze with equal steadiness. Both hands rested on the
top of his umbrella, and his attitude was very much that of a man who
views a horse he has thoughts of purchasing.

'You are Miss Nancarrow, I think?' he said, clearing his throat.
'Christian name, Totty.'

'That's me, I believe.'

'Jusso! I should like to have a word with you, Miss Nancarrow, if you
will allow me.'

'You can't say it here, sir?'

'Why, no, I can't. If you could----'

Totty did not wait for him to finish, but ran away to get permission to
use the landlady's parlour. To this she introduced her visitor, who
seated himself without invitation, and, after gazing about the room,
said:

'Pray sit down, Miss Nancarrow. I've come to see you on a matter of
some importance. I am Mr. Barlow, an old friend of your uncle's. You
have possibly heard of me?'

'No, I haven't,' Totty replied.

As she spoke, it struck her that there was a broad black band round Mr.
Barlow's shiny hat.

'Ah, you haven't; jusso!'

Mr. Barlow again cleared his throat, looking about the floor as if he
were in the habit of living near a spittoon. And then he paused a
little, elevating and sinking his bushy eyebrows. Totty, who had taken
the edge of a chair, moved her feet impatiently.

'Well, Miss Totty Nancarrow,' resumed her visitor, using his umbrella
to prop his chin, and rolling out his words with evident enjoyment of
his task, 'I have the unpleasant duty of informing you that your late
uncle is dead.'

The phrase might have excited a smile. Totty kept an even countenance
and said she was sorry to hear it.

'Jusso! He has been dead nearly a month, and he was ill nearly six. I
am appointed one of the executors by his will--me and a friend of mine,
Mr. Higgins. I dare say you haven't heard of him. We've been putting
your late uncle's affairs in order.'

'Have you?' said Totty, because she had nothing else to say.

'We have. I have come to see you, Miss Nancarrow, because you are
interested in the will.'

'Oh, am I?'

It was said with a kind of disinterested curiosity. Mr. Barlow, having
regarded her fixedly for a moment, bent his head till his forehead
rested upon the umbrella, and seemed to brood.

'Don't you feel well, sir?' Totty asked, with a _naivete_ which
betrayed her impatience.

'Quite well, quite well.'

'You was saying something about my uncle's will.'

'Jusso! Your name is in the will, Miss Nancarrow. Your uncle has
bequeathed to you the sum of two hundred and fifty pounds.'

'Have you brought it with you, sir?'

'The will?'

'No, the money.'

'My dear Miss Nancarrow, things are not done in that way,' remarked Mr.
Barlow, smiling at her ingenuousness.

'How then, sir?'

'There are conditions attached to this bequest. It is my duty to
explain them to you. I shall avoid the terms of the law, out of
consideration to you, Miss Nancarrow, and try to express myself very
simply. I hope you'll be able to follow me.'

Totty regarded him with wide eyes and smiled.

'I'll do my best, sir.'

'Now please listen.' He rested one elbow on his umbrella, and with the
other hand made demonstrations in the air as he proceeded. Throughout
he spoke as one who addresses a person partly imbecile.

'This sum of two hundred and fifty pounds, Miss Nancarrow, is not--you
follow me?--is not to be given to you at once--you grasp that?--I am
trustee for the money; that means--attend, please--it lies in my hands
until the time and the occasion comes for--mind--for giving it to you.
You understand so far?'

'I shouldn't mind a harder word now and then, sir, if it makes it
easier for you.'

Mr. Barlow examined her, but Totty's face was very placid. She cast
down her eyes, and watched her toes tapping together.

'Well, well; I think you follow me. Now the conditions are these. The
money is payable to you--payable, you see--on your marriage.'

'Oh!'

'I beg you not to interrupt me. Is payable to you on your marriage, and
then--now pray attend--_not_ unless you obtain the approval of myself
and of Mr. Higgins--unless you obtain _our_ approval of the man you
propose to marry.'

'Oh!'

'You have understood, I hope?'

'I shall marry who I like, sir,' observed Totty, quietly.

Mr. Barlow looked at her with surprise.

'My dear Miss Nancarrow, nobody ever said you shouldn't. It isn't a
question of your marrying, but of two hundred and fifty pounds.'

'I don't see what it's got to do with anybody who I choose to marry.'

'Jusso, jusso! nothing could be truer. It's only a question of two
hundred and fifty pounds.'

Totty was about to make another indignant remark, but she checked
herself. Her toes were tapping together very rapidly; she watched them
for half a minute, then asked:

'And suppose I don't choose to marry anybody at all?'

'I see you are capable of following these things,' said Mr. Barlow,
smiling. 'If you reach the age of five-and-twenty without marrying, the
money goes to another purpose, of which it is not necessary to speak.'

'Oh! I don't see why my uncle bothered himself so much about me
marrying.'

'No doubt your late uncle had some good reason for these provisions,
Miss Nancarrow,' said the other, gravely. 'We should speak respectfully
of those who are no more. It seems to me your late uncle took very kind
thought for you.'

Totty considered that, but neither assented nor differed.

'Will you tell me,' she asked after a silence, speaking with a good
deal of hauteur, 'what sort of a man you'd approve of?'

'With pleasure, Miss Nancarrow; with very great pleasure. Mr. Higgins
and me have thought over the subject, have given it our best attention.
We think that by laying down three conditions we shall meet the case.'

He stared at the ceiling, till Totty asked:

'Well, and what are they, sir?'

'Pray do not interrupt me; I was about to tell you. First, then, this
man's age must be at least three-and-twenty. You understand?'

'I think I do.'

'Secondly, he must have a recognised profession, business, trade, or
handicraft, and must satisfy me and Mr. Higgins that he is able to
support a wife.'

'And then?'

'And then, as you say, Miss Nancarrow, he must be able to prove to me
and Mr. Higgins that he has lived in one and the same house for a year
previous to his marriage with you.'

Mr. Barlow delivered this with slow emphasis, as if such a test of
respectability were the finest fruit of administrative wisdom.

Totty laughed. She had expected something quite different.

'You smile, Miss Nancarrow?' remarked Mr. Barlow, with a slightly
offended air.

'No, I was laughing.'

'And at what, pray?'

'Nothing.'

'H'm. Well, I hope I have made everything clear to you.'

'All the same, sir, I shall marry whoever I like.'

'I've no doubt whatever you will. I shall leave you my address, Miss
Nancarrow, so that you can communicate with me at any moment.'

'Thank you, sir.' She took the offered card and thrust it into her
pocket. 'And if I don't want to marry at all, I shan't.'

'It is at your option, Miss Nancarrow. Now I'll say good-morning to
you. Perhaps you'll allow me to shake hands with you and congratulate
you upon this--this little fortune.'

'Oh, yes.'

Totty gave Mr. Barlow's fat hand a jerk. He drew himself up, cleared
his throat, and stalked to the door, regarding with lofty patronage the
signs of poverty about him. At the door he took off his hat, bowed,
departed.

Totty returned to her room. She resumed her former seat, and began to
hum a slow air. Then she tilted her chair back against the wall, and
turned her face upwards musing.

It was not easy for her to realise the meaning of two hundred and fifty
pounds. Reckon it up, for instance, in marmalade and pickles; it became
confusing very soon. Reckon it up in tables and chairs; ah, that was
more to the point. But even then, what a stupendous margin! For twenty
pounds you could furnish a couple of rooms in a way to make all your
neighbours envious. It was like attempting to comprehend infinity by
making clear to one's mind the distance to the moon.

The three conditions; Luke Ackroyd could satisfy them all. How often he
had said that what he wanted was a little capital to establish a
comfortable home of his own, when he would feel settled for life. No
thought now of furnished lodgings. Fancy making one's husband a present
of two hundred and fifty pounds! Much better that than receiving
presents oneself.

She was to meet Luke to-night, and it was time that a definite
arrangement was made as to their marriage. Somehow, Totty did not feel
quite so joyous as she ought to have done; she could not fix her mind
on the two hundred and fifty pounds, but it wandered off to other
things which had nothing to do with money. 'Come now,' she said to
herself at length, 'do I care for anybody more than for him? No; it's
quite certain I don't. Do I care much for him himself? Do I care for
him properly?' Suddenly she thought of Thyrza; she remembered Thyrza's
question: 'Do you love him, Totty?'

No, she did not love him. She had known it for a good many weeks. And,
what was more, she had known perfectly well that he did not love her.

There it was, no doubt. 'If he loved me, I should love him. I could; I
think I could. Not like Thyrza loved Mr. Egremont, to go mad about him;
that isn't my style; I wouldn't be so foolish about _any_ man, not I!
But I could be very fond of him. And--there's no hiding it--I'm not--I
shouldn't grieve a bit if we said good-bye to-night and never saw each
other again.'

How did she know he didn't love her? 'As if I couldn't tell! Just
listen when he speaks about Thyrza; he'd never speak about me like
that, if I ran away from him. And how he speaks about Lydia; why, even
about Lydia he thinks a good deal more than he does about me. He often
talks to me as if I was a man; he wouldn't if he--if he loved me.'

Totty found it difficult to say that word even to herself. 'The fact of
the matter is, I don't think as I shall ever care proper for anybody.
I've a good mind not to marry at all, as I always said I wouldn't. I
was right enough as long as I kept to that. The girls 'll only make fun
of me.'

Yes, but her promise?--She began to feel gloomy. Perhaps nightfall had
something to do with it. Should she make tea? No, she didn't care for
it. She would go out--somewhere.

She walked from Newport Street to Lambeth Road, passed Bethlehem
Hospital (Bedlam), and came to St. George's Cathedral. It is a long,
vast, ugly building, unfinished, for it still lacks towers; in the dark
it looked very cold and forbidding, but Totty had a sense that there
was warmth within, warmth and shelter of a kind that she needed just
now.

She entered, and, at the proper place, dropped to her knees and crossed
herself. Then she stood looking about. Near her, hanging against a
pillar, was a box with the superscription: 'For the Souls in
Purgatory.' She always put a penny into this box, and did so now.

Then she walked softly to an image of the Virgin, at whose feet someone
had laid hothouse flowers. A poor woman was kneeling there, a woman in
rags; her head was bent in prayer, her hands clasped against her
breast. Totty knelt beside her, bent her own head and clasped her hands.

Yes, it was good to be here. All was very still; but few lights were
burning. When Totty needed a mother's counsel, a mother's love, she was
wont to come here and whisper humble thoughts to the image which looked
down so soothingly upon all who made appeal. To Totty her religion was
a purely private interest. It would never, for instance, have occurred
to her to demand that her husband should be a Catholic, not even that
he should view her faith with sympathetic tolerance. No word on this
subject would ever pass her lips. What was it to any one else if she
had in secret a mother to whom she breathed her troubles and her
difficulties? Could any one grudge her that? The consolation was too
sacred to speak of. Her thoughts did not rise to a Deity; she thought
but seldom of the story which told her that Deity had taken man's form.
The Madonna was enough, the mother whose gentle heart was full of
sorrows and who had power to aid the sorrowful.

The poor ragged woman sighed deeply, rose and went forth with humble
step--went forth to who knows what miseries, what cruelties and
despairs. But in her sigh there had been consolation.'

Even so with Totty. When at length she left the church, her way was by
no means clear of all obstacles, but the trouble which had come upon
her with unwonted force was much simplified. It was plain to her that
she _could_ give herself to Ackroyd, and that to give him the two
hundred and fifty pounds would be a very substantial pleasure. Growing
accustomed to the thought of her wealth, she derived from it a quiet
pride, which made her walk homewards more staidly than usual. Luke
could never forget that she had been a great help to him.

She would let him settle everything to-night, then would tell him.

These winter nights were troublesome to an unfortunate pair who wished
to talk in a leisurely way together, yet had no shelter save that of a
place of public entertainment, or an archway under the line. And
to-night it was particularly cold; there had even fallen a little snow.
Totty and Ackroyd met, as usual, at the end of Paradise Street. It
being Sunday, they could not go to the music-hall, and it was really
impossible to stand about in the open air.

'Look here, Totty,' said Ackroyd, 'you _must_ come into the house. You
needn't see any one, unless you like. We can have the sitting-room to
ourselves. The others always sit downstairs.'

Totty hesitated, but at length assented. If the truth were known, her
two hundred and fifty pounds had probably something to do with her
yielding on this point. At present she could face Mrs. Poole on equal
terms.

So they entered the house, and Luke, having left his companion in the
parlour, went down to apprise his sister. Jane came up, and gave the
girl a civil greeting. It was not cordial, nor did Totty affect warmth
of feeling. Mrs. Poole speedily left the two to themselves.

Totty sat in her chair rather stiffly. She was not accustomed to take
her ease in rooms even as well appointed as this. Luke tried to be
merry, to show that he was delighted, to be affectionate; he did not
succeed very well. Presently they were sitting at a little distance
from each other, each waiting for the other to speak.

'When is it to be?' Ackroyd said at length, bending forward.

'I don't know. Is it _really_ to be?'

'Why not? Of course it is.'

Totty had felt colder to him than ever before, since she had entered
this room. The strangeness of the surroundings affected her
disagreeably. She wished they had walked about in the snowy streets.

'Of course you know we shall always be quarrelling,' she said, with a
laugh.

'No, we shan't. It'll be different then. At all event, it'll be your
fault if we do.'

Silence came again.

'What day?' Luke asked.

'When you like, If you really mean it.'

'Now what's the use of talking in that way? Why _shouldn't_ I mean it?'

'If I ask you a question will you answer me honest?'

She was leaning forward, with a touch of colour on her cheeks, and a
sudden curious light in her eyes; she seemed ashamed at something, and
both eager and reluctant.

'What is it? Yes, I'll answer you the truth.'

'The very truth? No, I shan't ask you. What day do you want it to be?'

'Nonsense! What was the question? I won't listen to anything till
you've told me.'

'It was a silly question. I don't really want to ask you. I forget what
it was.'

Totty was strangely unlike herself, hesitating, diffident, ashamed. He
insisted; she refused to speak. He got vexed, turned mute.

'Well then, I _will_ ask you,' Totty exclaimed of a sudden. 'And mind,
I shall know if you're honest or not. Suppose both Thyrza Trent and me
was in this room, and you had your choice between us, which would it
be?'

Ackroyd flushed, then looked seriously offended.

'Won't you answer?'

'I don't like to joke about such things.'

'And I don't either, that's the truth; that's why such a thing came
into my head. You needn't answer; I'd rather you didn't. Of course I
know what you'd have to say.'

'You are talking nonsense. There couldn't be a choice, because I've
_made_ my choice. Will you marry me or not?'

'Yes, I will. Any day you like.'

'Yes, and afterwards keep asking me questions like this.'

'It wasn't right, I know. But you're wrong when you say I should ever
speak of it again.'

'I don't know what to think, Totty. It looks very much as if _you_
didn't want to have _me_. Now look, here's a question for _you_.
Suppose I'd never asked you before to-night, and now I came and asked
you to marry me, what would you say? Now, honest.'

'You've not answered me.'

'I have.'

He spoke it significantly, and she understood him.

'Now, what _would_ you say, Totty?'

'I should say, that I couldn't say neither yes nor no for certain, and
I wanted to wait.'

'You're an honest girl. Shake hands, and let us wait another six
months.'

Totty reddened, and inwardly reproached herself with complete meanness.
But she was glad--and Luke Ackroyd was glad.




CHAPTER XXXIII

THE HEART AND ITS SECRET


Thyrza was not to be a boarder with the Emersons, nor did Mrs. Ormonde
request them to make a friend of her. Nothing more was proposed than
that she should rent from them their spare room, which was tolerably
spacious and could be used both as bed-chamber and parlour. Her meals
were to be supplied to her by the landlady of the house. The only
stipulation with the Emersons was that she should receive her
singing-lessons in their sitting-room, where there was a piano.

Thyrza herself specially desired of Mrs. Ormonde that she might live as
much alone as possible. She declared that it would be no hardship
whatever to her to be without companionship. Her day's occupation would
be chiefly sewing, for Mrs. Ormonde had made arrangements that she
should have regular employment for her needle from a certain charitable
'Home' at Hampstead. For this work she received payment, which--Mrs.
Ormonde made it appear--would suffice to discharge her obligations to
the Emersons and her landlady. Moreover, two days of the week she was
to spend at the said Home, where certain, not too exacting, duties were
assigned to her.

All this was very neatly contrived, and Mrs. Ormonde felt rather proud
of her success in so far meeting the requirements of a very difficult
case. A competent judge had reported so favourably of Thyrza's voice,
that there was a strong probability of its some day enabling her to
earn a living--should that be necessary--in one of the many paths which
our musical time opens to those thus happily endowed; no stress was
laid on that, however, for it was far from desirable that Thyrza should
be nursed into expectation of a golden future. Mrs. Ormonde had
determined that, if her exertion would accomplish it, Thyrza should yet
have as large a share of happiness as a sober hope may claim for a girl
of passionate instincts, of rare beauty, and, it might be, of latent
genius. To be sure, such claim cannot be extravagant. The happy people
of the world are the dull, unimaginative beings from whom the gods, in
their kindness, have veiled all vision of the rising and the setting
day, of sea-limits, and of the stars of the night, whose ears are
thickened against the voice of music, whose thought finds nowhere
mystery. Thyrza Trent was not of those. What joys were to be hers she
must pluck out of the fire, and there are but few of her kind whom in
the end the fire does not consume.

But for the present things seemed to be set going on a smooth track.
And to be sure, though she had thought it better to ask no such
kindness, Mrs. Ormonde knew that her friend Clara Emerson would very
shortly make a companion of Thyrza. It was Clara's nature to make a
friend of any 'nice' person who gave a sign of readiness for friendly
intercourse; the fact of Thyrza's being untaught, and a needle-plier,
would make no difference to her when she had discovered the girl's
sweetness of disposition.

Thyrza wondered much at the way in which her singing-master proceeded
with her instruction. She had looked forward to learning new songs, and
she was allowed to sing nothing but mere uninteresting scales of notes.
A timid question at length elicited one or two abrupt remarks which
humbled, but at the same time informed, her. The teacher, like most of
his kind, was a poor creature of routine, unburdened by imagination; he
had only a larynx to deal with, and was at no pains to realise that the
fountain of its notes was a soul. To be sure, that was a thought which
he was not accustomed to have forced upon him.

Humbled and informed, Thyrza took her lessons with faultless patience,
and with the hopeful zeal which makes light of every difficulty. She
felt her voice improving, and when she sang to herself the old songs
she was no longer satisfied with the old degree of accuracy. A world of
which she had had no suspicion was opening to her; music began to mean
something quite different from the bird-warble which was all that she
had known. Moreover, she began to have an inkling of the value of her
voice. Mrs. Ormonde had scarcely with a word commended her singing, and
had spoken of the lessons as something that might be useful, with no
more emphasis. The master, of course, had only praise or blame for the
individual exercise. But there was someone in the house who felt bound
by no considerations of prudence; Clara, hearing Thyrza's notes, was
entranced by them, and of course took the first opportunity of saying
so.

'You really think I have a good voice?' Thyrza asked once, when they
had grown accustomed to each other.

'You have a splendid voice, Miss Trent!' replied Clara, who delighted
in bestowing praise.

'Do you think I shall really be able to sing some day--I mean, to
people?'

'Why not? I fancy people will be only too anxious to get you to sing.'

'In--in places like St. James's Hall?' Thyrza asked, her ears tingling
at her audacity.

'Some day, I've no doubt whatever.'

Thyrza sewed, as a rule, for six hours a day, save of course on the
days when she went to the Home. For her leisure she had found so much
occupation that she seldom went to bed before midnight. In her walk to
the omnibus which took her to Hampstead, she had to pass a second-hand
book-shop, and it became her habit to put aside sixpence a week--more
she could not--for the purchasing of books. With no one to guide her
choice, and restricted as she was in the matter of price, she sometimes
made strange acquisitions. She avoided story books, and bought only
such as seemed to her to contain solid matter--history by preference,
having learned from Gilbert that history was the best thing to study.
Over these accumulating volumes she spent many a laborious hour. At
first it was very hard to keep awake much after ten o'clock; eyelids
_would_ grow so heavy, and the coil of golden hair (she no longer wore
the long plait with the blue ribbon) seemed such a burden on the brain.
But she strove with her drowsiness, and, like other students, soon made
the grand discovery that, the fit once over, one is wider awake than
ever. What hard, hard things she read! 'Tytler's Universal History,' in
one fat little small-typed volume, very much spoilt by rain, she made a
vade-mecum; the 'Annals of the Orient, of Greece, of Rome'--with
difficulty not easily estimated she worked her way through them. An
English Dictionary became a necessity; she had to wait three weeks
before she had money enough to purchase the cheapest she could find. At
the very beginning of Tytler were such terrible words: _chronological_,
and _epitome_, and _disquisitions_, and _exemplification_.

'If I had someone to ask, what time it would save me! Wouldn't _he_
help me? Wouldn't _he_ be glad to tell me what long words mean?'

Never mind, she would do it by herself. She had brains. Poor Gilbert
had so often said that she could learn anything in time. So the lamp
burned on till midnight. Compendious old Tytler! In his grave it should
have given him both joy and sorrow that so sweet a face grew paler over
his long hard words.

Had she not her reward before her? Two years; in one way it would be
all too short a time. Not an hour must be lost. And when the two years
had come full circle, and some morning she was told that someone wished
to see her, and she went down into the sitting-room, and he, he stood
before her, then she would say, 'This and this I have done, thus hard
have I striven, for your sake, because I love you better than my own
soul!'

That secret: no one must suspect it; no, not even Lyddy. After a hard
night's work she would wake up feeling yet weary, her brain dull, and a
strange pain at her heart--the pain that came so often; but, whilst her
thoughts were struggling to consciousness, she felt that there was some
joy beyond the present pain. And, behold! with sense of the new day
came ever renewed hope. She rose, and a bright angel circled her with
protecting, comforting arms. Dark or sunny, for her the morning had its
golden rays.

How near he sometimes might be to her! She knew nothing of Egremont's
having left England; Lydia did not, and would scarcely have mentioned
the name even if she had known. Thyrza thought of himself as always
very near. There was a possibility that she might by chance see him. It
would have been very dear to her to see him at a distance, but she
dreaded lest he should see her. That would spoil all. No, it was a
sacred compact. Two years--two whole years--had to be lived through,
and then no one could say a word against their meeting.

She would be able to sing to him then. If her voice proved good enough
for her to sing in a concert, like _the_ concert at St. James's Hall,
would he not be proud of her? Artist's soul that she had, she never
gave it a thought that, if she became his wife, he might prefer that
she should not sing in public. She imagined herself before a great hall
of people, singing, yet singing in truth to one only. But all the
others must hear and praise, that he might have joy of her power.

Yet there would be the hour, also, for singing to him alone--they two
alone together. Would not her song be then the most glorious? Not with
her own voice, but with the voice of very love, would she utter her
hymn of gladness and worship. And he would praise her in few
words--more with looks than with words. And again she would say: 'So I
can sing, and no one can sing like me; but only because I sing for you,
and with my soul I love you!'

She could not often be sorrowful, and never for long together, even in
thinking of the past. Yes, one day there was of unbroken grief, the day
on which she received, through Mrs. Ormonde as always, the letter
wherein Lydia told her of Mr. Boddy's death. On that day she shed
bitter tears. Lydia spared her all that was most painful. She said that
the old man had fallen insensible by the Pooles' house, had been taken
in by them, and had died. She said that just before the end he uttered
Thyrza's name. And Thyrza had thought too seldom of Mr. Boddy, to whom
she and her sister owed so much. Had she hastened his death--she now
asked herself--by bringing upon him a great grief? The common remorse,
the common vain longings, assailed her. Even in the old days she had
somewhat slighted him; she had never shown him such love and care as
Lydia always did. And the poor old man was buried, with so much of her
past.

Only one little shadow there was that fell upon her at times when she
thought of Egremont. What was that question of Mrs. Ormonde's--a
question asked in the overheard conversation? 'Have you altogether
forgotten Annabel?' And Walter's reply had shown that he did once love
someone named Annabel. He had asked her to marry him, and she--strange
beyond thought!--had refused him. Thyrza believed--she could not be
quite sure, but she believed--that she had heard Mrs. Ormonde address
Miss Newthorpe by that name. She remembered Miss Newthorpe very
distinctly, her refined beauty, her delightful playing; strangely, too,
she had associated Egremont with that lady in the thoughts she had
after her return from Eastbourne. If that were Annabel, did there
remain no fear? If he had once loved her, might not the love revive? He
and she would meet--doubtless, would meet. Her beauty, her
accomplishments, would be present, and was there no danger to the newer
love if that memory were frequently brought back?

If he had not loved Annabel, be she who she might! If this love for
herself had been his first love, how thankful she would have been! The
love she gave him was her first; never had she loved Gilbert Grail,
though she had thought her friendship for him deserved the dearer name.
Her first love, truly, and would it not be her last?

Very often, when she had sat down to her hook, thoughts of this kind
would come and distract her. What to her were the kings of old Eastern
lands, the conquests of Rome, the long chronicles dense with forgotten
battle and woe? So easily she could have yielded to her former habits,
and have passed hour after hour in reverie. What--she wondered now--had
she dreamed of in those far-off days? Was it not foresight of the
mystery one day to rule her life? Had she not visioned these sorrows
and these priceless joys, when as yet unable to understand them?
Indeed, sometimes there seemed no break between then and now. She
longed unconsciously for what was now come, that was all. Everything
had befallen so naturally, so inevitably, step by step, a rising from
vision to vision.

Would the future perfect her life's progress?

But Lydia was not forgotten. To her she wrote long letters, telling all
that she might tell. The one thing of which she would most gladly have
spoken to her sister must never be touched upon. For in one respect
Lydia was against her--fixedly against her; she had come to know that
too well. Lydia bitterly resented Egremont's coming between her sister
and Gilbert; she hoped his name would never again be spoken, and that
all remembrance of him would pass away. This made no difference to
Thyrza's love. When she met Lydia it was always with the same
passionate joy. Their meetings took place in a private room at the
hotel Mrs. Ormonde always used. Lydia never made any inquiry; whatever
she might tell about herself, Thyrza had to tell unasked. It would have
made a great difference had there been no secret to keep beyond that
comparatively unimportant one of where Thyrza was living. But Thyrza
resolved to breathe no word till the two years were gone by. Would it,
then, make a coldness between her and her sister? It should not; her
happiness should not have that great flaw.

When the spring came, Thyrza knew a falling off in her health. The pain
at her heart gave her more trouble, and she had days of such physical
weakness that she could do little work. With the reviving year her
passion became a yearning of such intensity that it seemed to exhaust
her frame. For all her endeavours it was seldom during these weeks that
she could give attention to her books; even her voice failed for a
time, and when she resumed the suspended lessons, she terrified her
teacher by fainting just as he was taking leave of her. Mrs. Ormonde
came, and there was a very grave conversation between her and Dr.
Lambe, who was again attending Thyrza. It was declared that the latter
had been over-exerting herself; work of all kind was prohibited for a
season. And when a week or two brought about little, if any,
improvement, Thyrza was taken to Eastbourne, to her old quarters in
Mrs. Guest's house.

There Lydia spent two days with her.

The elder sister could not give herself to full enjoyment of these
days. Much as she delighted to be with Thyrza, there was always one and
the same drawback to her pleasure in the meetings. Thyrza was so
unfeignedly cheerful that Lydia could by no effort get rid of her
suspicion that she was being deceived. She shrank from reopening the
subject, because it was so disagreeable to her to pronounce Egremont's
name; because, too, she could not betray doubt without offending
Thyrza. It was hard to distrust Thyrza, yet how account for the girl's
most strange apparent happiness? Even now, though under troubled
health, her sister's spirits were good. Far more easily Lydia could
have suspected Mrs. Ormonde of some duplicity, yet here she was checked
by instincts of gratitude, and by a sense of shame. Mrs. Ormonde did
not certainly impress her as likely to be deceitful. Still, though she
would not specify accusation, Lydia felt, was convinced indeed, that
something very material was being kept from her. It was a cruel
interference with the completeness of her sympathy in all the
conversation between Thyrza and herself.

'So you are friends again with Mary Bower,' Thyrza said, soon after
they had met. 'Do you go and have tea with her on Sundays sometimes?'

'No, she comes to me.'

'And you go to chapel?' Thyrza laughed, seeing Lydia look down.

'Poor Lyddy, what a trial it always was to you! Do you mind it so much
now?'

They were sitting on the beach. Lydia picked up pebbles and threw them
away.

'I don't think about it as I used to, Thyrza,' she replied, quietly,
after a short pause. 'I go now because I like to go.'

'Do you, dear?' Thyrza said, doubtfully, feeling there was a change and
not understanding it. 'You always liked the singing, you know.'

'Yes, I like the singing. But there's more than that. I like it all
now.'

'Do you?' said Thyrza, in yet a more uncertain voice.

Lydia looked up and smiled brightly.

'We won't talk about it now, dearest. Some day we will, though--a good
long talk. When we are again together. If we ever shall be together
again, Thyrza.'

'I think so, Lyddy. I hope so. At all events, we shall see each other
very often.'

'Very often? Not always together?'

Thyrza was silent, but said presently:

'Perhaps. We can't tell, Lyddy.'

'But you don't _think_ we shall. You don't _hope_ we shall.' Thyrza did
not speak.

'No,' Lydia went on, very sadly, 'that's all over and gone. There's
something between us, and now there always will be, always. It's very
hard for me to lose you like this.'

'Don't speak about it now, Lyddy,' her sister murmured. 'It isn't true
that there'll always be something between us. You'll see. But don't
speak about it now, dear.'

Lydia brightened, and found other subjects, Then Thyrza said:

'You never told me, Lyddy, what it was that first made you break off
with Mary. You know you never would tell me. Is it still a secret?'

'No. I can tell you if you like.'

'Please, do.'

'It was because Mary spoke against Mr. Ackroyd. I still don't think
that she ought to have spoken as she did, and Mary owns she was unkind;
but I understand better now what she meant.'

'What was it she said?'

'It was about his having no religion, and that, because he had none, he
did things he couldn't have done if he'd felt in the right way.'

'Yes, I understand,' Thyrza mused. She added: 'He's still not married?'

'No.'

'Why not?--Lyddy, I don't believe they ever will be married.'

'And I don't either, dear.'

Thyrza looked quickly at her sister. Lydia was again playing with
pebbles, not quite smiling, but nearly.

'You don't. Then what has happened? Won't you tell me?'

'I don't think they suit each other.'

'But there's something else, I'm sure there is. You said, 'And I don't
either,' in such a queer way. How do you know they don't suit each
other?'

'Since grandad's death, you know, I've often been to Mrs. Poole's. She
tells me things sometimes. You mustn't think I ever ask, Thyrza. You
know that isn't my way. But Mrs. Poole often speaks about her brother.
Only two days ago, she told me he wasn't going to marry Totty.'

'Really? And I don't think you'd have said a word about it if I hadn't
made you. It's broken off for good?'

'I believe it is.'

Neither spoke for a while. Then Thyrza said:

'I suppose you see Mr. Ackroyd sometimes at the house?'

'Sometimes,' the other replied, heedlessly.

'Does he talk to you, Lyddy?'

'A little. Just a little, sometimes.'

'But _why_ has he broken off with Totty? What does Totty say about it?'

'I believe she was the first to ask him to break off. I met her a week
ago, and she looked very jolly, as if something good had happened to
her. I suppose she's glad to be free again.'

'How queer it all is, Lyddy! Now you might mention things like this in
your letters. If there's anything else of the same kind happens,
remember you tell me.'

'I don't see how there can be. Unless they begin over again.'

'Well, mind you tell me if they do--and if they don't.'

On the second day of Lydia's visit, they heard from The Chestnuts that
Bessie Bunce was dead. She had died suddenly, and just when she seemed
to be in better health than for years.

Thyrza, speaking of the event with Lydia, said gravely:

'I can't feel sorry. It's a good thing to die like that, with no pain
and no looking forward.'

'Oh, do you think so, Thyrza? There's something dreadful in the
suddenness to me.'

'To me it's just the opposite. I'm afraid of death. I don't think I
could sit by anybody that was dying. I hope, I hope I may die in that
way!'

Lydia was shocked, and wondered grieving.




CHAPTER XXXIV

A LOAN ON SECURITY


Yet again it was summer-time, the second summer since the parting
between Lydia and her sister, all but the end of the second twelvemonth
since the day when Thyrza had heard something that was not meant for
her ears. In Walnut Tree Walk the evening was clear and warm. A man was
going along the street selling flowers in pots; his donkey-cart was
covered with leaf and bloom, and with a geranium under each arm, he
trudged onwards, bellowing. Children were playing at five-stones on the
pavement you heard an organ away in Kennington Road.

Lydia was having tea and trimming a bonnet at the same time; the bonnet
belonged to Mrs. Poole, and the work on it was for friendship's sake.
Only on that understanding had Lydia consented to do it. Mrs. Poole had
frequently wished to give her an odd job at needlework for which she
herself either had not time or lacked the skill, and to pay for it as
she would have had to pay any one else. For some reason, Lydia declined
to do anything for her on those conditions; she would help as a friend,
but not otherwise.

She was hurrying, for she wanted to take the bonnet to Paradise Street
by eight o'clock, and it was now half-past seven. Her face had the air
of thoughtful contentment which best became it. Her window was open,
and, as in the old days, there were flower-pots on the sill. Her eye
now and then rested for a moment on the little patches of colour; she
did not think of the flowers, but they helped pleasantly to tone her
mind. Even so will a strain of music sometimes pass through the memory,
unmarked by us, yet completing the happiness of some peaceful hour.

She drank her last drop of tea, and; almost simultaneously, put her
last touch to the bonnet. Then she prepared herself for going out,
hummed a tune whilst she carefully packed the piece of head-gear in its
bandbox, and went on her way.

When Mrs. Poole answered her knock at the house-door, Lydia said:

'I hope you'll like it. I shall see you on Sunday, and you'll tell me
then.'

'But where are you going? Why won't you come in?'

'Oh, I have to buy something.'

'Come in for a minute, then.'

'No, thank you; not to-night.'

'Do as I tell you!' said the other, with good-natured persistence. 'I
believe you're ashamed of your work, and that's why you're running
away. Come in at once.'

Lydia yielded, though seemingly with reluctance. They went down into
the kitchen, where the two young Pooles were at an uproarious game.

'Now there's been just about enough of that!' exclaimed their mother,
raising her voice to be heard. 'Miss Trent 'll think we have a
bear-garden down here. You must play quietly, or off you go to bed--I
mean it!'

The bonnet was taken forth and examined, with many ejaculations of
delight from its owner. The only article of attire upon which Mrs.
Poole ever spent a thought was her bonnet, a noteworthy instance of the
inconsequence of human nature, seeing that it was the rarest thing for
her to leave the house, save when she ran out at night to make
purchases, and then she always donned an object of straw, whose utility
was its only merit. Though as happy a woman as you could have found in
Lambeth, she seldom had a moment of leisure from getting-up to bedtime.
Her kind are very numerous. Such women pass through a whole summer
without an hour of rest in the sunshine, and often through a married
lifetime without going beyond the circle of neighbouring streets.

But the bonnet delighted her. She tried it on, and, having placed a
looking-glass on the table, went through the wonderful feat in which
women are so skilled, that of seeing the back of her head. Then, having
constrained Lydia to sit down, she pursued multifarious occupations,
talking the while.

'I hope you don't notice any bad smells in the house,' she said;
'there's Luke at his usual work, upstairs. What pleasure he can find in
that is more than I can understand. I know he's ruined my table with
his chemicals. There's Jacky with him, too. If I was Mr. Bunce I should
be afraid to have the boy taught such things. He'll set the house on
fire some day, will Master Jack, and burn himself and his little sister
to death.'

'But you see,' said Lydia, 'Mr. Ackroyd does keep to it. You didn't
think he'd persevere more than a week or two, and now it must be a good
three months.'

'Well, yes, it _does_ look as if it was going to be different from the
other things,' Mrs. Poole admitted, with a grudging laugh. 'Well, he
always had a liking for reading books of that kind. Let's hope he knows
his own mind at last. But then he can't never do anything in
moderation, can't Luke. He's got an idea into his head that he's going
to invent a new kind of candle--if you ever heard such a thing! 'Well,'
says I to him, last night, when he come talking to me about it, 'it's
what I call a come-down. Here a while ago you wasn't content with
nothing but setting the world upside down; now you'll be satisfied if
you can invent a new candle, and make money out of it. Well,' I says,
'I'd be above candles, Luke!' My! you should have seen how angry he
got! Who said he wanted to make money? Who'd ever heard him mentioning
money, he'd like to know? If people had low minds, that wasn't his
fault! And then he went off grumbling to himself.'

'But,' ventured Lydia, with diffidence, 'I don't see there's any harm
even if he did think of making money--do you, Mrs. Poole?'

'Not I, child! I only talked so just to tease him. I do so like to
tease Luke; he puts on such airs. Let him make money of course, if he
can; all the better for him. I'd a deal rather have him doing this than
spending all his nights at that club in Westminster Bridge Road,
talking nonsense, and worse. Why, he's ever so much better to live with
now than he used to be. He really does talk sensible sometimes, and he
isn't such a great baby about--about some things.'

Mrs. Poole smiled and held her tongue.

'And what's the last news from your sister?' was her next question.

'Oh, I had a letter yesterday,' Lydia replied, her face lighting up.
'It was all about the concert next Wednesday.'

'Well, well! She must be full of it, mustn't she, now? It must be a
trying thing, to sing for the first time.'

'But it isn't so bad as if she had to sing alone, you know.'

'No, to be sure; but it must be bad enough even in a choir. Shan't you
see her before the night?'

'No. And I shan't be able to speak to her on Wednesday, either. But the
next day we shall have all the evening together. She sent me my ticket.
Look, I've brought it to show you.'

It was a ticket for a concert in one of the suburbs of London. Lydia
kept it in an envelope, and handled it with care. Mrs. Poole, before
taking it, wiped her hands on her apron, and then held the card between
the tips of her thumb and middle finger.

'Will her name be on the programme?' she asked.

'No. They're called Mr. Redfern's choir, that's all.'

'Well, I'm sure it's very nice, and something to be proud of. And she
still keeps her health?'

'She says she is very well indeed.'

'Mrs. Poole,' added Lydia, lowering her voice, 'you haven't said
anything about it?'

'No, no, my dear; not I.'

'It's better not, I think. Of course it doesn't really matter, but
still----'

'Bless you, I understand very well, Lydia. There's no occasion to talk
about such things at all. I suppose Mary Bower knows?'

'Oh yes, I told Mary.'

'Wouldn't she have liked to go with you?'

'Yes, I'm sure she would. But I think I'd rather be alone. There'll be
another concert before long, I dare say, and then she shall go. It's
just this first time, you know.'

It was a cosy kitchen, and Lydia, once seated here, seemed to forget
about the shopping of which she had spoken. Mrs. Poole's stream of talk
was intimate and soothing; plenty of good sense, no scandal, and no
lack of blitheness. But at length it was declared to be the children's
bed time, and Lydia made this the signal for rising to take her leave.

'Now do sit still!' urged Mrs. Poole. 'You're such a restless body.
I've got lots of things I want to talk about yet, if only I could think
of them.'

'I really must go,' Lydia pleaded.

'No, you mustn't now, I shan't be a minute getting these children off
to bed, and then we'll have just five minutes' comfortable talk. Just
sew me a new tape into that apron, there's a good girl. You know where
the cotton is--on the dresser up there.'

Lydia took up the task cheerfully, and by when it was completed the
youngsters were stripped and night-gowned, and ready to say their
reluctant good-night. Their mother carried them upstairs, one on her
back and one in her arms--good strong mother.

And the chat was renewed, till the next event of the evening, supper,
had to be prepared for. Lydia seemed to have given up the struggle; she
consented to stay for the meal without much pressing. When the table
was laid Mrs. Poole went upstairs to her brother's bedroom. On opening
the door she was met with a very strong odour of chemical
experimentalising. Despite the warmth of the season, there was a fire,
with two or three singular pots boiling upon it. A table was covered
with jars and phials, and test-tubes and retorts. Here Ackroyd was
bending to explain something to a sharp-eyed little lad, Jacky Bunce.
Luke had allowed his beard to grow of late, and it improved his
appearance; he looked more self-reliant than formerly. He was in his
shirt-sleeves.

'Now, Jacky,' began Mrs. Poole, 'what'll your father say to you staying
out till these hours? He'll think you're blowed up. Why, it's half-past
nine.'

'All right, Jane,' said Ackroyd. 'Jack and I have had a deal of talk
about the compounds of hydrogen.'

'And if I was his mother, him and I would have a deal of talk about
waistcoats,' rejoined Mrs. Poole, shrewdly.

'I declare, Luke, you ought to tie an apron over him, if he's going to
make that mess of himself.'

'It's an old waistcoat, Mrs. Poole,' protested Jack. 'I keep it on
purpose.'

'Oh, you do! Well, mind it don't go through to your shirt, that's all.
Now run away home, Jacky, there's a good boy.'

'He shan't be five minutes more,' interposed Luke. 'I'm coming down
myself in five minutes.'

'Well, supper's waiting. And here's Miss Trent here, too. Not that
that'll make you come any quicker; perhaps I'd better not have
mentioned it.'

Jane pressed her lips together after speaking, and withdrew.

'Don't you like Miss Trent, Mr. Ackroyd?' Jack inquired, when they were
left alone. He was, as I have said, a sharp-eyed boy, and Luke could
have given wonderful reports of his keenness of brain. It is often
thus. The father has faculties which never ripen in himself, and which,
as likely as not, cause him a life's struggle and unrest; they come to
maturity and efficiency in the son. What more pathetic, rightly
considered, than the story of those fathers whose lives are but a
preparation for the richer lives of their sons? Poor Bunce, fighting
with his ignorance and his passions, unable to overcome either,
obstinate in holding on to a half-truth, catching momentary glimpses of
a far-away ideal--what did it all mean, but that his boy should stand
where _he_ had been thrown, should see light where _his_ eyes had
striven vainly against the fog! Perhaps there is compensation to the
parent if he live to see the lad conquering; but what of those who fall
into silence when all is still uncertain, when they recognise in their
offspring an hereditary weakness and danger as often as a rare gleam of
new promise? One would bow reverently and sadly by the graves of such
men.

It was a happy thought of Ackroyd's to give the boy lessons in
chemistry. To teach is often the surest way of learning. In explaining
simple things, Luke often enough discovered for the first time his own
ignorance. In very fact, the greater part of the past two years had
been spent by him in making discoveries of that nature--long before he
thought of new combinations of oleaginous matter. By degrees he had
come to suspect that, as regarded the employment of his leisure hours,
he was very decidedly on the wrong track. Curiously, for Ackroyd as
well as for Bunce, there had arisen a measure of evil from Walter
Egremont's aspiring work. Luke, though not to such a violent degree as
Bunce, was led to offer opposition to everything savouring of
idealism--that is to say, of idealism as Egremont had presented it. He
had heard but one of Walter's lectures, yet that was enough to realise
for him the kind of thing which henceforth he disliked and distrusted.
Egremont, it seemed to him, had sought to make working men priggish and
effeminate, whereas what they wanted was back-bone and consciousness of
the bard facts of life. Ackroyd had never cared much for literature
proper; his intellectual progress was henceforth to be in the direction
of hostility to literature. When his various love difficulties ceased
to absorb all his attention, he went back to his scientific books, and
found that his appetite for such studies was keener than ever. At
length he converted his bedroom into a laboratory, resolved to pursue
certain investigations seriously. When his heart--or diaphragm, or
whatever else it may be--left him at peace, his brain could work to
sufficient purpose. And of late he had worked most vigorously. He
ceased to trouble himself about politics, and religion, and social
matters. His views thereon, he declared, had undergone no change
whatever, but he had no time to talk at present.

But a question of Jack's waited for an answer.

'That's only my sister's fun,' Luke replied, with a smile. 'There's no
reason why I shouldn't like her.'

'I think she don't look bad,' Jack remarked, as if allowing himself to
stray from chemistry to a matter of trivial interest. He added: 'But
she don't come up to Miss Nancarrow. I like _her_; she's the right kind
of girl, don't you think so?'

'First-rate.'

'I say, Mr. Ackroyd, why don't you never come now and call for her,
like you used to?'

'Used to? When?'

'Why, you know well enough. Not long ago,'

'Oh, years ago!'

'No, not more than a year ago.'

'Yes, Jack; a year and a half.'

'Well it didn't seem so long. I say, why don't you? I've only just
thought of it.'

'There's no need to call. I see her sometimes, and that's enough for
friends, isn't it?'

'I believe you was going to marry Miss Nancarrow, wasn't you?'

'Hollo! Who told you such a thing as that?'

'Nobody. I thought of it myself. It looks like it, when I think. I'm
older now, you see, than I was then; I see more into things.'

Ackroyd laughed heartily.

'It seems you do.'

'Well but, tell me, Mr. Ackroyd.'

'No, I shan't. When you get a bit older still, you'll know that men
have no business to talk about such things. Understand that, Jack.
Never get into the way of talking about things that aren't your
business; there's been a deal of harm done by that.'

'Has there?'

Luke was silent. The boy continued:

'You're sure you _are_ friends with Miss Nancarrow?'

'Of course I am, capital friends. Why, we were both of us on the
Greenwich boat last Sunday, and we laughed and talked no end of time.'

But Luke was ready to leave the room. He appointed another evening when
Jack should come, and the lad scampered off.

Leaving Ackroyd to go down and have supper with his sister and Lydia,
and with Mr. Poole, who had just come home from a late job, let us go
after Jack into Newport Street. As he reached the house, his father was
just coming out.

'You're too late,' said the latter, with a shake of the head. 'Tell Mr.
Ackroyd you must be back by nine. What about your lessons, eh?'

'Lessons!' exclaimed Jack, scornfully. 'Do them in half a crack before
breakfast. Why, there's nothing but a bit of jography, and some kings,
and three proportion sums, and a page of----'

'All right. Go to bed quietly. Nelly's asleep long ago. I shall be back
in half an hour.'

Jack went very softly upstairs. In the one room which was still the
entire home of his father and himself and his little sister, he found a
lamp burning low. The child was in her small cot, sleeping peacefully.
Jack began to unbutton his acid-stained waistcoat, having seized a
piece of bread and butter that lay waiting for him, when his thoughts
intervened to suspend the operation of undressing. He left the room
again, and looked at the door on the opposite side of the landing. He
saw a light beneath it. He advanced and rapped softly.

'Who's that?' was asked from within.

'You ain't in bed yet, Miss Nancarrow, are you?' Jack asked, with the
frankness of expression which became his age.

The door opened, and Totty appeared, able to receive visitors still
with perfect propriety.

'What is it, Jacky?'

The lad was munching his bread and butter.

'You haven't got a spoonful of that jam left, have you, Miss
Nancarrow?' he asked, with a mixture of confidence and shamefacedness.

Totty laughed.

'I dare say I have. But this is a nice time to come asking for jam.
Isn't your father in?'

'Gone out. Says he'll be half an hour. Plenty of time, Miss Nancarrow.

'Come in then.'

Totty closed the door, and produced from her cupboard--a receptacle
regarded with profound interest both by Nelly and the maturer Jack--a
pot of black currant preserve. She spread some with a liberal hand on
the lad's bread, then watched him as he ate, her enjoyment equalling
his own. The bread finished, she offered a spoonful of jam pure and
simple; it was swallowed with gusto.

'I say, Miss Nancarrow,' remarked Jack, 'I don't half-like going to a
new house. I can't see what father wants to move for; we're well enough
off here.'

'Why don't you want to go?'

'Well, there's a good many things. I shouldn't mind so much, you know,
if you was coming as well.'

Again she laughed.

'That's as much as to say, Jack, you'll be sorry when there's no jam.
It isn't _me_, not it!'

'Don't be so sure. I shall come and see you often enough, and not for
jam, either. You're always jolly with me. And I don't see why you can't
come as well. Father 'ud like you to.'

Totty regarded him with a smile for an instant, then asked, carelessly:

'How do you know that? As if it made any difference to your father!'

'But he's said he wished you was coming. He said so day before
yesterday.'

'Nonsense! Now get off to bed. He'll be back, and we shall both get
scolded.'

Jack drew to the door, but Totty recalled him.

'What an idea, for your father to say he wished I was coming! Tell me
how he said it.'

'Why, it was about Nelly. We was talking and saying Nelly 'ud miss you.
And father said, half to himself like, 'Nelly wouldn't be sorry if Miss
Nancarrow 'ud come and be with her always, and I dare say somebody else
wouldn't be sorry, either.''

'Why, you silly boy, he meant you, of course.'

'Oh no, he didn't. Think I can't tell what he meant!'

'Run off to bed! I think I hear your father coming in.'

Jack made a rush, and in one minute and a half was under the
bed-clothes.

The removal which Bunce was about to effect signified an improvement of
circumstances. It was time for his luck to turn. Year after year he had
found himself still at grip with poverty. The shadow of his evil
domestic experiences lengthened as he drew further away, and it seemed
as if he would never get beyond it. To a man of any native delicacy,
the memory of bondage to a hateful woman clings like a long disease
which impoverishes the blood; there is only one way of eradicating it,
and that is with the aid of a strong, wholesome, new emotion. And at
length Bunce began to feel that the past was really past; one sign of
it was the better fortune which enabled him to earn more money. One of
his children was dead, but the other two were growing in health of mind
and body, and he could clothe them better, could look forward to their
future, at last, without that sinking of the heart which at times had
made him pause by night on one of the river bridges and long for a
moment's madness that he might plunge and have done with everything.
Few men had come out of darkness into the light of a sober working day
with less help than he had had. It was his nature to keep silence on
his difficulties. He did not much care to hold continuous friendship
with any man, for, like all who have the habit of talking to
themselves, he was conscious that his companionship lacked attraction.
Moreover--a thing which superficial observers do not realise--like all
who are most genuinely at odds with the world, the first head of his
quarrel was with himself. He was only too well aware of his own defects
and errors. He felt himself to be unamiable, often gross of
understanding, always ready to fall into a blunder which other men
would avoid. He had stood in his own way as often as he had been balked
by others, perhaps oftener.

Now he was going to risk a step forward, was going to leave his single
room lodging and take two rooms in a brighter street some distance
away. They would be vacant for him a fortnight hence, and he had money
enough to buy furniture. Yet he did not look forward to the change as
cheerfully as might have been expected.

For one reason, and for one only, the old abode was preferable to him;
it was a reason of such weight that it cost him no little exertion of
common sense to put it aside. At the same time, it _had_ to be put
aside, and most resolutely, for, whenever it occupied his mind, he soon
found himself uttering contemptuous remarks upon his own thick-headed
folly. He would sometimes blurt out such words as
'fool--idiot--blockhead,' as he walked along the street, astonishing
passers-by who could not be supposed to know that the speaker was
applying these epithets to himself.

On Sunday evening, a day or two after the conversation just reported
between Jack and Totty, Bunce took his children to Battersea Park. When
there, he did not walk about among the people, but sought a retired
piece of lawn and sat down to enjoy a pipe. Nelly had brought a doll
with her, and found delectable occupation in explaining to it all the
various objects which might reasonably excite its curiosity in such a
place. Jack talked with his father of chemistry, of his school
teachers, of what he would be when he was a man. Their conversation was
interrupted by Nelly's exclaiming:

'See, there's Miss Nancarrow!'

Totty was coming over the grass at a little distance, between two
companions, girls dressed with an emphasis of Sunday elegance which
made her look rather brown and plain by contrast. Totty never cared to
spend much on clothes, a singular feature of her character. When the
three were passing at a distance of twenty yards, Nelly cried out with
shrill voice:

'Miss Nancarrow!'

'Hush, child!' said her father, more annoyed than seemed necessary.
'Don't scream at people in that way.'

Nelly was abashed, but her cry had caught Totty's ear. The latter
nodded, laughed, and went on with her friends.

'I say, father,' Jack began, 'do you know what I think?'

'What, boy?'

'Why, I think if you asked Miss Nancarrow to come and take a room in
the new house, she would.'

'Why on earth should I ask her to do such a thing?' inquired Bunce,
laying down his pipe on the grass; it had gone out since Totty's
passing. He looked at his son with bent brows, and rather fiercely.

'Well, I know I'd like her to, and so would Nelly. I can get on with
Miss Nancarrow, 'cause she's got so much sense. I don't think much of
other women.'

Bunce grubbed up roots of grass with his hard, blunt fingers. Then he
took up his pipe again and turned the stem about between his teeth. And
the while he cast glances at Jack, side glances, half savage.

'What makes you think she'd come?' he inquired at length, with a
blundering attempt at indifference of tone.

'I talked to her about it the other night.'

'Oh, you did, did you? And what business had you to talk about such
things, I'd like to know?'

'I don't see no harm. I told her we'd all be glad if she'd come.'

'What the confusion! And who told you to say any such thing?'

Jack was amazed at the outburst of wrath he had provoked.

'Well, father,' he muttered, 'I've heard you say yourself that you'd be
glad if she was coming.'

'Then I'll thank you not to repeat what I say. Leave Miss Nancarrow
alone. If I find you've talked to her in that way again, you and me 'll
quarrel, Jack.'

The boy fell into a fit of sulks, and drew to a little distance, where
he lay fiat, beating the earth vigorously with a stick.

Then it strangely happened that someone came round the bushes, in the
shadow of which the three were reposing, and that it was no other than
Miss Nancarrow, this time unaccompanied. Bunce did not notice her till
she stood before him, then he jumped to his feet.

'Don't disturb yourself, Mr. Bunce,' said Totty, with her usual
self-command. 'I'm only going to have a talk with Nelly, that's all.'

She sat down on the grass by the little one, and began a grave dialogue
on the subject of certain ailments from which the doll had recently
recovered.

It had been nursed through measles--Nelly having had them not long
ago--and its face still showed signs of the disease.

Jack was not disposed to talk. His discretion had been impugned, and at
Jack's age one feels anything of that kind shrewdly. Letting his eyes
wander about the portion of park that lay before them, he saw at a
little distance the nucleus of a religious meeting. At any other time
he would have scorned to pay attention to such a phenomenon; at present
he was glad of any opportunity of asserting his independence. He knew
his father ridiculed prayer-meetings, consequently he rose and began to
walk in the direction of the group of people.

'Where are you going, Jack?' cried Bunce.

'Only for a walk. I'll come back.'

His father acquiesced. Totty suspended her talk and gazed after him for
a moment. Then she turned to Bunce.

'So you've found rooms, Mr. Bunce?' she said, with a piece of sorrel
between her lips.

'Yes, I've got two that'll suit us, I think.'

He mentioned where they were, and made a few remarks about them.

'If there's anything I can do to help you,' said Totty, looking at
Jack's distant figure, 'you'll tell me, I know. There might be some
sewing. I've got plenty of time. Window blinds, and those things.'

'Well, I've made arrangements about all that with the landlady,' Bunce
replied, in some embarrassment. 'I thank you very much, Miss Nancarrow,
all the same.'

'That's too bad of you. You knew very well I'd have been glad to help.
Tell your father he's very soon forgetting his old friends, Nelly.'

She drew the child to her as she spoke, and kissed her cheek.

'You know very well I shan't do that, Miss Nancarrow,' said Bunce,
glancing at her. 'Whoever else, I'm not likely to forget you.'

'I'm not so sure of that. Are you, Nelly?'

He said nothing. Totty let her eyes catch a glimpse of his face. He was
looking down, and again grubbing up grass.

'I shall be very sorry if you don't come and see the children
sometimes,' he mumbled. 'Or at all events, I hope they can come and see
you.'

'Shall you still work at the same shop?' Totty asked, paying no
attention to the last remark.

'Yes, for a bit at all events.'

'Why don't you start a shop of your own, Mr. Bunce?' she next inquired,
as if a happy idea had struck her.

'I shouldn't mind doing that,' he answered, with a hard laugh. 'But
shops can't be had for the wishing.'

'You don't need a big one. Now like that shop in Duke Street, you know.
What's the rent of a place like that?'

'I'm sure I don't know. I suppose it goes with the house.'

'Then what's the rent of the house likely to be? You could let all you
didn't want, you know, and that 'ud almost pay the rent, I should
think.'

He laughed again.

'What's the good of talking about it? Why there's a little locksmith's
and ironmonger's shop to let in that street just off the far end of
Lambeth Walk. They're selling off now; I'm going to buy a few things
to-morrow. But what's the good of thinking about it?'

'I don't know. What's the rent?'

'Not more than forty pounds, house and all, I dare say. A mate of mine
was talking about it. He said he wished he'd a couple of hundred pounds
to take it and start. The man's dead, and his wife wanted to sell the
business, but she can't get an offer.'

The meeting which Jack was attending had began to sing a hymn. The
voices, harmonised by distance, sounded pleasantly.

'I like that hymn-tune, Mr. Bunce,' said Totty, 'don't you?'

'I don't think much about hymns, Miss Nancarrow.'

'Well, you might say you like it.'

'I do, to tell the truth--so long as I can't hear the words.'

'I don't care nothing about the words, either. So we agree about
something, at all events.'

'I don't think we've differed about many things, have we?'

She looked at him frankly, and smiled. Then she said:

'Oh, you used to be a bit afraid of me, I know. Shall I tell you what
it was made us real friends? It was when you burnt your hand, and I did
it up for you.'

Bunce now returned her look, and his swarthy cheeks reddened. His eyes
fell again.

'You behaved very kindly,' he said in a half-ashamed way. 'I don't
forget, and I'm not likely ever to. And I shan't forget all you've done
for the children, either. I don't think there's any one living I've
more to thank for than you.'

'The idea.'

'Well, it's true.'

'But look here, Mr. Bunce. About that shop. Suppose you had two hundred
and fifty pounds; could you make a start, do you think?'

'I rather suppose I could. And where's two hundred and fifty pound to
come from, Miss Nancarrow?'

'I'll lend it you if you like.'

He gazed at her with so strange a face that Totty broke into hearty
laughter. Bunce joined, appreciating the joke.

'I mean it, Mr. Bunce. I've got two hundred and fifty pounds--at all
events I can have, whenever I like.'

He gazed again, wondering at her tone.

'Now I see you don't believe me, so I shall have to explain.'

She told him the story of her legacy, only forbearing to speak of the
condition attached to it.

'Will you let me lend it you, Mr. Bunce?'

'No, I'm sure I shan't, Miss Nancarrow. You'll have plenty of use for
that yourself.'

'Look here, Nelly!' The child was listening to this remarkable
dialogue, and trying to understand. 'Tell your father he's to do just
what I want. If he doesn't, I'll never speak again neither to you nor
Jacky. Now, I mean it.'

'Please father,' said Nelly, 'do what Miss Nancarrow wants.'

Bunce kept his face half averted. He was at a dire pass.

'Well, Mr. Bunce?'

'That's all nonsense!' he exclaimed. 'How can I tell that I should ever
be able to pay you back?'

'So you won't?'

'Of course I can't. It's just like you to offer, but of course I can't.'

'Very well, I can't help it.' She lowered her voice. 'I forgot to tell
you that I can't get the money till I'm married. It doesn't matter,
I've offered it.'

Bunce stared at her.

'Good-bye, Nelly,' Totty went on. 'I can't be friends with you after
this. Your father's told me to go about my business.'

'No, he hasn't,' protested the child, dolorously. 'You haven't, have
you, father?'

'Yes, he has. It doesn't matter, I'm off.'

She jumped up. Bunce sprang to his feet at the same time, and caught
her up in a moment. She turned, looked at him reddened, laughed.

'Why did you say anything about that money?' he began, able to speak
without restraint at length. 'If I hadn't known about that!'

'I don't see what the money's got to do with it.'

'I do. Look, I should have felt like making a fool of myself--a man of
my age and with two children--but I do believe when I'd got into those
new rooms I couldn't have helped some day asking you if--well, I can't
say it. I'm ashamed of myself, that's the truth.'

'And what does that matter, Mr. Bunce, so long as I'm not ashamed of
you?'

'When you might do so well? A man like me--and the children?'

'How you talk! Don't you think I'm fond of the children?'

'Come and sit down again and talk a bit.'

'No. Will you have the money, Mr. Bunce, or won't you?'

'I'd very much rather have you without it, Totty, and that's the honest
truth.'

'Yes, but you can't, you see. Now, you'll have a rare tale to tell of
me some day, when you're tired of me, And it's all come of your
changing your lodgings.'

'I know.'

'No, you don't know. Come and sit down, and I'll tell you.'

Totty went back, and fondled Nelly against her side, and explained why
the threatened change of abode had made her act with such
independence--characteristic to the end.




CHAPTER XXXV

THREE LETTERS


_Walter Egremont to Mrs. Ormonde._

'Where I to spend the rest of my natural life in this country--which
assuredly I have no intention of doing--I think I should never settle
down to an hour's indulgence of those tastes which were born in me, and
which, in spite of all neglect, are in fact as strong as ever. I cannot
read the books I wish to read; I cannot even think the thoughts I wish
to think. As I have told you, the volumes I brought out with me lay in
their packing-cases for more than six months after my arrival, and for
all the use I have made of them in this second six months they might be
still there. The shelves in the room which I call my library are
furnished, but I dare not look how much dust they have accumulated.

'I read scarcely anything but newspapers--it is I who write the words.
Newspapers at morning, newspapers at night. Yes, one exception; I have
spent a good deal of time of late over Walt Whitman (you know him, of
course, by name, though I dare say you have never looked into his
works), and I expect that I shall spend a good deal more; I suspect,
indeed, that he will in the end come to mean much to me. But I cannot
write of him yet; I am struggling with him, struggling with myself as
regards him; in a month or so I shall have more to say. It is perfectly
true, then, that till quite recently I have read but newspapers. The
people about me scarcely by any chance read anything else, and the
influence of surroundings has from the first been very strong upon me.
You have complained frequently that I say nothing to you about my
_self_; it is one of the signs of my condition that with difficulty I
think of that self, and to pen words about it has been quite
impossible. I long constantly for the old world and the old moods, but
I cannot imagine myself back into them. I would give anything to lock
my door at night, and take down my Euripides; if I get as far as the
shelf, my hand drops.

'I begin to see a meaning in this phase of my life. I have been
learning something about the latter end of the nineteenth century, its
civilisation, its possibilities, and the subject has a keen interest
for me. Is it new, then? you will ask. To tell you the truth, I knew
nothing whatever about it until I came and began to work in America. I
am in the mood for frankness, and I won't spare myself. All my
so-called study of modern life in former days was the merest
dilettantism, mere conceit and boyish pedantry. I travelled, and the
fact that wherever I went I took a small classical library with me was
symbolical of my state of mind. I saw everything through old-world
spectacles. Even in America I could not get rid of my pedantry, as you
will recognise clearly enough if you look back to the letters I wrote
you at that time. I came then with theories in my head of what American
civilisation must be, and everything that I saw I made fit in with my
preconceptions. This time I came with my mind a blank. I was ill, and
had not a theory left in me on any subject in the universe. For the
first time in my life I was suffering all that a man can suffer; when
the Atlantic roared about me, I scarcely cared whether it engulfed me
or not. Getting back my health, I began to see with new eyes, and have
since been looking my hardest. And I have still not a theory on any
subject in the universe.

'In fact, I believe that for me the day of theories has gone by. I note
phenomena, and muse about them, and not a few interest me extremely.
The interest is enough. I am not a practical man; I am not a
philosopher. I may, indeed, have a good deal of the poet's mind, but
the poet's faculty is denied to me. It only remains to me to study the
word in its relations to my personality, that I may henceforth avoid
the absurdities to which I have such a deplorable leaning.

'Do you know what I ought to have been?--a schoolmaster. That is to
say, if I wished to do any work of direct good to my fellows in the
world. I could have taught boys well, better than I shall ever do
anything else. I could not only have taught them--the 'gerund-grinding'
of Thomas Carlyle--but could have inspired them with love of learning,
at all events such as were capable of being so inspired. My class of
working men in Lambeth exercised this faculty to some extent. When I
was teaching them English Literature, I was doing, as far as it went,
good and sound work. When I drifted into 'Thoughts for the
Present'--Heaven forgive me!--I made an ass of myself, that's the long
and short of it. My ears tingle as I remember those evenings.

'I am infinitely more human than I was; I can even laugh heartily at
American humour, and that I take to be a sign of health. Health is what
I have gained. The devotion of eight or ten hours a day to the work of
the factory has been the best medicine any one could have prescribed to
me. It was you who prescribed it, and it was your crowning act of
kindness to me, dear Mrs. Ormonde. It is possible that I have grown
coarser; indeed, I know that I associate on terms of equality and
friendliness with men from whom I should formerly have shrunk. I can
get angry, and stand on my rights, and bluster if need be, and on the
whole I think I am no worse for that. My ear is not offended if I hear
myself called 'boss;' why should it be? it is a word as well as
another. Nay, I have even felt something like excitement when listening
to political speeches, in which frequent mention was made of 'the great
State of Pennsylvania.' Well, it _is_ a great State, or the phrase has
no meaning in any application. Will not this early life of the New
World some day be studied with reverence and enthusiasm? I try to see
things as they are.

'Social problems are here in plenty. Indeed, it looks very much as if
America would sooner have reached an acute stage of social conflict
than the old countries; naturally, as it is the refuge of these who
abandon the old world in disgust. American equality is a mere phrase;
there is as much brutal injustice here as elsewhere. But I can no
longer rave on the subject; the injustice is a _fact_, and only other
facts will replace it; I concern myself only with facts. And the great
fact of all is the contemptibleness of average humanity. I will submit
for your reverent consideration the name of a great American
philanthropist--Cornelius Vanderbilt. Personally he was a disgusting
brute; ignorant, base, a boor in his manners, a blackguard in his
language; he had little if any natural affection, and to those who
offended him he was a relentless barbarian. Yet the man was a great
philanthropist, and became so by the piling up of millions of dollars.
Of course he did that for his own vulgar satisfaction, though
personally he could not use the money when he had it; no matter, he has
aided civilisation enormously. He as good as created the steamship
industry in America; he reorganised the railway system with admirable
results; by adding so much to the circulating capital of the country,
he provided well-paid employment for unnumbered men. Thousands of homes
should bless the name of Vanderbilt--and what is the state of a world
in which such a man can do such good by such means? Well, I have
nothing to say to it. It is merely part of the tremendous present,
which interests me.

'And I once stood up in my pulpit, and with mild assurance addressed
myself to the task of improving the world! Do not make fun of me when
we meet again, dear friend; I am too bitterly ashamed of myself.

'It seems a long time since you told me anything of Thyrza. I do not
like to receive a letter from you in which there is no mention of her
name. Does she still find a resource in her music? Are you still kind
to her? Yes, kind I know you are, but are you gentle and affectionate,
doing your utmost to make her forget that she is alone? You do not see
her very frequently, I fear. I beg you to write to her often, the
helpful letters you can write to those whom you love. She can repay you
for all trouble with one look of gratitude.'

(_Three months later_.)

'I am sending you Whitman's 'Leaves of Grass.' I see from your last
letter that you have not yet got the book, and have it you must. It is
idle to say that you cannot take up new things, that you doubt whether
he has any significance for _you_, and so on. You have heart and brain,
therefore his significance for you will be profound.

'I would not write much about him hitherto; for I dreaded the smile on
your face at a new enthusiasm. I wished, too, to test this influence
upon myself thoroughly; I assure you that it is easier for me now to be
sceptical than to open my heart generously to any one who in our day
declares himself a message-bringer to mankind. You know how cautiously
I have proceeded with this American _vates_. At first I found so much
to repel me, yet from the first also I was conscious of a new music,
and then the clamour of the vulgar against the man was quite enough to
oblige me to give him careful attention. If one goes on the assumption
that the ill word of the mob is equivalent to high praise, one will
not, as a rule, be far wrong, in matters of literature. I have studied
Whitman, enjoyed him, felt his force and his value. And, speaking with
all seriousness, I believe that he has helped me, and will help me,
inestimably, in my endeavour to become a sound and mature man.

'For in him I have met with one who is, first and foremost, a man, a
large, healthy, simple, powerful, full-developed man. Bead his poem
called 'A Song of Joys'--what glorious energy of delight, what
boundless sympathy, what _sense_, what _spirit_! He knows the truth of
the life that is in all things. From joy in a railway train 'the
laughing locomotive! To push with resistless way and speed off in the
distance'--to joy in fields and hillsides, joy in 'the dropping of
rain-drops in a song,' joy in the fighter's strength, joy in the life
of the fisherman, in every form of active being--aye, and

  Joys of the free and lonesome heart, the tender, gloomy heart,
  Joys of the solitary work, the spirit bow'd yet proud, the
      suffering and the struggle;
  The agonistic throes, the ecstasies, joys of the solemn musings
      day or night;
  Joys of the thought of Death, the great spheres Time and Space!

What would not I give to know the completeness of manhood implied in
all that? Such an ideal of course is not a new-created thing for me,
but I never _felt_ it as in Whitman's work. It is so foreign to my own
habits of thought. I have always been so narrow, in a sense so
provincial. And indeed I doubt whether Whitman would have appealed to
me as he now does had I read him for the first time in England and
under the old conditions. These fifteen months of practical business
life in America has swept my brain of much that was mere prejudice,
even when I thought it worship. I was a pedantic starveling; now, at
all events, I _see_ the world about me, and all the goodliness of it.
Then I am far healthier in body than I was, which goes for much. It
would be no hardship to me to take an axe and go off to labour on the
Pacific coast; nay, a year so spent would do me a vast amount of good.

'I wonder whether you have read any of the twaddle that is written
about Whitman's grossness, his materialism, and so forth? If so, read
his poems now, and tell me how they impress you. Is he not _all_
spirit, rightly understood? For to him the body with its energies is
but manifestation of that something invisible which we call human soul.
And so pure is the soul in him, so mighty, so tender, so infinitely
sympathetic, that it may stand for Humanity itself. I am often moved
profoundly by his words. He makes me feel that I am a very part of the
universe, and that in health I can deny kinship with nothing that
exists. I believe that he for the first time has spoken with the very
voice of nature; forests and seas sing to us through him, and through
him the healthy, unconscious man, 'the average man,' utters what before
he had no voice to tell of, his secret aspirations, his mute love and
praise.

'Look you! I write a sort of essay, and in doing so prove that I am
myself still. Were it not that I have mercy on you, I could preach on
even as I used to do to my class in Lambeth. Ha, if I had known Whitman
then! I believe that by persuading those men to read him, and helping
them to understand him, I should really have done an honest day's work.
There were some who could have relished his meaning, and whose lives he
would have helped. For there it is; Whitman helps one; he is a tonic
beyond all to be found in the druggist's shop. I imagine that to live
with the man himself for a few days would be the best thing that could
befall an invalid; surely vital force would come out of him.

'He makes one ashamed to groan at anything. Whatever comes to us is in
the order of things, and the sound man accepts it as his lot. Yes, even
Death--of which he says noble things. The old melodious weeping of the
poets--Moschus over his mallows, and Catullus with his '_Soles occidere
et redire possunt_'--Whitman has no touch of that. Noble grief there is
in him, and noble melancholy can come upon him, but acquiescence is his
last word. He holds that all is good, because it exists, for everything
plays its part in the scheme of nature. When his day comes, he will
die, as the greatest have done before him, and there will be no puny
repining at the order of things.

'Has he then made me a thorough-going optimist? Scarcely, for the
willow cannot become the oak, Your old name for me was 'The Idealist,'
and I suppose in a measure I deserved it; I know I did in the most
foolish sense of the word. And in my idealism was of course implied a
good deal of optimism. But shall I tell you what was there in a yet
larger measure? That which is termed self-conceit. An enemy speaking of
me now--Dalmaine for example, if he chose to tell the truth--would say
that a business life in America has taken a great deal of the humbug
out of me. I shall always be rather a weak mortal, shall always be
marked by that blend of pessimism and optimism which necessarily marks
the man to whom, in his heart, the beautiful is of supreme import,
shall always be prone to accesses of morbid feeling, and in them, I
dare say, find after all my highest pleasure. Nay, it is certain that
Moschus and Gatullus will always be more loved by me than Whitman. For
all this, I am not what I was, and I am a completer man than I was. I
shall remain here yet nine months, and who can say what further change
may go on in me?

'Now to another subject. It gladdens me to hear what you say of Thyrza,
that she seems both well and happy. I envy you the delight of hearing
her sing. It is a beautiful thing that in this way she has found
expression for that poetry which I always read in her face. By-the-by,
does she still meet her sister away from the place where she lives? Is
that still necessary? However, all these details are in your judgment.
The great thing is that she is happy in her life, that she has found a
great interest.

'I wish to know--I beg you to answer me--whether she has ever spoken of
me. When I used to press you to speak on this subject, you always
ignored that part of my letter. Need you still do so? Will you not tell
me whether she has asked about me, has spoken in any way of me? To be
sure you must betray no confidences; yet perhaps it will not be doing
so.

'Read Whitman; try to sympathise with me as I now am. You know that I
am anything but low-spirited, yet in very truth I have no single
companion here to whom I can speak of intimate things, and, except on
business, I write absolutely to no one in England save to you. And
intellectual sympathy I do need; I scarcely think I could live on
through my life without it.

'Another thing, and the last. You have never once spoken of Miss
Newthorpe, nor have I, in all this long time. I pray you tell me
something of her. It is very likely that she's married--to whom, now?
Her husband should be an interesting man, one I should like some day to
know. Or is she another example of the unaccountable things women will
do in marriage? Pray Heaven not!'

(_Eight months after the last_.)

'I have just been reading a leader in the _New York Herald_ wherein
there is mention of Dalmaine's factory bill. Dalmaine is spoken of with
extreme respect; his measure is one of those which 'largely testify to
the practical wisdom and beneficence of the spirit which prevails in
British legislation.' This kind of thing it is, says the writer, which
keeps England in such freedom from the social disturbance so rife on
the continent of Europe, and from which America has so much to fear.
Seriously, this is all very right and just: Dalmaine is deserving well
of his country. But the amazing fact is that _such_ a man comes forward
to perform such services. However, it is only the Vanderbilt business
over again. These men are the practical philanthropists, and to sneer
at them is very much the same as to speak contemptuously of the
rain-shower which aids the growth of the corn.

'I have written very short letters lately. Business has claimed me
night and day. We have had sundry difficulties of late, which you
certainly would not thank me for explaining, and I am only just
beginning to feel that if I take my due sleep at night I am doing
nothing wrong. For months I have been the man of business, pure and
simple. I have exerted myself to over-reach people, and have fumed
because others all but succeeded in over-reaching me. I have lived the
life of a cunning and laborious animal. Well, I have my profit of it in
several ways, but I think I have had about enough of it for the present.

'I shall be in England in a month.

'Whether I shall remain there long, is uncertain. But at all events I
shall not be back here again for some time. One of our London men is
coming to take my place. I have compliments from my fellows in the
firm;--it makes me feel that I must have sunk low.

'And now to the subject which I really took up my pen to write about. I
am very glad that you speak of letting Lydia visit her sister before
long. I remember well how much they are to each other. It has been no
less than heroism in Thyrza to submit to practical separation for so
long a time, at your mere bidding, without explanation asked or given.

'Shall you speak of me to Thyrza before my return? No, I suppose you
will take no such responsibility. I don't know what your mind is now on
this matter, but in any case you have performed your part right
generously and nobly, and it is a very pleasant thought to me that
through her life Thyrza will regard you as her dearest friend, the one
to whom she owes most. It will be a never-falling source of sympathy
between her and myself.

'Do you think she _expects_ my coming before long? Does such
expectation explain her constant cheerfulness?--otherwise, I do not
quite understand her, and have long felt it a difficulty. I put
absolute faith in all you tell me of her--need I say that? But, if
indeed she looks forward to seeing me, in what manner has she conceived
that hope? I confess I did not think that her nature was of the kind
which can derive sufficient support from hope alone, hope which comes
of mere wish. It would be so very different if any word had even passed
between us which her memory could store up as encouragement. In that
case she would hope on for years, her own fidelity making it impossible
for her to suspect me of unfaithfulness. That, I believe, is in her
character. You remember that, in my raving, I accused myself to you and
said that I was conscious of having allowed her to read my thoughts. I
cannot now be sure whether that was true or not; I heartily wish I
could. Still, I am sure that I did not purposely lead her to think I
was in love with her. And, as things turned out, nothing subsequently
happened to give her that idea; at all events, nothing I ever knew of.
True, I made confession to Grail, but he would not have spoken of it to
Thyrza, even if he had had opportunity, which you are convinced he has
not. And you say it is equally certain that Lydia Trent would not help
her to such knowledge. We can only conclude that the fact of your
adopting her, as it were, makes her hope that she is being prepared for
something in the future.

'Well, I know it is not impossible that she has forgotten me, in the
lover's sense. I am not so conceited as to believe that a girl who has
once conceived a liking for me must necessarily hold me in her heart
for ever. There would be nothing strange, certainly nothing unworthy,
in her putting away all thought of one who, for anything she knew, had
never dreamed of loving her. I wonder what your own belief is? But do
not write about this. I shall see you very soon. I mean to be in
England just before the appointed day, and to come to you at once.

'The future puzzles me a little at times, and yet after all it will be
very simple. When a man marries the duties of life are suddenly made
very plain. Formerly it was my incessant question: What ought I to do
with myself, with my time, with my money? And of course, being what I
am and living in our age, I drove on the rocks of philanthropic
enterprise. No more risk of that. The one task before me is to make a
woman as happy as by all endeavour I may; to think of nothing in this
world until her heart is at rest; to sacrifice everything to her
advancement; and therein, easily enough, to find my own happiness. The
circumstances of my marriage will give me more opportunity of making
this aim predominant than men usually have. Thyrza will need to be
taught much, and will be eager to learn. I think I shall take a house
not far from London, and live there quietly for two or three years. It
has occurred to me to bring her here, but I had rather she developed
her intellectual life in England. It is scarcely probable that, after
once quitting it, I shall return to this humdrum business; I have vast
arrears to make up in all my natural pursuits, and with Thyrza to bear
me company in the fields, I am not very likely to go back of my own
will to a factory. So that, after all, the future is clear enough; more
peaceful and more fruitful than ever the past was. You will often come
to us, will you not? It will be a joy to open our door to you, and to
seat you at our table. And in the evenings Thyrza shall sing to us.

'By-the-by, suppose when I offer myself to her, she refuses to marry
me!--Is it possible? Is it impossible? Of course, if her contentment
has nothing to do with hope of seeing me again, then my appearance will
only surprise and alarm and trouble her.

'Things must rest till I see you. I will cable from New York when I am
starting for Europe. I shall be glad to see England again, glad to
leave trade behind me, thrice glad to hold your hand.'




CHAPTER XXXVI

THYRZA WAITS


'I can't promise, Mrs. Emerson, that my sister will come down and have
tea with you. Please don't make any preparations; it's only perhaps.'

Thyrza had looked into the sitting-room to say this late in the evening.

'Oh, but she must!' Clara pleaded. 'Why not, dear? Won't you let me see
her at all, then?'

Thyrza closed the door, which she had been holding open, and advanced
into the room. She wore a dress of light hue, and had some flowers in
her girdle. The past year had added a trifle to her stature; it could
not add to her natural grace, but her manner of entering showed that
diffidence had been overcome by habit. There was very little now to
distinguish her from the young lady who has always walked on carpets.

'You won't mind if I ask you to come up to my room instead, Mrs.
Emerson?' she said, standing before the sofa on which Clara sat sewing.
'I don't know that it will be necessary, but, if it should be----'

'Oh, I will gladly come. It's only that I didn't like to think of not
making her acquaintance at all.'

'There's no reason why I shouldn't explain it to you,' Thyrza said,
holding her hands together. 'My sister has never been with any except
working people, and it is quite natural that she should feel a little
afraid of meeting strangers. I'm sure she needn't be; but of course I
must do what she wishes.'

'But, my dear, surely nobody in the world could be afraid of _us_! And,
as you say, I feel certain that _your_ sister needn't be afraid of any
one. I'll come up and see her, and we'll talk a little, and she'll get
used to me.'

'Yes. I am so glad she is coming!'

'I'm sure you are. And how well you look to-night, dear! It's so seldom
you have any colour in your cheeks. There now! If I was another sort of
person, you'd go away thinking I'd said that on purpose to hurt you.'

'How could I?' Thyrza uttered in surprise. 'What sort of people would
have that thought?'

'Oh, very many that I know.'

'Surely not, Mrs. Emerson! But it's quite true; my cheeks feel a little
hot to-night. They generally do when I've been making myself very happy
about anything.'

'But you're always so happy.'

'Not more than you are,' Thyrza replied, laughing.

'Well, I think you show it more. When I'm happiest, I sit very quiet,
and look very dull. Now you sing, and your eyes get so bright and
large, you don't know how large your eyes look sometimes.'

Thyrza laughed and shook her head.

'I sing too much,' she said. 'If I don't mind I shall be hurting my
voice. But it's late; I must be off to bed. And I know I shan't sleep
all night. To tell the truth, it isn't often I sleep more than three or
four hours. Good-night, Mrs. Emerson!

'Good-night, happy girl!'

She went away, laughing in pure, liquid notes. Her light step could not
be heard as she ran up the stairs.

It wanted but a week of the day to which Thyrza's life had pointed for
two years. That day of the month had stood long since marked upon her
calendar; and now the long months had annihilated themselves; it wanted
but seven days.

External changes of some importance had come to her of late. Since her
admission to Mr. Redfern's choir she no longer wrought with her needle.
More than that, every other day there came a lady who read with her and
taught her. The time of weary toil without assistance was over. She had
never been able to seek help of Mrs. Emerson; it was repugnant to her
to speak of what she was doing in secret. To tell of her efforts would
have seemed to Thyrza like half revealing her motives, so closely
connected in her own mind were the endeavour and its hope. Mrs. Ormonde
had known, but hitherto had offered no direct assistance.

To the latter Thyrza's relation was a strange one. As her mind matured,
as her dreaming gave way more frequently to conscious reflection, she
often asked herself how, knowing Mrs. Ormonde's thoughts, she could
accept from her so much and repay her with such sincere affection. Told
to her of another, she could with difficulty have believed it. Yet the
simple truth remained that she had never shrunk from Mrs. Ormonde's
offers of kindness, had never felt humiliated in receiving anything at
her hands. This could not have been but for the sincerity of affection
on Mrs. Ormonde's side. A dialogue such as that which Thyrza had
overheard at Eastbourne would have inspired hatred in a nature less
pure than hers. She had wondered, had at times thought that Mrs.
Ormonde misjudged her; yet such was the simple candour of her mind
that, instead of fostering evil, that secret knowledge had wrought upon
her in the most beneficial way. 'She thinks that I am no fit wife for
him; but that isn't all. She thinks of me, too, and believes that he
could not make me happy. Though speaking in private, she did not say a
word that could truly offend me. I know her to be good. I remember what
she was by my bedside when I was ill; and I have seen numberless things
that prove how impossible it is for her to deceive any one who puts
trust in her.' And from that Thyrza derived both comfort and guidance.
'I will not fear her. Perhaps she has acted in the wisest and kindest
way. To him who loves me two years will be nothing: and cannot _I_ use
the time to prove to her that I am worthy to be his wife? If his love
is still the same--how can it not be?--and my worthiness is put beyond
doubt, she can have no further reason for opposing our marriage; nay,
she will be glad in my happiness and in his. She shall see that I can
bear trial, that I can work quietly and perseveringly, above all that I
am faithful.'

And time made the affection between them stronger. Thyrza believed that
Mrs. Ormonde's opposition to the marriage was weakening; when at
length, as the time drew to an end, menial work was put aside and she
was encouraged to spend her days in improving her mind, it seemed to
her a declaration that she was found fit for a higher standing than
that to which she was born. The joy which filled her became almost too
great to bear. She no longer strove to conceal it in Mrs. Ormonde's
presence. There was a touching little scene between them on the
afternoon before the concert at which Thyrza was to sing for the first
time, Mrs. Ormonde came to Thyrza's room unannounced; the latter was
laying out the dress she was to wear in the evening--a simple white
dress, but far more beautiful than any she had ever put on. Seeing her
friend enter, she turned, looked in her face, and burst into tears.
When she could utter words, they were a passionate expression of
gratitude. Mrs. Ormonde believed in that moment that her two years'
anxiety had found its end.

Very shortly after came the permission for Lydia to visit her. It was
new assurance that Mrs. Ormonde was reconciled to what she had tried to
prevent. A week, and there would come another visitor, one who was more
to her even than her sister.

In looking back, the time seemed very brief, for, whatever change had
been made in her, the love which was her life's life had known no
shadow of change. Had it perhaps strengthened? It was hard to believe
that she could love more than in that day of her darkest misery, when
it had seemed that she must die of longing for him to whom she had
given her soul. Yet she was stronger now, her life was richer in a
multitude of ways, and every gain she had achieved paid tribute to her
life's motive. Her singing she valued most as a way of uttering the
emotion she must not speak of to anyone; in music she could ease
herself of passion, yet fear no surprisal of her secret. Nothing was a
joy save in reference to that one end that was before her. If she felt
happy in a piece of knowledge attained, it was because she would so
soon speak of it to him, and hear him praise her for it. Everything and
all people about her seemed to conspire for her happiness. Even the
bodily pain which had often tried her so was no longer troublesome, or
very seldom indeed. Mrs. Emerson might well call her 'happy girl.'

In him she could imagine no change. His face was as present to her as
if she had seen him an hour ago, and she never asked herself whether
two years would have made any alteration even in his appearance. His
voice was the voice in which he had spoken to Mrs. Ormonde, when he
uttered the golden words that said he loved her. He would speak now in
the same way, with those inflections which she knew so well, dearer
music than any she had learnt or could learn. In the beginning she had
known a few fears; time then was so long--so long before her; but what
had she to do with fear now? Was he not Walter Egremont, the man of all
men--the good, wise, steadfast? She had heard much praise of him in the
old days, but never praise enough. No one knew him well enough; no one
the half as well as she did. Should she not know him who dwelt in her
heart?

His life had always been strange to her, but by ceaseless imagining she
had pictured it to herself so completely that she believed she could
follow him day by day. Gilbert Grail had told her that he dwelt in a
room full of books, near the British Museum, which also was full of
books. Most of his time was spent in study; she understood what that
meant. He did not give lectures now; that had come miserably to an end.
He had a few friends, one or two men like himself, who thought and
talked of high and wonderful things, and one or two ladies, of
course--Mrs. Ormonde, and, perhaps, Miss Newthorpe. But probably Miss
Newthorpe was married now. And, indeed, he did not care much to talk
with ladies. He would go occasionally out of London, as he used to;
perhaps would go abroad. If he crossed the sea, he must think much of
her, for the sea always brings thoughts of those one loves. And so he
lived, only wishing for the time to go by.

Lydia's visit was on Sunday. She was to come immediately after dinner;
and, perhaps, though it remained uncertain--for she had not ventured to
speak of it in her letter--they would have tea with the Emersons.

Concerning Thyrza's sister Mrs. Emerson had much curiosity, but she was
not ill-bred. She made no attempt to get a glimpse of Lydia as the
latter went upstairs to Thyrza's room. Thyrza stood just within her
open door. She had put a flower in her hair for the welcoming.

'So this is where you have lived all this time,' Lydia said, looking
about the room. 'How pretty it is, Thyrza! But of course it's a lady's
room.'

The other stood with her hands together before her, and, a little
timidly, said:

'Do I look like a lady? Suppose you didn't know me, Lyddy, should you
think I was a lady?'

'Of course I should,' her sister answered, though in a way which showed
that she did not care to dwell on the subject.

Still, Thyrza laughed with pleasure.

'And do you think I love my sister a bit the less?'

'Of course I don't.'

Lydia was not quite at her ease.

'I'm not at all sure of that. Take your things off and sit down in that
chair, and talk to me as if we were in the old room at home. I must see
our room again, Lyddy. I must see it before long.'

Lydia always had to overcome feelings of suspicion and remoteness at
the beginning of her meetings with Thyrza; time had not changed her in
this respect; she still feared that something was being concealed from
her. And to-day it was long before she grew sufficiently accustomed to
the room to talk with freedom. Thyrza lost all hope of persuading her
to have tea with the Emersons. She was obliged to broach the subject,
however, and it excited no less opposition than she had looked for.
Lydia shrank from the thought. Yet, when Thyrza ceased to urge, and
even exerted herself to make her sister forget all about it, Lydia said
all at once:

'Do you always have tea with them on Sundays?'

'Yes. But it doesn't make the least difference. I have it here by
myself other days, and I can do just as I like about it. Don't trouble,
dear.'

'There won't be anybody except those two?'

'Oh no. There never is.'

Lydia changed her mind. Much as she disliked meeting strangers and
sitting at their table, she felt a wish to see these people with whom
Thyrza lived, that she might form her own opinion of them. Thyrza, much
delighted, ran down at once to tell Mrs. Emerson.

Having made up her mind to face the trial, Lydia went through it as
might have been expected, sensibly and becomingly. Clara made much of
her; Mr. Emerson--at home for once--was languidly polite. After tea
Thyrza was asked to sing, but she excused herself as having no voice
to-day. Her real reason was that she could only sing 'week-day' songs,
and, though not certain, she thought it just possible that Lydia might
dislike that kind of thing on Sunday. However, the good Lyddy had not
quite reached that pass.

The sisters went upstairs again. Lydia had found Mrs. Emerson very
different from her expectation, and was feeling a relief. She talked
naturally once more. A subject of much interest to both was the
approaching marriage of Totty Nancarrow.

'But is it _quite_ certain this time, Lyddy?'

'Oh, quite, dear. The names are up in the registry office.'

Lydia knew nothing of Totty's fortune, nor did any one else in Lambeth.
To this day Totty and her husband have kept that a secret.

'Well, what a girl Totty is!' Thyrza exclaimed. 'And she used to
declare that she wouldn't be married on any account. Of course I always
knew that was all nonsense. I shall go and see her some day, Lyddy,
before long.'

Lydia noticed the frequency with which Thyrza spoke of shortly seeing
old places and old friends. It puzzled her, but she asked for no
explanation. Perhaps all these mysteries would be at an end in time.

Thyrza found it very hard to part to-night. She found numberless
excuses for detaining Lydia from moment to moment, when it was really
time for her to go. She was agitated, and as if with some great joy.

'Next Sunday, at the same time, Lyddy!' she repeated again and again.

'But is there any fear of me forgetting it, dearest?' urged her sister.

'No, no! But I am so glad for you to come here. You like coming? I
don't think I shall write to you in the week; but of course you'll
write, if there's anything. I _might_ send a line; but no, I don't
think I shall. It'll be such a short time till Sunday, won't it? Does
the week go quickly with you? Oh, we _must_ say good-bye; it's getting
too late. Good-bye, my own, my dearest, my old Lyddy! Think of me every
hour--I'm always the same to you, whatever kind of dress I wear; you
know that, don't you? Good-bye, dear Lyddy!'

She clung to Lydia and kissed her. They went downstairs together, then,
before opening the door, again embraced and kissed each other silently.

When a few yards away, Lydia turned. Thyrza stood on the door-step;
light from within the house shone on her golden hair and just made her
face visible. She was kissing her hand....

It was Saturday. The week had been neither long nor short; Thyrza could
not distinguish the days in looking back upon them. She had not lived
in time, but in the eternity of a rapturous anticipation. Her daily
duties had been performed as usual, but with as little consciousness as
if she had done all in sleep. She rose, and it was Saturday morning.

What time to-day? That he would let one day pass had never occurred to
her as a possibility. But perhaps he would be at Eastbourne in the
morning, and in that case she must wait many hours. Happily, she had
nothing to attend to; today she could not even have pretended to live
her wonted life.

Mrs. Emerson would be out till evening. No one would come upstairs to
disturb about trifles.

She pretended to breakfast, then sat down by the window. She was
fearful now, not for the event, but of her own courage when the time
came. Could she stand before him? In what words could she speak to him?
Yet she must not let him doubt what her two years had been. Would it be
right to tell him that he came not unexpected, to confess that she had
heard him when he spoke to Mrs. Ormonde? Not at once, not to-day. He
must know, but not to-day.

How short a time, two years; how long, how endlessly long each hour on
this day of waiting!

For the morning passed, and he did not come. He was at Eastbourne; he
had not even asked Mrs. Ormonde to keep her word till the very day came.

Her dinner was brought up, and was sent down again untouched. She sat
still at the window. Every wheel that approached made her heart leap;
its dull rumbling into the distance sickened her with disappointment.
But most likely he would walk to the house, and then she would not know
till the servant came up to tell her.

Why had she not thought to get a railway-guide, that she might know all
the trains from Eastbourne? She could not now go out to purchase one;
he would come in her absence.

It drew to evening. Thyrza knew neither hunger nor thirst; she did not
even feel weary. Dread was creeping upon her. She fought with it
resolutely. She would be no traitor to herself, to him her other self.
He might very well leave it till evening, to make sure of her being at
home.

Her mind racked her with absurd doubts. Had she mistaken? _Was_ this
the day?

Pale and cold as marble, whilst the evening twilight died upon her
face. She did not move. Better to sit so still that she forgot
impatience, perchance forgot time. The vehicles in the street were
fewer now; her heart-throbs as each drew near were the more violent.
Nor would the inward pulse recover its quietness when there was
silence. She heard it always; she felt it as an unceasing pain.

Why should she rise and light the lamp? If he did not come, what matter
if she sat in darkness and pain for ever?

And the long summer evening did in truth become night. The street grew
yet more quiet. She saw the moon, very clear and beautiful.

There sounded a loud double-knock at the street door. She sprang up and
stood listening. It was a visitor to the Emersons. Even when assured of
that, something in her would not believe it, hoped against conviction.
But at length she went back to her chair. No tears; but the pain harder
to bear than ever.

She awoke at very early morning; she was lying on her bed, fully clad.
There was a dread in her mind at waking, and in a few moments she
recognised it. Lydia was coming to-day. Would it be possible to sit and
talk with her?

Only by clinging with stern determination to the last hope. Something
had rendered it impossible for him to come yesterday, and to-day he was
not likely to come; no, not to-day. But there was always the morrow. By
refusing to think of anything but the morrow she might bear Lydia's
presence.

Sunday, Monday; and now it was Tuesday at dawn. Thyrza had but one
thought in her mind. Mrs. Ormonde was treacherous. She had broken her
promise. He was wishing to come to her, and knew not where she
was--Lydia would not tell him. Lydia too was pitiless.

She had sat still in her room since Sunday night. She had pleaded
illness to avoid all visits and all occupation. Whether really ill or
no, she could not say. Yes, there was the pain, but she had become so
used to that. She only knew that the days and the nights were endless,
that she no longer needed to eat, that the sunlight was burdensome to
her eyes.

Clara had been troublesome with her solicitude; it had needed an almost
angry word to secure privacy.

At mid-day Thyrza took up the railway-guide which she had procured and
sought for something in its pages. Then she began to attire herself for
going out. She looked into her purse. In a few minutes she went quietly
down the stairs, as if for an ordinary walk, and left the house.




CHAPTER XXXVII

A FRIENDLY OFFICE


On the Friday when Thyrza, in her happiness, had said 'Tomorrow he
comes,' Mrs. Ormonde also was thinking of a visitor, who might arrive
at any hour. Nine days ago she had received a telegram from New York,
informing her that Walter Egremont was there and about to embark for
England. She, too, avoided leaving the house. Her impatience and
nervousness were greater than she had thought such an event as this
could cause her. But it was years now since she had begun to accept
Walter in the place of her own dead son, and in that spirit she desired
his return from the exile of twice twelve months. It was with joy that
she expected him, though with one uncertainty which would give her
trouble now and then, a doubt which was, she felt, shadowy, which the
first five minutes of talk would put away.

She had dined, and was thinking that it was now too late to expect an
arrival, when the arrival itself was announced.

'A gentleman asks if you will see him,' said the servant, 'Mr.
Egremont.'

'I will see him.'

He came quickly to her over the carpet, and they clasped hands. Then,
as he heard the door close, Walter kissed the hand he held, kissed it
twice with affection. They did not speak at first, but looked at each
other. Mrs. Ormonde's eyes shone.

'How strong and well you look!' were her first words. 'You bring a
breath from the Atlantic.'

'Rather from a pestilent English railroad car!'

'We say 'railway' and 'carriage,' Walter.'

'Ah! I confused a cabman at Liverpool by talking the 'depot.''

He laughed merrily, a stronger and deeper laugh than of old. Personally
he was not, however, much changed. He was still shaven, still stood in
the same attitude; his smile was still the same inscrutable movement of
the features. But his natural wiriness had become somewhat more
pronounced, and the sea-tan on his cheeks prepared one for a robuster
kind of speech from him than formerly.

'Of course you have not dined. Let me go away for one moment.'

'I thank you. Foreseeing this, I dined at the station.'

'Then you behaved with much unkindness. Stand with your face rather
more to the light. Yes, you are strong and well. I shall not say how
glad I am to see you; perhaps I should have done, if you had waited to
break bread under my roof.'

'I shall sit down if I may. This journey from Liverpool has tired me
much. Oh yes, I was glad as I came through the Midlands; it was poetry
again, even amid smoke and ashes.'

'But you must not deny your gods.'

'Ah, poetry of a different kind. From Whitman to Tennyson.

And one an English home; grey twilight poured--

No, I deny nothing; one's moods alter with the scene.'

'I find that Mr. Newthorpe has good words for your Whitman.'

'Of course he has. What man of literary judgment has not? He is here
still?'

'Not at present. They went a fortnight ago to Ullswater.'

'To stay there till winter, I suppose?'

'Or till late in autumn.'

Walter did not keep his seat, in spite of the fatigue he had spoken of.
In a minute or two he was moving about the room, glancing at a picture
or an ornament.

'That photograph is new, I think,' he said. 'A Raphael?'

'Andrea del Sarto.'

'Barbarian that I am! I should have known Lucrezia's face. And your
poor little girls? I was grieved to hear of the death of Bunce's child.
I always think of poor Bunce as a heavily-burdened man.'

'He came a month ago to see Bessie's grave. He talked to me in a very
human way. And things are better with him. Pray sit down! No, there is
nothing else new in the room.'

He seemed to obey with reluctance; his eyes still strayed. Mrs. Ormonde
kept a subdued smile, and did her best to talk with ease of matters
connected with his voyage, and the like. Walter's replies grew briefer.
He said at last:

'The two years come to an end to-morrow.'

'They do.'

Mrs. Ormonde joined her hands upon her lap. She avoided his look.

'What have you to tell me of Thyrza?' he went on to ask, his voice
becoming grave. 'When did you see her?'

'Quite recently. She is well and very cheerful.'

'Always so cheerful?'

'Yes.'

'And you will tell me now where she is?'

She looked him steadily in the face.

'You wish to know, Walter?'

'I have come to England to ask it.'

'Yes, I will tell you.'

And she named the address. Walter made a note of it in his pocket-book.

'And now will you also tell me fully about her life since I went away?
I should like to know with whom she has been living, exactly how she
has spent her time----'

'Man of business!'

Mrs. Ormonde tried to jest, but did it nervously.

'Do I seem to you coarser-grained than I used to be?'

'More a man of the world, at all events. No, not fallen off in the way
you mean. But I think you judge more soberly about grave matters. I
think you know yourself better.'

'Much better, if I am not mistaken.'

'But still can have _la tete montee_, on occasion? Still think of many
things in the idealist's fashion?'

'I sincerely hope so. Of everything, I trust.'

'Could make great sacrifices for an imaginary obligation?'

He left his seat again. Mrs. Ormonde was agitated, and both kept
silence for some moments.

'It grieves me that you say that,' Walter spoke at length, earnestly.
'This obligation of mine is far from imaginary. That is not very like
yourself, Mrs. Ormonde.'

'I cannot speak so clearly as I should like to, Walter. I, too, have my
troublesome thoughts.'

'Let us go back to my questioning. Tell me everything about her, from
the day when you decided what to do. Will you?'

'Freely, and hide nothing whatever that I know.'

For a long time her narrative, broken by questioning, continued.
Egremont listened with earnest countenance, often looking pleased. At
the end, he said:

'You have done a good work. I thank you with all my heart.'

'Yes, you owe me thanks,' Mrs. Ormonde returned, quietly. 'But perhaps
you give them for a mistaken reason.'

'In what you have told me of the growth of her character, there is
nothing that I did not foresee. It is good to know that, even then, I
was under no foolish illusion. But the circumstances were needed, and
you have supplied them. How can I be mistaken in thanking you for
having so tended her who is to be my wife?'

'Wait, Walter. You foresaw into what she might develop; it is true, and
it enables us to regard the past without too much sadness. Did you
foresee her perfect equanimity, when once she had settled down to a new
life?'

He said hesitatingly, 'No.'

'Believing that she had taken such a desperate step purely through love
of you, you thought it more than likely that she would live on in great
unhappiness?'

'Her cheerfulness surprises me. But it isn't impossible to offer an
explanation. She has foreseen what is now going to happen. She knows
you are my friend; she sees that you are giving great pains to raise
her from her former standing in life; what more likely than that she
explains it all by guessing the truth? And so her cheerfulness is the
most hopeful sign for me.'

'That is plausible; but you are mistaken. Long ago I talked to her with
much seriousness of all her future. I spoke of the chances of her being
able to earn a living with her voice, and purposely discouraged any
great hope in that direction. Her needlework, and what she had been
trained to at the Home, were, I showed her, likely to be her chief
resources. I have even tested her on the subject of her returning to
live with her sister.'

'Hope has overcome all these considerations. You kept her sister from
knowing where she was. Why, if there was not some idea of severing her
from her old associations?'

'I explained it to her in one of our talks. I showed her that her
rashness had made it very difficult to aid her.'

'You spoke of me to her?'

'Never, as I have told you. Nor has she ever mentioned you. I pointed
out to her that of course I could not explain the state of things to
the Emersons, and therefore Lydia had better not visit her for some
time.'

Egremont sat down at a distance, and brooded.

'But a contradiction is involved!' he exclaimed presently. 'How can a
girl of her character have forgotten so quickly such profound emotion?'

'You must not forget that weeks passed between my finding her and her
going to live with the Emersons. During all that time the poor girl was
wretched enough.'

'Weeks!'

'Her cheerfulness only came with time, after that.'

'And it is your conviction that she has absolutely put me out of her
mind? That she has found sufficient happiness in the progress she has
felt herself to be making?'

'That is my firm belief. Her character is not so easy to read as
to-day's newspaper. She can suffer, I think, even more than most women,
but she has, too, far more strength than most women, a mind of a higher
order, purer consolations. And she has art to aid her, a resource you
and I cannot judge of with assurance.'

Walter looked up and said:

'You are describing a woman who might be the most refined man's ideal.'

'I think so.'

'You admit that Thyrza is in every way more than fit to be my wife.'

'I will admit that, Walter.'

'Then I am astonished at your tone in speaking of what I mean to do.'

'You have asked me two questions,' said Mrs. Ormonde, her face alight
with conviction. 'Please answer two of mine. Is this woman worthy of a
man's entire love?'

He hesitated, but answered affirmatively.

'And have you that entire love to give her? Walter, the truth, for she
is very dear to me.'

(In her room in London Thyrza sat, and said to herself, 'To-morrow he
comes!')

He answered: 'I have not.'

'Then,' Mrs. Ormonde said, a slight flush in her cheeks, 'how can you
express surprise at what I do?'

A long silence fell. Walter brooded, something of shame on his face
from that confession. Then he came to Mrs. Ormonde's side, and took her
hand.

'You are incapable,' he said gently, 'of conscious injustice. Had you
said nothing of this to me, I should have gone to Thyrza to-morrow, and
have asked her to marry me. She would not have refused; even granting
that her passion has gone, you know she would not refuse me, and you
know too that I could enrich her life abundantly. My passion, too, is
over, but I know well that love for such a woman as she is would soon
awake in me. I do not think I should do her any injustice if I asked
her to be my wife: shall I be unjust to her if I withhold?'

Mrs. Ormonde did not answer at once. She retained his hand, and her own
showed how strongly she felt.

'Walter, I think it would be unjust to her if you asked
her--remembering her present mind. It is not only that your passion for
her is dead; you think of another woman.'

'It is true. But I do not love her.'

She smiled.

'You are not ready to behave crazily about her; no. But I believe that
you love her in a truer sense than you ever loved Thyrza. You love her
mind.'

'Has not Thyrza a mind?'

'You do not know it, Walter. I doubt whether you would ever know it.
Recall a letter you wrote to me, in which you dissected your own
character. It was frank and in a very great measure true. You are not
the husband for Thyrza.'

'You place Thyrza above Annabel Newthorpe?'

It was asked almost indignantly, so that Mrs. Ormonde smiled and raised
her hand.

'You, it is clear, resent it.'

He reddened. Mrs. Ormonde continued:

'I compare them merely. I don't think Thyrza will find the husband who
is worthy of her, but I think it likely that she will win more love
than you could ever give her. I have told you that she is dear to me.
To you I would give a daughter of my own with entire confidence, for
you are human and of noble impulses. But I do not wish you to marry
Thyrza. Yes, you read my thought. It is not solely the question of
love. I wish you--I have so long wished you--to marry Annabel. To
Thyrza you do not the least injustice by withholding your offer; she is
happy without you. You are entirely free to consult your own highest
interests. If I counsel wrongly, the blame is mine. But, Walter, you
must after all decide for yourself. It is a most hazardous part this
that I am playing; at least, it would be, if I did not see the facts of
the case so clearly. Rest till to-morrow; then let us sneak again.
Shall it be so?'

Egremont left The Chestnuts and walked along the shore in moonlight.
His mind had received a shock, and the sense of disturbance affected
him physically. He was obliged to move rapidly, to breathe the air.

He had left America with fixity of purpose. His plain duty was to go to
Thyrza and ask her to marry him. Be her position what it might, his own
was clear enough. He looked forward with a certain pleasure to the mere
discharge of so plain an obligation.

Mrs. Ormonde had studiously refrained from expressing any thought with
regard to the future in her letters. He quite expected that she would
repeat to him with a certain emphasis the fact of Thyrza's present
cheerfulness; but he did not anticipate serious opposition to the
course he had decided upon. Practically Thyrza had lived in preparation
for a life of refinement; Mrs. Ormonde, he concluded, knew that he
could act but in one way, and, though refusing to do so ostensibly, had
in fact been removing the rougher difficulties. Her attitude now
surprised him, made him uneasy.

Yet he knew his own inability to resist her. He knew that she spoke on
the side of his secret hope. He knew that a debate which had long gone
on within himself, to himself unavowed, had at length to find its
plain-spoken issue.

His passion for Thyrza was dead; he even wondered how it could ever
have been so violent. It seemed to him that he scarcely knew her; could
he not count on his fingers the number of times that he had seen her?
So much had intervened between him and her, between himself as he was
then and his present self. It was with apprehension that he thought of
marrying her. He knew what miseries had again and again resulted from
marriages such as this, and he feared for her quite as much as for
himself. For there was no more passion.

Neither on her side, it seemed. Was not Mrs. Ormonde right? Was it not
to incur a wholly needless risk? And suppose the risk were found to be
an imaginary one, what was the profit likely to be, to each of them?

But as often as he accepted what he held to be the common sense of the
case, something unsettled him again. The one passion of his life had
been for Thyrza. He called it dead; does not one mourn over such a
death? He would not have recourse to the old dishonesty, and say that
his love had been folly. Was it not rather the one golden memory he
had? Was it not of infinite significance?

One loves a woman madly, and she gives proof of such unworthiness that
love is killed. Why, even then the dead thing was inestimably precious;
one would not forget it. And Thyrza was no woman of this kind. She had
developed since he knew her; Mrs. Ormonde spoke of her as few can be
justly spoken of. Was it good to let the love for such a woman pass
away, when perchance the sight of her would revive it and make it
lasting?

The stars and the night wind and the breaking of the sea--the sea which
Thyrza loved--spoke to him. Could he not understand their language?...

On Monday morning he took the train to London, thence northwards. A
visit to the Newthorpes after two years of absence was natural enough.




CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE TRUTH


Mrs. Ormonde was successful, but success did not bring her unmixed
content. She was persuaded that what she had done was wholly prudent,
that in years to come she would look back on this chapter of her life
with satisfaction. Yet for the present she could not get rid of a
shapeless misgiving. This little centre of trouble in the mind was
easily enough accounted for. Granted that Thyrza could live quite well
without Walter Egremont, it was none the less true that, in losing him,
she lost a certainty of happiness--and does happiness grow on every
thicket, that one can afford to pass it lightly? The fear lest Egremont
should reap misery from such a marriage, and cause misery in turn, was
no longer seriously to be entertained; it could not now have justified
interference, had there been nothing else that did so. Mrs. Ormonde
could not rob Thyrza thus without grieving.

But it was the happiness of two against that of one; and, however
monstrous the dogma that one should be sacrificed even to a million,
such a consideration is wont to have weight with us when we are arguing
with our conscience and getting somewhat the worst of it. Mrs. Ormonde
felt sure that Annabel Newthorpe would not now reject Walter if he
again offered himself; many things had given proof of that. Annabel
knew that Thyrza had thoroughly outlived her trouble; she knew,
moreover, that Egremont had never in reality compromised himself in
regard to her. In her eyes, then, the latter was rather the victim of
misfortune than himself culpable. If Walter eventually--of course, some
time must pass--again sought to win her, without doubt he would tell
her everything, and Annabel would find nothing in the story to make a
perpetual barrier between them. The marriage which Mrs. Ormonde so
strongly desired would still come about.

On the other hand, in spite of arguments that seemed irresistible, she
could not dismiss the question: Does Thyrza know anything of Egremont's
by-gone passion? That she could know anything of the compact which had
run its two years, was of course impossible; but Walter's persistence
in urging that, if once she had learnt his love for her, that, together
with the circumstances of her life, would make sufficient ground for
hope--this persistence had impressed Mrs. Ormonde. In a second long
conversation the subject had been gone over, point by point, for a
second time. 'If harm come,' Mrs. Ormonde said to herself, 'I am indeed
to blame, for, though his wishes oppose it, I had but to show doubt and
he would have taken the manly part and have gone to Thyrza.' She did
not seek to defend herself by saying--as she might well have done--that
throughout he encouraged her in her resistance. He was of firmer
substance than two years ago, yet had not become, nor ever would, a
vigorously independent man. In her hands the decision had lain--and the
affair was decided.

On Tuesday, the day after Egremont's departure for the North of
England, she was still thinking these thoughts. At four o'clock in the
afternoon, having seen her children come in from the garden and gather
for tea, she went with a book to spend an hour in the arbour where she
had had that fateful conversation with Walter on the summer night. As
she drew near to the covered spot, it seemed to her that there was a
footfall behind on the grass. She turned her head, and with surprise
saw Thyrza.

With something more than surprise. As she looked in Thyrza's face, that
slight uneasiness in her mind changed to a dark misgiving, and from
that to the certainty of fear. Thyrza had never regarded her thus; and
she herself had never seen features so passionately woe-stricken. The
book fell from her hand; she could not utter a greeting.

'I want to speak to you, Mrs. Ormonde.'

'Come in here, Thyrza. Why have you come? What has happened?'

She drew back under the shelter of leaf-twined trellis, and Thyrza
followed. Mrs. Ormonde met the searching eyes, and compassion helped
her to self-command. She could not doubt what the first words spoken
would be, yet the mystery of the scene was inscrutable to her.

'I want to ask you about Mr. Egremont,' Thyrza said, resting her
trembling hand on the little rustic table. 'I want to know where he is.'

Prepared as she had been, the words, really spoken, struck Mrs. Ormonde
with new consternation. The voice was not Thyrza's; it had no
sweetness, but was like the voice of one who had suffered long
exhaustion, who speaks with difficulty.

'Yes, I will tell you where he is, Thyrza,' the other replied, her own
accents shaken with sympathy. 'Why do you wish to hear of Mr. Egremont?'

'I think you needn't ask me that, Mrs. Ormonde.'

'Yes, I must ask. I can't understand why you should come like this,
Thyrza. I can't understand what has happened to make this change in you
since I saw you last.'

'Mrs. Ormonde, you do understand! Why should you pretend with me? You
know that I have been waiting--waiting since Saturday.'

Thyrza spoke as if there were no mystery in her having attached a hope
to that particular day. All but distraught as she was, she made no
distinction between the mere fact of her abiding love, which she could
not conceive that Mrs. Ormonde was ignorant of, and the incident of her
having surprised a secret.

'Since Saturday?' Mrs. Ormonde repeated. 'What did you wait for on
Saturday?'

She had a wretched suspicion. From Egremont alone that information
could have come to Thyrza. Had he played detestably false, having by
some means, at the height of his passion, communicated with the girl?
But the thought could only pass through her mind; it would not bear the
light of reason for a moment. Impossible for him to speak and act so
during these past days, knowing that his dishonesty was certain of
being discovered. Impossible to attach such suspicion to him at all.

'I expected to see him,' Thyrza replied. 'I knew he was to come in two
years. I have waited all the time; and now he has not come. I heard----'

She checked herself, and looked at the trellis at the back of the
summer-house. She understood now that it was needful to explain her
knowledge.

'You heard, Thyrza----?'

'That night that he was here. I had walked to look at your house. I was
going home again when he passed me--he didn't see me--and went into the
garden. I couldn't go back at once; I had to sit down and rest. It was
on the other side of the leaves.' She pointed. 'I sat down there
without knowing he would be here and I should hear him talking to you.
I heard all you said--about the two years. I have been waiting for him
to come.'

Mrs. Ormonde could not reply; what words would express what she felt in
learning this? Thyrza's eyes were still fixed upon her.

'I want you to tell me where he is, Mrs. Ormonde.'

It was a summons that could not be avoided.

'Sit here, Thyrza. I will tell you. Sit down and let me speak to you.'

'No, no! Tell me now! Why not? Why should I sit down? What is there to
say?'

The words were not weakly complaining, but of passionate insistence.
Thyrza believed that Mrs. Ormonde was preparing to elude her, was
shaping excuses. Her eyes watched the other's every movement keenly,
with fear and hostility. She felt within reach of her desire, yet held
back by this woman from attaining it. Every instant of silence
heightened the maddening tumult of her heart and brain. She had
suffered so terribly since Saturday. It seemed as if her gentleness,
her patience, were converted into their opposites, which now ruled her
tyrannously.

'Mr. Egremont is not in London,' Mrs. Ormonde said at last. She dreaded
the result of any word she might say. She was asking herself whether
Walter ought not to be summoned back at once. Was it too late for that?

'Not in London? Then where? You saw him on Saturday?'

'Yes, I saw him.'

'And you would not tell him where I was, Mrs. Ormonde? You spoke like
you did that night. You persuaded him not to come to me--when I was
waiting. I forgave you for what you said before, but now you have done
something that I shall never forgive----'

'Thyrza----'

'There's nothing you can say will make me forgive you! Your kindness to
me hasn't been kindness at all. It was all to separate me from him.
What have you told him about me? You have said I don't think of him any
more. You made him believe I wasn't fit for him. And now you will
refuse to tell me where he is.'

'Thyrza!'

Mrs. Ormonde took the girl's hands forcibly in her own, and held them
against her breast. She was pale and overcome with emotion.

'Thyrza, you don't know what you are saying! Do force yourself to be
calmer, so that you can listen to me.'

'Don't hold my hands, Mrs. Ormonde! I have loved you, but I can't
pretend to, now that you have done this against me. I will listen to
you, but how shall I believe what you say? I didn't think one woman
could be so cruel to another as you have been to me. You don't know
what it means, to wait as I have waited; if you knew, you'd never have
done this; you wouldn't have had the heart to do this to me.'

'My poor child, think, think--_how_ could I know that you were waiting?
You forget that you have only just told me your secret for the first
time. I have seen you always so full of life and gladness, and how was
I to dream of this sudden change?'

Thyrza listened, and, as if imperfectly comprehending, examined the
speaker's face in silence.

'I am not the cruel woman you call me,' Mrs. Ormonde went on. 'I had no
idea that your happiness depended upon meeting with Mr. Egremont again.'

'You had no idea of that?' Thyrza asked, slowly, wonderingly. 'You say
that you didn't know I loved him?'

'Not that you still loved him. Two years ago--I knew it was so then.
But I fancied----'

'You thought I had forgotten all about him? How could you think that?
Is it possible to love any one and forget so soon, and live as if
nothing had happened? That cannot be true, Mrs. Ormonde. I know you
_wished_ me to forget him. And that is what you told him when you saw
him on Saturday! You said I thought no more of him, and that it was
better he shouldn't see me! Oh, what right had you to say that? Where
is he now? You say you arc not cruel; let me know where I can find him.'

There was but one answer to make, yet Mrs. Ormonde dreaded to utter it.
The girl's state was such that it might be fatal to tell her the truth.
Passion such as this, nursed to this through two years in a heart which
could affect calm, must be very near madness. Yet what help but to tell
the truth? Unless she feigned that Egremont's failure to come on
Saturday was her fault, in the sense Thyrza believed, and then send for
him, that this terrible mischief might be undone?

If only she could have time to reflect. Whatever she did now, in this
agitation, she might bitterly repent. Only under stress of the direst
necessity could she summon Egremont back; there was something repugnant
to her instinct, something impossible, in the thought of undoing all
she had done. Egremont's position would be ignoble. Impossible to
retrace her steps!

'I have no wish to prevent you from seeing him, Thyrza,' she said,
making her resolve even as she spoke. 'He is not in London now, but he
will be back before long, I think.'

'Is he in England?'

'Yes; in the North. He has gone to see friends. You don't know that he
has been in America during these two years?'

Something was gained if Thyrza could be brought to listen with interest
to details.

'In America? But he came back at the time. How could you refuse to keep
your promise? What did he say to you? How could he go away again and
let you break your word to him in that way?'

Mrs. Ormonde said, as gently as she could:

'I didn't break my word, Thyrza. I gave him your address. He had it on
Friday night.'

She, whose nature it was to trust implicitly, now dreaded a deceit in
every word. She gazed at Mrs. Ormonde, without change of countenance.

'And,' she said, slowly, 'you persuaded him not to come.'

Mrs. Ormonde paused before replying.

'Thyrza, is all your faith in me at an end? Cannot I speak to you like
I used to, and be sure that you trust my kindness to you, that you
trust my love?'

'Your love?' Thyrza repeated, more coldly than she had spoken yet. 'And
you persuaded him not to come to me.'

'It is true, I did.'

Mrs. Ormonde had never spoken to any one with a feeling of humiliation
like this which made her bend her head. Thyrza still looked at her, but
no longer with hostility. She gazed with wonder, with doubt.

'Why did you do that to me, Mrs. Ormonde?'

There was heart-breaking pathos in the simple words. Tears rushed to
the listener's eyes.

'My child, if I had known the truth, I should have said not a word to
prevent his going. I did not know that you still loved him, hard as it
is for you to believe that. I was deceived by your face. I have watched
you month after month, and, as I knew nothing of your reason for hope,
I thought you had found comfort in other things. Cannot you believe me,
Thyrza?'

'And you told him that?'

'Yes, I told him what I thought was the truth. Thyrza, I _have_ been
cruel to you, but I had no thought that I was so.'

Thyrza asked, after a silence:

'But you told him where I was living?'

'I told him; he asked me, and I told him, as I had promised I would.'

Thyrza stood in deep thought. Mrs. Ormonde again took her hands.

'Dear, come and sit down. You are worn out with your trouble. Don't
repel me, Thyrza. I have done you a great wrong, and I know you cannot
feel to me as you did; but I am not so hard-hearted that your suffering
does not pierce me through. Only sit here and rest.'

She allowed herself to be led to the seat. Her eyes rested on the
ground for a while, then strayed to the leaves about her, which were
golden with the sunlight they intercepted, then turned again to Mrs.
Ormonde's face.

'He knew where I lived. How could you be sure he wouldn't come to me?'

Mrs. Ormonde sunk her eyes and made no reply.

'Did he promise you that he would never come?'

'He made me no promise, Thyrza.'

'No promise? Then how do you know that he won't come?'

A gleam shot to her eyes. But upon the moments of hope followed a
revival of suspicion.

'You say you can't prevent me from seeing him. Tell me where he is--the
place. You won't tell me?'

'And if I did, how would it help you?'

'Cannot I go there? Or can't I write and say that I wish to speak to
him.'

'Thyrza, I asked no promise from him that he wouldn't go to you. I
don't think you would really try to see him, knowing that he has your
address.'

'You asked no promise, Mrs. Ormonde, but you persuaded him! You spoke
as you did two years ago. You told him I could never make a fit wife
for him, that he couldn't be happy with me, nor I with him.'

'No; I did not speak as I did two years ago. I know you much better
than I did then, and I told him all that I have since learnt. No one
could speak in higher words of a woman than I did of you, and I spoke
from my heart, for I love you, Thyrza, and your praise is dear to me.'

That fixed, half-conscious gaze of the blue eyes was hard to bear, so
unutterably piteous was it, so wofully it revealed the mind's anguish.
Mrs. Ormonde waited for some reply, but none came.

'You do not doubt this, Thyrza?'

Still no answer.

'Suppose I give you the address, do you feel able to write, before he
has----?'

There was a change in the listener's face. Mrs. Ormonde sprang to her,
and saved her from falling. Nature had been tried at last beyond its
powers.

Mrs. Ormonde could not leave the unconscious form; her voice would not
be beard if she called for help. But the fainting fit lasted a long
time. Thyrza lay as one who is dead; her features calm, all the
disfiguring anguish passed from her beauty. Her companion had a moment
of terror. She was on the point of hastening to the house, when a sign
of revival cheeked her. She supported Thyrza in her arms.

'Thank you, Mrs. Ormonde,' was the latter's first whisper, the tone as
gentle and grateful as it was always wont to be.

'Can you sit alone for a minute, dear, while I fetch something?'

'I am well, quite well again, thank you.'

Mrs. Ormonde went and speedily returned. Thyrza was sitting with her
eyes closed. They spoke only broken words. But at length Mrs. Ormonde
said:

'You must come into the house now, Thyrza. You shall be quite alone;
you must lie down.'

'No, I can't stay here, Mrs. Ormonde. I must go back before it gets too
late. I must go to the station.'

Even had Thyrza's condition allowed of this, her friend would have
dreaded to lose sight of her now, to let her travel to London and
thereafter be alone. After trying every appeal, she refused to allow
her to go.

'You must stay here for the night, Thyrza. You must. I have much more
to say to you. But first you must rest. Come with me.'

Her will was the stronger. Thyrza at length suffered herself to be
taken into the house, and to a room where she could have perfect
quietness. Mrs. Ormonde alone waited upon her, brought her food, did
everything to soothe body and mind. By sunset, the weary one was lying
with her head on the pillow. On a table within her reach was a bell,
whose sound would at once summon her attendant from the next room.

At ten o'clock Mrs. Ormonde entered silently. Three nights of watching,
and the effects of all she had endured this afternoon, were weighing
heavily on Thyrza's eyelids, though as yet she could not sleep.
Foreseeing this, Mrs. Ormonde had brought a draught, which would be the
good ally of Nature striving for repose. Thyrza asked no question, but
drank what was offered like a child.

'Now you will soon rest, dear. I must not ask you to kiss me, Thyrza?'

The lips were offered. They were cold, for passion lay dead upon them.
She did not speak, but sank back with a sigh and closed her eyes.

Again at midnight Mrs. Ormonde entered. The small taper which burnt in
the room showed faintly the sleeping face. Standing by the bed, she
felt her heart so wrung with sorrow that she wept.

In the morning Thyrza declared that she did not suffer. She rose and
sat by the open window. She fancied she could hear the sea.

'You said you had more to tell me, Mrs. Ormonde,' she began, when the
latter sat silently by her.

'To speak with you and to try to help you, my child, that was all.'

'But you told me very little yesterday. I am not sure that I
understood. You need not be afraid to tell me anything. I can bear
anything.'

'Will you ask me what you wish to know, Thyrza?'

'You say you persuaded him--and yet that you said good of me.'

The other waited.

'Didn't he come from America, to see me?'

'He did.'

'You mean that he came because he thought it was right to. I
understand. And when you told him that I was not thinking of him,
he--he felt himself free?'

'Yes.'

'Do you think--is it likely that he will ever wish to see me now?'

'If he knew that you had suffered because he did not come, he would be
with you in a few hours.'

Thyrza gazed thoughtfully.

'And he would ask me to marry him?'

'Doubtless he would.'

'So when you persuaded him not to see me, he was glad to know that he
_need_ not come?'

It was a former question repeated in another way. Mrs. Ormonde kept
silence. It was several minutes before Thyrza spoke again.

'I don't know whether you will tell me, but did he think of any one
else as well as of me when he came back to England?'

'I am not sure, Thyrza.'

'Will you tell me what friends he has gone to see?'

'Their name is Newthorpe.'

'Miss Newthorpe--the same I once saw here?'

'Yes.'

'What is Miss Newthorpe's name, Mrs. Ormonde?'

'Annabel.'

Thyrza moved her lips as if they felt parched. She asked nothing
further, seemed indeed to forget that she had been conversing. She
watched the waving branches of a tree in the garden.

Mrs. Ormonde had followed the working of the girl's mind with intense
observation. She knew not whether to fear or to be glad of the strange
tranquillity that had succeeded upon such uncontrolled vehemence. What
she seemed to gather from Thyrza's words she scarcely ventured to
believe. It was a satisfaction to her that she had avoided naming
Egremont's address, yet a satisfaction that caused her some shame.
Indeed, it was the sense of shame that perhaps distressed her most in
Thyrza's presence. Egremont's perishable love, her own prudential
forecasts and schemings, were stamped poor, worldly, ignoble, in
comparison with this sacred and extinguishable ardour. As a woman she
felt herself rebuked by the ideal of womanly fidelity; she was made to
feel the inferiority of her nature to that which fate had chosen for
this supreme martyrdom. In her glances at Thyrza's face she felt, with
new force, how spiritual was its beauty. For in soulless features,
however regular and attractive, suffering reveals the flesh; this girl,
stricken with deadly pallor, led the thoughts to the purest ideals of
womanhood transfigured by woe in the pictures of old time.

'I will go by the train at twelve o'clock,' Thyrza said, moving at
length.

'I want you to stay with me till to-morrow--just till tomorrow morning,
Thyrza. If my presence pains you, I will keep away. But stay till
to-morrow.'

'If you wish it, Mrs. Ormonde.'

'Will you go out? Into the garden? To the shore?'

'I had rather stay here.'

She kept her place by the window through the whole day, as she had sat
in her own room in London. She could not have borne to see the waves
white on the beach and the blue horizon; the sea that she had loved so,
that she had called her friend, would break her heart with its song of
memories. She must not think of anything now, only, if it might be, put
her soul to sleep and let the sobbing waters of oblivion bear it
onwards through the desolate hours. She had no pain; her faculties were
numbed; her will had spent itself.

Mrs. Ormonde brought her meals, speaking only a word of gentleness. In
the evening Thyrza said to her:

'Will you stay a few minutes?'

She sat down and took Thyrza's hand. The latter continued:

'I shall be glad if they would give me the sewing to do again, and the
work at the Home. Do you think they will, Mrs. Ormonde?'

'Don't you wish to go on with your lessons?'

'No. I can't stay there if I don't earn enough to pay for everything. I
shall try to keep on with the singing.'

It was perhaps wiser to yield every point for the present.

'It shall be as you wish, Thyrza,' Mrs. Ormonde replied.

After a pause:

'Mrs. Emerson will wonder where I am. Will you write to her, so that I
needn't explain when I get back to-morrow?'

'I have just had an anxious letter from her, and I have already
answered it.'

Thyrza withdrew her hand gently.

'I was wrong when I spoke in that way to you yesterday, Mrs. Ormonde,'
she said, meeting the other's eyes. 'You haven't done me harm
intentionally; I know that now. But if you had let him come to me, I
don't think he would have been sorry--afterwards--when he knew I loved
him. I don't think any one will love him more. I was very different two
years ago, and he thinks of me as I was then. Perhaps, if he had seen
me now, and spoken to me--I know I am still without education, and I am
not a lady, but I could have worked very hard, so that he shouldn't be
ashamed of me.'

Mrs. Ormonde turned her face away and sobbed.

'I won't speak of it again,' Thyrza said. 'You couldn't help it. And he
didn't really wish to come, so it was better. I am very sorry for what
I said to you, Mrs. Ormonde.'

But the other could not bear it. She kissed Thyrza's hands, her tears
falling upon them, and went away.




CHAPTER XXXIX

HER RETURN


It was a rainy autumn, and to Thyrza the rain was welcome. A dark,
weeping sky helped her to forget that there was joy somewhere in the
world, that there were some whom golden evenings of the declining year
called forth to wander together and to look in each other's faces with
the sadness born of too much bliss. When a beam of sunlight on the wall
of her chamber greeted her as she awoke, she turned her face upon the
pillow and wished that night were eternal. If she looked out upon the
flaming heights and hollows of a sunset between rain and rain, it
seemed strange that such a scene had ever been to her the symbol of
hope; it was cold now and very distant; what were the splendours of
heaven to a heart that perished for lack of earth's kindly dew?

To the eyes of those who observed her, she was altered indeed, but not
more so than would be accounted for by troubles of health, consequent
upon a sort of fever--they said--which had come upon her in the hot
summer days. In spite of her desire this weakness had obliged her to
give up her singing-practice for the present; Dr. Lambe, Mrs. Ormonde's
acquaintance, had said that the exertion was too much for her. What
else that gentleman said, in private to Mrs. Ormonde, it is not
necessary to report; it was a graver repetition of something that he
had hinted formerly. Mrs. Ormonde had been urgent in her entreaty that
Thyrza would come to Eastbourne for a time, but could not prevail. Mrs.
Emerson refused to believe that the illness was anything serious. 'I
assure you,' she said to Mrs. Ormonde, 'Thyrza is in anything but low
spirits as a rule. She doesn't laugh quite so much as she used to, but
I can always make her as bright as possible by chatting with her in my
foolish way for a few minutes. And when her sister comes on Sunday,
there's not a trace of gloom discoverable. I've noticed it's been the
same with her the last two autumns; she'll be all right by winter.'

It was true that she disguised her mood with almost entire success
during Lydia's visits. Lydia herself, for some cause, was very cheerful
throughout this season; she believed with more readiness than usual
when Thyrza spoke of her ailments as trifling. Every Sunday she brought
a present of fruit; Thyrza knew well with how much care the little
bunch o grapes or the sweet pears had been picked out on Saturday night
at the fruit-shop in Lambeth Walk.

'You're a foolish old Lyddy, to spend your money on me in this way,'
she said once. 'As if I hadn't everything I want.'

'Yes, but,' said Lydia, laughing, 'if I don't give you something now
and then, you'll forget I'm your elder sister. And I shall forget it
too, I think. I've begun to think of you as if you was older than me,
Thyrza.'

'So I am, dear, as I told you a long time ago.'

'Oh, you can talk properly, which I can't, and you can write well, and
read hard books, but I used to nurse you on my lap for all that. And I
remember you crying for something I couldn't let you have, quite well.'

Thyrza laughed in her turn, a laugh from a heart that mocked itself.
Crying for something she might not have--was she then so much older?

To Lydia nothing was told of the cessation of lessons, and on Sunday
all signs of needlework were hidden away. Mrs. Emerson of course knew
the change that had been made, but it was explained to her as all being
on the score of health, and Thyrza had begged her to make no allusion
to the subject on the occasional evenings when Lydia had tea in Clara's
room. And Clara was of opinion that it was very wise to rest for a
while from books. 'Depend upon it, it's your brain-work that brought
about all this mischief,' she said.

And after bidding her sister good-bye with a merry face, Thyrza would
go up to her room, and sink down in weariness of body and soul, and
weep her fill of bitter tears.

The nights were so long. She never lay down before twelve o'clock,
knowing that it was useless; then she would hear the heavy-tongued
bells tolling each hour till nearly dawn. It was like the voice of a
remorseless enemy. 'I am striking the hour of Two. You think that you
will not hear me when I strike next; you weep and pray that sleep may
close your ears against me. But wait and see!' She would sometimes, in
extremity of suffering, fling her body down, and let her arms fall
straight, and whisper to herself: 'I look now so like death, that
perchance death will come and take me.' That she might die soon was her
constant longing.

There were times when her youth asserted itself and bade her strive,
bade her put away the vain misery and look out again into the world of
which she had seen so little. A few weeks ago she had rejoiced in the
acquiring of knowledge, and longed to make the chambers of her mind
rich from the fields to which she had been guided, and which lay so
sunny-flowered before her. But that was when she had looked forward to
sharing all with her second and dearer self. Now, when her thoughts
strayed, it was to gather the flowers of deadly fragrance which grow in
the garden of despair. The brief glimpses of health made the woe which
followed only darker.

A strange, unreal hope, an illusion of her tortured mind, even now
sometimes visited her. It was certain that Egremont knew where she
lived; it might be that even yet he would come. Perhaps Miss Newthorpe
would not receive him as he hoped. Perhaps Mrs. Ormonde would have
pity, and would tell him the truth, and then he could not let her
perish of vain longing. What other could love him as she did? Who else
thought of him: 'You are all to me; in life or death there is nothing
for me but you?' If he knew that, he would come to her.

She had read a story somewhere of someone being drawn to her who loved
him by the very force of her passionate longing. In the dread nights
she wondered if such a thing were possible. She would lie still, and
fix her mind on him, till all of her seemed to have passed away save
that one thought. She was back again in the library, helping to put
books on the shelves. Oh, that was no two years ago; it was yesterday,
this morning! Not a tone of his voice had escaped her memory. She had
only to think of the moment when he held his hand to her and said, 'Let
us be friends,' and her heart leaped now as it had leaped then. Could
not her passion reach him, wherever he was? Could he sleep peacefully
through nights which for her were one long anguish?

So it went on to winter, and now she had more rest; her brain was
dulled with the foul black atmosphere; she slept more, though a sleep
which seemed to weigh her down, an unhealthful torpor. The passion of
her misery had burned itself out.

Lydia came and spent Christmas Day with her. They talked of their
memories, and Thyrza asked questions about Gilbert Grail, as she had
several times done of late. Lydia had no very cheerful news to give of
him.

'Mrs. Grail can't do any work now. She sits by the fire all day, and at
night she won't let him do anything but talk to her. It isn't at all a
good servant they've got. She's expected to come at eight in the
morning, but it's almost always nine before she gets there.'

'Couldn't you find someone better, Lyddy?'

'I'm trying to, but it isn't easy. I do what I can myself. Mrs. Grail
sometimes seems as if she doesn't like me to come about. She wouldn't
speak to me this morning; I'm sure I don't know why. She's changed a
great deal from what she was when you knew her. And she can't bear to
have things moved in the room for cleaning; she gets angry with the
servant about it, and then the girl talks to her as she shouldn't, and
it makes her cry.'

'Is she impatient with Gilbert?' Thyrza asked.

'No, I don't think so. But she always wants him to be by her. If he's a
few minutes late, she knows it, and begins to fret and worry.'

'So he sits all the evening just keeping her company?'

'Yes. He reads to her a good deal, generally out of those religious
books--you remember? I feel sorry for her; I'm so sure there's other
things he might read would give her a deal more comfort. And you'd
think he never got a bit tired, he's that kind and good to her, Thyrza.'

'Yes, I know he must be. Does Mr. Ackroyd ever come to see him?'

'Not to the house, no. Nobody comes.'

Thyrza was very silent after this.

Two weeks later, when the new year was frost-bound, Lydia received this
letter from her sister.


'I want to come and see you in the old room, as I said I should, and at
the same time I want to see Gilbert. But I must see him alone. I could
come at night, and you could be at the door to let me in, couldn't you,
dear? You said that Mrs. Grail goes to bed early; I could see Gilbert
after that. You may tell him that I am coming, and ask him if he will
see me. I hope he won't refuse. Write and let me know when I shall be
at the door--to-morrow night, if possible. You will be able to send a
letter that I shall get by the first post in the morning.'


Had the visit proposed been a secret one, to herself alone, Lydia would
not have been much surprised, as Thyrza had several times of late said
that she wished to come. But the desire to see Gilbert was something of
which no hint had been given till now. Strange fancies ran through her
head. She doubted so much on the subject, that she resolved to say
nothing to Gilbert; if Thyrza persisted in her wish, it would be
possible to arrange the interview when she was in the house. She wrote
in reply that she would be standing at the front door at half-past
eight on the following evening.

Exactly at the moment appointed, a closely-wrapped figure hurried
through the darkness out of Kennington Road to the door where Lydia had
been waiting for several minutes. The door was at once opened. Thyrza
ran silently up the stairs; her sister followed; and they stood
together in their old home.

Thyrza threw off her outer garments. She was panting from haste and
agitation; she fixed her eyes on Lydia, but neither spoke nor smiled.

'Are you sure you did right to come, dearest?' Lydia said in a low
voice.

'Yes, Lyddy, quite sure,' was the grave answer.

'You look worse to-night--you look ill, Thyrza.'

'No, no, I am quite well. I am glad to be here.'

Thyrza seated herself where she had been used to sit, by the fireside.
Lydia had made the room as bright as she could. But to Thyrza how bare
and comfortless it seemed! Here her sister had lived, whilst she
herself had had so many comforts about her, so many luxuries. That
poor, narrow bed--there she had slept with Lyddy; there, too, she had
longed vainly for sleep, and had shed her first tears of secret sorrow.
Nothing whatever seemed altered. But yes, there was something new;
above the bed's head hung on the wall a picture of a cross, with
flowers twined about it, and something written underneath. Noticing
that, Thyrza at once took her eyes away.

'It's a bitter night,' Lydia said, approaching her and examining her
face anxiously. 'You must be very careful in going back; you seem to
have got a chill now, dear; you tremble so. I'll stir the fire, and put
more coals on.'

'You told Gilbert?' Thyrza asked, suddenly. 'You didn't mention it in
your letter. He'll see me, won't he?'

'No, I haven't spoken to him yet, dear. I thought it better to leave it
till you were here. I'm sure he'll see you, if you really wish.'

'I do wish, Lyddy. I'm sorry you left it till now. Why did you think it
better to leave it?'

'I don't quite know,' the other said, with embarrassment. 'It seemed
strange that you wanted to see him.'

'Yes, I wish to.'

'Then I'll go down in a few minutes and tell him.'

They ceased speaking. Lydia had knelt by her sister, her arm about her.
Thyrza still trembled a little, but was growing more composed.
Presently she bent and kissed Lydia's hair.

'You didn't believe me when I said I should come,' she whispered,
smiling for the first time.

'Are you sure you ought to have come? Would Mrs. Ormonde mind?'

'I am quite free, Lyddy. I can do as I like. I would come in daylight,
only perhaps it would be disagreeable for you, if people saw me. I know
they have given me a bad name.'

'No one that we need to care about, Thyrza.'

'Gilbert has no such thoughts now?'

'Oh, no!'

'Shall I see much change in him?'

'Not as much as he will in you, dearest.'

They were silent again for a long time, then Lydia went to speak with
Gilbert. Alone, Thyrza tried to recall the mind with which she had gone
down to have tea with the Grails on a Sunday evening. It used to cause
her excitement, but that was another heart-throb than this which now
pained her, In those days Gilbert Grail was a mystery to her, inspiring
awe and reverence. How would he meet her now? Would he have bitter
words for her? No, that would be unlike him. She _must_ stand before
him, and say something which had been growing in her since the dark
days of winter began. Only the utterance of those words would bring her
peace. No happiness; happiness and she had nothing to do with each
other. She thought she would not live very long; she must waste no more
of the days that remained to her. There was need of her here at all
events. The parting from her sister would be at an end; Lydia would
rejoice. He too, yes, _he_ would be glad, for he would know nothing of
the truth. It might be that his whole future life would be made lighter
by this act of hers. Mrs. Ormonde alone would understand; it would give
her pleasure to know that Gilbert Grail's sorrow was at an end.

So many people to be benefited, and the act itself so simple, so merely
a piece of right-doing, the reparation of so great an injury. Strange
that her whole mind had undergone this renewal. Half a year ago, death
would have been chosen before this.

Lydia returned.

'Mrs. Grail will be gone in half an hour. He will see you then, Thyrza.'

Very few words were interchanged as the time passed. They held each
other by the hand. At length Lydia, hearing a sound below, went to the
door.

'You can go now,' she said, returning. 'Shall I come down with you?'

'No, Lyddy.'

'Oh, can you bear this, Thyrza?'

The other smiled, made a motion with her hand, and went out with a
quick step.

The parlour door--entrance so familiar to her--was half open. She
entered, and closed it. Gilbert came forward. His face was not at all
what she had feared; he smiled pleasantly, and offered his hand.

'So you have come to see me as well as Lydia. It is kind of you.'

The words might have borne a very different meaning from that which his
voice and look gave them. He spoke with perfect simplicity, as though
no painful thought could be excited by the meeting. Thyrza saw, in the
instant for which her eyes read his countenance, that he did not often
smile thus. He was noticeably an older man than when she abandoned him;
his beard was partly grizzled, his eyes were yet more sunken. There was
some change, too, in his voice; its sound did not recall the past quite
as she had expected.

But the change in her was so great that he could not move his eyes from
her. When she looked up again, he still seemed to be endeavouring to
recognise her.

'I didn't know whether you would see me,' she said with hurried breath.

'I am very, very glad to see you.'

He seemed about to ask her to sit down. His eyes fell on the chair
which was always called hers. Thyrza noticed it at the same time. From
it she looked to him. Gilbert averted his eyes.

'I did not come to see Lyddy,' Thyrza said, forcing her voice to
steadiness. 'It was to speak to you. I didn't dare to hope you would be
so----'

'Don't say what it pains you to say,' Gilbert spoke, when her words
failed. 'It will pain me even more. Speak to me like an old friend,
Miss Trent.'

'Can you still feel like a friend to me?'

'I don't change much,' he said. 'And it would be a great change that
would make me have any but friendly thoughts of you.'

She raised her face.

'I behaved so cruelly to you. If I could hope that you would forgive
that----'

A sob broke her voice.

'Don't talk of forgiveness!' Gilbert replied, with less self-control.
'I have never thought a hard thought of you. I can't bear to hear _you_
speak in that voice to me.'

The tenderness he had concealed found expression in the last words. Her
wonderful new beauty, the humility of her bowed head, her tears,
overcame the show he had made of easy friendliness. He saw her eyes
turned to him again, and this time he met their gaze.

'Do you know all of my life since I left you?' Thyrza asked. 'Lyddy
knows how I have lived all the time, from that day to this. Has she
told you?'

'Yes, she has told me.'

'Will you let me fulfil the promise I made to you? Can you forget what
I have done? Will you let me be your companion--do all I can to make
your home a happy one? I have no right to ask, but if--if not now--if
some day I could be a help to you! I will come to live with Lyddy. We
will find a room somewhere else. I will work with Lyddy, till you can
let me come----'

Her pallor turned to a deep flush. She spoke brokenly, till her lips
became mute, the last word dying in a whisper. She had not known what
it would cost her to say this. A deadly shame enfolded her; she could
have sunk to the ground before him after the first sentence.

Gilbert listened and was shaken. He knew that this was no confession of
love for him, but of the sincerity of what she had said he could have
no doubt. There was not disgrace upon her; she humbled herself solely
in grief for the suffering she had caused him. He loved her, loved her
the more for the awe her matured beauty inspired in him. That Thyrza
should come and speak thus, was more like a dream than simple reality.
And for all his longing, he durst not touch her hand.

'What you offer me,' he said, in low, tremulous accents, 'I should
never have dared to ask, for it is the greatest gift I can imagine. You
are so far above me now, Thyrza. I should take you into a life that you
are no longer fit for. My home must always be a very poor one; it would
shame me to give you nothing better than that.'

'I want nothing more than to be with you, Gilbert. I am not above you;
you are better in everything. I broke a promise which ought to have
been sacred. If you let me share your life, that is your forgiveness. I
want you to forgive me; I want to be a help to you still; I wish to
forget all that came between us. You won't reject me?'

'Oh, Thyrza, I love you too much. I am too selfish to act as I ought
to! Thyrza! That you can be my wife still, when no spark of hope was
left to me!' ...

It did not seem to Lydia that she had waited long when she heard her
sister's step on the stairs again.

'I mustn't stay another minute,' Thyrza said, going at once to where
her hat and cloak lay. 'It will be late before I get home.'

'I shall come with you as far as the 'bus.'

Lydia would have asked no question, though agitated with wonder and a
surmise she scarcely dared to entertain. When they were both ready to
go out, Thyrza turned to her.

'Gilbert has been very good to me, Lyddy. He will forget all the harm I
have done him, and I shall be his wife.'

The other could find no word for a moment.

'Are you glad of this, Lyddy?'

'I don't know what to think or say,' her sister replied, looking at her
with half-tearful earnestness. 'Did you always mean this, when you said
you were coming here soon?'

'No, not always. But I was able to do it at last. Now I shall rest,
dear sister.'

'You are sure that this is right? It isn't only a fancy, that you'll be
sorry for, that'll make everything worse in the end?'

'I shall never be sorry, and everything will be better, Lyddy.'

They kissed each other.

'Come, dear, I mustn't wait.'

They walked quickly and without speaking as far as the lights and noise
of Westminster Bridge Road. For them the everyday movement of the
street had no meaning; such things were the mere husk of life; each was
absorbed in her own being.

'I shall come again on Saturday night,' Thyrza said hurriedly, as they
parted. 'And perhaps I shall stay over Sunday. May I?'

'Do!'

'Be at the door again at the same time.'




CHAPTER XL

HER REWARD


This was on Thursday. The two days which followed were such as come
very rarely in a London winter. Fog had vanished; the ways were clean
and hard; between the housetops and the zenith gleamed one clear blue
track of frosty sky. The sun--the very sun of heaven--made new the
outline of every street, flashed on windows, gave beauty to spires and
domes, revealed whiteness in untrodden places where the snow still
lingered. The air was like a spirit of joyous life, tingling the blood
to warmth and with a breath freeing the brain from sluggish vapours.
Such a day London sees but once in half a dozen winters.

Thyrza felt the influence of the change. She breathed more easily; her
body was no longer the weary weight she had failed under. When she rose
and saw such marvellous daylight at her window, involuntarily she let
her voice run over a few notes. The power of song was still in her; ah,
if health and happiness had companioned with her, would she not have
sung as few ever did!

But henceforth that was part of the past, part of what she must forget
and renounce. When she said to Mrs. Ormonde that she would still try to
keep up her singing, there was a thought in her mind worthy of a woman
cast in such a mould as hers. She had a vision of herself, on some day
not far off, sending forth her voice in glorious song, and knowing that
among the crowd before her _he_ sat and listened. He would know her
then. To him her voice would say what no one else understood, and for a
moment--she wished it to be for no more than a moment--he would scorn
himself for having forgotten her.

It was all gone into the past, buried for ever out of sight. She would
no longer even sigh over the memory. If the sky were always as to-day,
if there were always sunlight to stand in and the living air to drink,
she might find the life before her in truth as little of a burden as it
seemed this morning But the days would again be wrapped in nether
fumes, the foul air would stifle her, her blood would go stagnant, her
eyes would weep with the desolate rain. Why should Gilbert remain in
England? Were there no countries where the sun shone that would give a
man and a woman toil whereby to support themselves? Luke Ackroyd had
spoken of going to Canada. He said it cost so little to get there, and
that life was better than in England. Could not Gilbert take her
yonder? But there was his mother, old, weary; no such change was
possible for her. And the thought of her reminded Thyrza of one of the
first duties she must take upon herself. It mattered little where she
lived--mattered little if the sun-dawn never broke again. Her life was
to be in a narrow circle, and to that she would accustom herself.

What of to-morrow? To-day she was full of courage, even of a kind of
hope. Never should Gilbert feel that she was not wholly his; never
would she wrong his faithfulness by slighting the claims of his love.
In her misery she had said that there were things she could not
do--could not bear; as if a woman cannot take up any burden that she
wills, and carry it faithfully even as far as the gates of death! And
this duty before her she would not even think of as a burden. There are
some women who never know what love is, who marry a man because they
respect and like him, and are good wives their life long. She would be
even as one of these. Suppose love to be something she had outgrown;
the idleness of girls. Now was the season of her womanhood, and the
realities of life left no room for folly.

How long since she had felt so well! She sewed through the morning, and
had but little trouble to keep her thoughts always forward-looking. She
sang a little to herself, for who but must sing when there is sunlight?
She ate when dinner was brought to her. Then she prepared to go out for
half an hour.

Clara just then came up.

'Ah, you are going out! Do come with us into the park, will you? You
haven't to go anywhere. My husband has taken a half-holiday on purpose
to skate. Reckless man! He says you don't get skating weather like this
every day. Can you skate?'

Thyrza shook her head, smiling.

'No more can I. Harold wants to teach me, but it seems absurd to bruise
oneself all over, and make oneself ridiculous too, to learn an
amusement you can't practise once in five years. But do come with us.
It really is nice to watch them skating.'

'Yes, I will come, gladly,' Thyrza said.

And so they went to the ice in Regent's Park, and Mr. Emerson put on
his skates, and was speedily exhibiting his skill amid the gliding
crowd. Clara and her companion walked along the edge. Thyrza, regarding
this assembly of people who had come forth to enjoy themselves,
marvelled inwardly. It was so hard to understand how any one could
enter with such seriousness into mere amusement. How many happy people
the world contained! Of all this black-coated swarm, not one with a
trouble that could not be flung away at the summons of a hard frost!
They sped about as if on wings, they shouted to friends, they had
catastrophes and laughed aloud over them. And, as she looked on, the
scene grew so unreal that it frightened her. These did not seem to be
human beings. How came it that they were exempt from the sorrow that
goes about the world, blighting lives and breaking hearts? Or was it
she that lived in a dream, while these were really awake? She was not
sorrowful now, but light-hearted pastime such as this was
unintelligible to her.

Clara chatted and ran, and thoroughly enjoyed herself. At one spot she
came at length to a pause, having lost sight of her husband, fretting
that she could not find him. Her eye discovered him at length, however,
and just as she spoke her satisfaction she was surprised by a laugh
from Thyrza--a real laugh, sweet and clear as it used to be.

'What is it?' she asked in wonder.

'Oh, look! Do look!'

Just before them, on the ice, a little troop of ducks was going by,
fowl dispossessed of their wonted swimming-ground by the all-hardening
frost. Of every two steps the waddlers took, one was a hopeless slip,
and the spectacle presented by the unhappy birds in their effort to get
along at a good round pace was ludicrous beyond resistance. They
sprawled and fell, they staggered up again with indignant wagging of
head and tail, they rushed forward only to slip more desperately; now
one leg failed them, now the other, now both at once. And all the time
they kept up a cackle of annoyance; they looked about them with foolish
eyes of amazement and indignation; they wondered, doubtless, what the
world was coming to, when an honest duck's piece of water was suddenly
stolen from him, and he was subjected to insult on the top of injury.

Thyrza gazed at them, and the longer she gazed the more merrily she
laughed.

'Poor ducks! I never saw anything so ridiculous. There, look! The one
with the neck all bright colours! He'll be down again; there, I said he
would! Why _will_ they try to go so quickly? They wouldn't stumble half
so much if they walked gently.'

Thyrza had thought that nothing in the world could move her to
unfeigned laughter. Yet as often as she thought of the ducks it was
with revival of mirth. She laughed at them long after, alone in her
room.

It was as bright a day on the morrow, and still she knew that lightness
of heart, that freedom of the breath which is physical happiness. Had
she by the mere act of redeeming her faith to Gilbert brought upon
herself this reward? It was so strangely easy to keep dark thoughts at
a distance. She had not lain awake in the night, for her a wonderful
experience. Could it last?

There was a letter this morning from Gilbert. She did not open it at
once, for she knew that there would be more pain than content in
reading it. Yet, when she had read it, she found that it was not out of
harmony with her mood. He wrote because he could say things in this
silent way which would not come to his lips so well. The gratitude he
expressed--simply, powerfully--moved Thyrza; not as the words of one
she loved would have moved her, but to a feeling of calm thankfulness
that she had it in her power to give so much joy. And perhaps some day
she could give him affection. She had, in her belief, spoken truly when
she said that he was above her. He was no ignorant man, without a
thought save of his day's earnings. She could respect his mind, as she
had always done, and his character she could reverence. It was well.

She told Mrs. Emerson that she was going to see her sister again, and
that probably she would not return till Sunday night.

On setting forth, she had a letter to post. It was to Mrs. Ormonde.
Purposely she had delayed writing this till Saturday afternoon; she
wished to show that there had been a couple of days for thought since
the step was taken, and that she could speak with calm consciousness of
what she had done. The posting of this letter was like saying a last
good-bye.

Lydia was again waiting just at the door, and again they reached the
room without having been observed.

'I shall go down at once,' Thyrza said. 'Gilbert expects me. I am going
to speak to Mrs. Grail.'

Lydia was pleased to see that the pale face had not that terrible look
to-night. To-night there were smiles for her, and many affectionate
words. During Thyrza's absence of half an hour, she sat puzzling over
the mystery, as she had puzzled since Thursday night. Would all indeed
be well? It was so sudden, so unthought of, so hard to believe. For
Lydia had by degrees come to think of her sister as raised quite above
this humble station. Though she could not reconcile herself to it;
though she would above all things have chosen that Thyrza should still
marry Gilbert, yet there was a contradictory sort of pride in knowing
that her sister was a lady. Lyddy, we are aware, was little given to
logical processes of thought; her feelings often got her into
troublesome perplexities.

Thyrza came up again. Mrs. Grail had received her with tears and
silence at first, but soon with something of the gratitude which
Gilbert felt.

'I told them I was going to stay till to-morrow. I shall have tea with
them then. You'll spare me for an hour, Lyddy?'

There was no talk between them as yet on the main subject of their
thoughts. Something that was said caused Lydia to go to her cupboard
and bring forth an object which Thyrza at once recognised. It was Mr.
Boddy's violin.

'I shall always keep it,' she said. 'I have had offers to buy it, but I
shall have to be badly in want before it goes.'

She had redeemed it from the pawnbroker's, and no one had opposed her
claim to possess it. The expenses of the old man's burial had been
defrayed by a subscription Ackroyd got up among those who remembered
Mr. Boddy with kindness.

Thyrza touched the strings, and shrank back frightened at the sound.
The ghost of dead music, it evoked the ghost of her dead self.

They fell into solemn talk. Thyrza had resolved that she would not tell
her sister the truth of everything for a long time; some day she would
do so, when the new life had become old habit. But, as they sat by the
fire and spoke in low voices, she was impelled to make all known. Why
should there any longer be a secret between Lyddy and herself? It would
be yet another help to her if she told Lyddy; she felt at length that
she must.

So the story was whispered. Lydia could only hold her sister in her
arms, and shed tears of love and pity.

'We will never speak of it again, dearest,' Thyrza said; 'never, as
long as we live!'

'No, never as long as we live!'

'It's all very long ago, already,' Thyrza added. 'I don't suffer now,
dear one. I have borne so much, that I think I can't feel pain any
more. With you, here in our home, I am happy, and, wherever I am, I
don't think I shall ever be _un_happy. I have written to Mrs. Ormonde,
and she will let him know. He will think I came back because I had long
forgotten him, and was sorry that I ever left Gilbert. You see, that's
what I wish him to believe. Now there'll be nothing to prevent him from
marrying who he likes. No one can say that he has done harm which can
never be undone, can they? I shall rest now, and life will seem easy.
So little will be asked of me; I shall do my best so willingly.'

In the morning Thyrza said:

'I have a fancy, Lyddy. I want you to do my hair for me again.'

'Like you wear it now?'

'No, I mean in the old way. Will it make me look a child again? Never
mind, that is what I should like. I'll have it so when I go downstairs
to tea.'

And whilst Lydia was busy with the golden tresses, Thyrza laughed
suddenly. She had only just thought again of the ducks in the park. She
told all about them, and they laughed together.

'I wonder whether Mrs. Jarmey knows I'm here,' Thyrza said. 'You think
not? Won't someone be coming to see you? Won't Mary?'

'Yes. She always calls for me to go to chapel. Would you rather not see
her?'

'Not to-day, Lyddy. Not till I'm in my own home.'

'But I may tell her you're here? I'll go down in time to meet her, and
I won't go to chapel this morning. No, I'll stay with you this morning,
dear.'

So it was arranged. And they cooked their dinner as they used to; only
Thyrza declared that Lydia had been extravagant in providing.

'I see how you indulge yourself, now that I'm away! Oh yes, of course
you pretend it's only for me.'

How could she be so merry? Lydia thought. But this smile was not always
on her face.

The day passed very quickly. Lydia said she would go out whilst Thyrza
was with the Grails; she had promised to see someone. Thyrza did not
ask who it was.

When she came upstairs again the other had not yet returned. She was
yet a quarter of an hour away. Then she appeared with signs of haste.

'I was afraid you'd be here alone,' she said.

'But have you had tea, Lyddy?'

'Yes.'

This 'yes' was said rather mysteriously. And Lydia's subsequent
behaviour was also mysterious. She took her hat off and stood with it
in her hand, as if not knowing where to put it. Then she sat down,
forgetting that she still wore her jacket. Reminded of this, she stood
about the room, undecidedly.

'What are you thinking of, Lyddy?'

'Nothing.'

She sat down at last, but had so singular a countenance that Thyrza was
obliged to remark on it.

'What have you been doing? Never mind, if you'd rather not tell me.'

Two or three minutes passed before Lydia could make up her mind to
tell. She began by saying:

'You know when I went down to see Mary this morning?'

'Yes,'

'She said she'd seen--that she'd seen Mrs. Poole, and that I was to be
sure to go round to Mrs. Poole's some time in the afternoon, as she
wanted to see me, particular.'

'Yes. And that's where you went?'

Lydia seemed to have no more to say. Thyrza looked at her searchingly.

'Well, Lyddy, there's nothing in that. What else? I know there's
something else.'

'Yes, there is. I went to the house, and, when I knocked at the door,
Mr. Ackroyd opened it.'

Thyrza had begun to tremble. Her eyes watched her sister's face
eagerly; she read something in the heightened colour it showed.

'And then, Lyddy? And then?'

'He asked me to come into the sitting-room. And then he--he said he
wanted me to marry him, Thyrza.'

'Lyddy! It is true? At last?'

Thyrza could scarcely contain herself for joy. She had longed for this.
No happiness of her own would have been in truth complete until there
came like happiness to her sister. She knew how long, how patiently,
with what self-sacrifice, Lydia had been faithful to this her first
love. Again and again the love had seemed for ever hopeless; yet Lydia
gave no sign of sorrow. The sisters were unlike each other in this.
Lydia's nature, fortunately for herself, was not passionate; but its
tenderness none knew as Thyrza did, its tenderness and its steadfast
faith.

'Thyrza, any one would think you are more glad of it than I am.'

'There are no words to tell my gladness, dearest! Good Lyddy! At last,
at last!'

Her face changed from moment to moment; it was now flushed, now again
pale. Once or twice she put her hand against her side.

'How excitable you always were, little one!' Lydia said. 'Come and sit
quietly. It's bad luck when any one makes so much of a thing.'

Thyrza grew calmer. Her face showed that she was suppressing pain. In a
few minutes she said:

'I'll just lie down, Lyddy. I shall be better directly. Don't trouble,
it's nothing. Come and sit by me. How glad I am! Look pleased, just to
please me, will you?'

Both were quiet. Thyrza said it had only been a feeling of faintness;
it was gone now.

The fire was getting low. Lydia went to stir it. She had done so and
was turning to the bed again, when Thyrza half rose, crying in a
smothered voice:

'Lyddy! Come!'

Then she fell back. Her sister was bending over her in an instant, was
loosening her dress, doing all that may restore one who has fainted.
But for Thyrza there was no awaking.

Had she not herself desired it? And what gift more blessed, of all that
man may pray for?

She was at rest, the pure, the gentle, at rest in her maidenhood. The
joy that had strength to kill her was not of her own; of the two great
loves between which her soul was divided, that which was lifelong
triumphed in her life's last moment.

She who wept there through the night would have lain dead if that cold
face could in exchange have been touched by the dawn to waking. She
felt that her life was desolate; she mourned as for one on whom the
extremity of fate has fallen. Mourn she must, in the anguish of her
loss; she could not know the cruelty that was in her longing to bring
the sleeper back to consciousness. The heart that had ached so wearily
would ache no more; for the tired brain there was no more doubt. Had
existence been to her but one song of thanksgiving, even then to lie
thus had been more desirable. For to sleep is better than to wake, and
how should we who live bear the day's burden but for the promise of
death.

On Monday at noon there arrived a telegram, addressed to 'Miss Thyrza
Trent.' Gilbert received it from Mrs. Jarmey, and he took it upstairs
to Lydia, who opened it. It was from Mrs. Ormonde; she was at the
Emersons', and wished to know when Thyrza would return; she desired to
see her.

'Will you write to her, Gilbert?' Lydia asked.

'Wouldn't it be better if I went to see her?'

Yes, that was felt to be better. It was known that Thyrza had written
to Mrs. Ormonde on Saturday, so that nothing needed to be explained;
Gilbert had only to bear his simple news.

Arrived at the house, he had to wait. Mrs. Ormonde was gone out for an
hour, and neither Mr. Emerson nor his wife was at home. He sat in the
Emersons' parlour, seldom stirring, his eyes unobservant. For Gilbert
Grail there was little left in the world that he cared to look at.

Mrs. Ormonde came in. She regarded Gilbert with uncertainty, having
been told that someone waited for her, but nothing more. Gilbert rose
and made himself known to her. Then, marking his expression, she was
fearful.

'You have come from Miss Trent--from Thyrza,' she said, giving him her
hand.

'She could not come herself, Mrs. Ormonde.'

'Thyrza is ill?'

He hesitated. His face had told her the truth before he uttered:

'She is dead!'

It is seldom that we experience a simple emotion. When the words,
incredible at first, had established their meaning in her mind, Mrs.
Ormonde knew that with her human grief there blended an awe-struck
thankfulness. She stood on other ground than Lydia's, on other than
Gilbert's; her heart had been wrung by the short unaffected letter she
had received from Thyrza, and, though she could only acquiesce, the
future had looked grey and joyless. To hear it said of Thyrza, 'She is
dead!' chilled her; the world of her affections was beyond measure
poorer by the loss of that sweet and noble being. But could she by a
word have reversed the decision of fate, love would not have suffered
her to speak it.

They talked together, and at the end she said:

'If Lydia will let me come and see her, I shall be very grateful. Will
you ask her, and send word to me speedily?'

The permission was granted. Mrs. Ormonde went to Walnut Tree Walk that
evening, and Gilbert conducted her to the door of the room. The lamp
gave its ordinary stinted light. There was nothing unusual in the
appearance of the chamber. In the bed one lay asleep.

Mrs. Ormonde took Lydia's hands and without speaking kissed her. Then
Lydia raised the lamp from the table, and held it so that the light
fell on her sister's face. No remnant of pain was there, only calm,
unblemished beauty; the lips were as naturally composed as if they
might still part to give utterance to song; the brow showed its lines
of high imaginativeness even more clearly than in life. The golden
braid rested by her neck as in childhood.

'Have you any picture of her?' Mrs. Ormonde asked.

'No.'

'Will you let me have one made--drawn from her face now, but looking as
she did in life? It shall be done by a good artist; I think it can be
done successfully.'

Lydia was in doubt. The thought of introducing a stranger to this room
to sit and pore upon the dead face with cold interest was repugnant to
her. Yet if Thyrza's face really could be preserved, to look at her,
for others dear to her to look at, that would be much. She gave her
assent.

Mary Bower came frequently; her silent presence was a help to Lydia
through the miseries of the next few days.

One other there was who asked timidly to be allowed to see Thyrza once
more--her friend Totty. She sought Mary Bower, and said how much she
wished it, though she feared Lydia would not grant her wish. But it was
granted readily, Totty had her sad pleasure, and her solemn memory.

Mrs. Ormonde knew that it was better for her not to attend the funeral.
On the evening before, she left at the house a small wreath of white
flowers. Lydia, Gilbert, Mary Bower, Luke Ackroyd and his sister, these
only went to the cemetery. He whom Thyrza would have wished to follow
her, in thought at least, to the grave, was too far away to know of her
death till later.

The next day, Lydia sat for an hour with Ackroyd. They did not speak
much. But before she left him, Lydia looked into his face and said:

'Do you wish me to believe, Luke, that I shall never see my sister
again?'

He bent his face and kept silence.

'Do you think that I could live if I believed that she was gone for
ever? That I should never meet Thyrza after this, never again?'

'I shall never wish you to think in that way, Lyddy,' he answered,
kindly. 'I've often talked as if I knew things for certain, when I know
nothing. You're better in yourself than I am, and you may feel more of
the truth.'

The next morning, Lydia went to her work as usual. Gilbert had already
returned to his. The clear winter sunshine was already a thing of the
far past; in the streets was the slush of thaw, and darkness fell early
from the obscured sky.




CHAPTER XLI

THE LIVING


This winter the Newthorpes spent abroad. Mr. Newthorpe was in very
doubtful health when he went to Ullswater, just before Egremont's
return to England, and by the end of the autumn his condition was such
as to cause a renewal of Annabel's former fears. On a quick decision,
they departed for Cannes, and remained there till early in the
following April.

'There's a sort of absurdity,' Mr. Newthorpe remarked, 'in living when
you can think of nothing but how you're to save your life. Better have
done with it, I think. It strikes me as an impiety, too, to go playing
at hide-and-seek with the gods.'

They came back to Eastbourne, which, on the whole, seemed to suit the
invalid during these summer months. He did little now but muse over a
few favourite books and listen to his daughter's conversation.
Comparatively a young man, his energies were spent, his life was behind
him. To Annabel it was infinitely sorrowful to have observed this rapid
process of decay. She could not be persuaded that the failure of his
powers was anything more than temporary. But her father lost no
opportunity of warning her that she deceived herself. He had his
reasons for doing so.

His temper was perfect: his outlook on the world remained that of a
genial pessimist, a type of man common enough in our day. He seemed to
find a pleasure in urbanely mocking at his own futility.

'I am the sort of man,' he once said, 'of whom Tourgueneff would make
an admirable study. There's tragedy in me, if you have the eyes to see
it. I don't think any one can help feeling kindly towards me. I don't
think any one can altogether despise me. Yet my life is a mere
inefficacy.'

'You have had much enjoyment in your life, father,' Annabel replied,
'and enjoyment of the purest kind. In our age of the world I think that
must be a sufficient content.'

'Why, there you've hit it, Bell. 'Tis the age. There's somebody else I
know who had better take warning by me. But I think he has done.'

They were talking thus as they sat alone in one of the places of
shelter on the Parade. Other people had departed on the serious
business of dining; but the evening was beautiful, and these two were
tempted to remain and watch the sea.

'You mean Mr. Egremont,' Annabel said.

'Yes. I wonder very much what he will be at my age. He won't be
anything particular, of course.'

'No, I don't suppose he will do anything remarkable,' the girl assented
impartially.

'Yet he might have done,' recommenced her father, with some annoyance,
as if his remark had not elicited the answer he looked for. 'This
mill-work of his I consider mere discipline. I should have thought two
years of it enough; three certainly ought to be. A fourth, and he will
never do anything else.'

'What else should he do?'

Mr. Newthorpe laughed a little.

'There's only one thing for such a fellow to do nowadays. Let him write
something.'

'Write?' Annabel mused. 'Yes, I suppose there is nothing else. Yet he
happens to have sufficient means.'

'Do you mean it for an epigram? Well, it will pass. True, there's the
hardship of his position. There's nothing for him to do but to write,
yet he is handicapped by his money. I should have done something worth
the doing, if I had had to write for bread and cheese. Let him show
that he has something in him, in spite of the fact that he has never
gone without his dinner. Yes, but that would prove him an extraordinary
man, and we agree that he is nothing of the kind.'

'Haven't you ever felt a sort of uneasy shame when you have heard of
another acquaintance taking up the pen?'

'Of course I have. I've felt the same when I've heard of someone being
born.'

'Suppose I announced to you that I was writing a novel?'

'I am a philosopher, Bell.'

'Precisely. It would be disagreeable to me if I heard that Mr. Egremont
was writing a novel. If he published anything very good, it wouldn't
trouble one so much after the event. I don't see why he should write. I
think he'd better continue to give half his day to something practical,
and the other half to the pleasures of a man of culture. It will
preserve his balance.'

'Bella mia, you are greatly disillusioned for a young girl.'

'I don't feel that the term is applicable to me. I am disillusioned,
father, because I am getting reasonably old.'

'You live too much alone.'

'I prefer it.'

Mr. Newthorpe seemed to be turning over a thought.

'I suppose,' he said at length, with a glance at his daughter, 'that
what you have just said explains our friend's return to his oil-cloth.'

'Not entirely, I think.'

'H'm. You sent him about his business, however.

Annabel looked straight before her at the sea; her lips barely smiled.

'You are mistaken. He gave me no right to do so.'

'Oh? Then I have been on a wrong tack.'

'Shall we walk homewards?'

Towards the end of August, Mr. and Mrs. Dalmaine were at Eastbourne for
a few days. Paula spent one hour with her cousin in private, no more.
The two had drifted further apart than ever. But in that one hour Paula
had matter enough for talk. There had been a General Election during
the summer, and Mr. Dalmaine had victoriously retained his seat for
Vauxhall. His wife could speak of nothing else.

'What I would have given if you could have seen me canvassing, Bell!
Now I've found the one thing that I can do really well. I wish
Parliaments were annual!'

'My dear Paula, what has made you so misanthropic?'

'I don't understand. You know I never do understand your clever
remarks, Bell; please speak quite simply, will you? Oh, but the
canvassing! Of course I didn't get on with people's wives as well as
with people themselves; women never do, you know. You should have heard
me arguing questions with working men and shopkeepers! Mr. Dalmaine
once told me I'd better keep out of politics, as I only made a bungle
of it; but I've learnt a great deal since then. He admits now that I
really do understand the main questions. Of course it's all his
teaching. He puts things so clearly, you know. I suppose there's no one
in the House who makes such clear speeches as he does.'

'The result of your work was very satisfactory.'

'Wasn't it! Fifteen hundred majority! Then we drove all about the
borough, and I had to bow nicely to people who waved their hats and
shouted. It was a new sensation; I think I never enjoyed anything so
much in my life. He is enormously popular, my husband. And everybody
says he is doing an enormous lot of good. You know, Bell, it was a mere
chance that he isn't in the Ministry! His name was mentioned; we know
it for a fact. There's no doubt whatever he'll be in next time, if the
Liberal Government keeps up. It is so annoying that Parliaments
generally last so long! Think what that will be, when he is a Minister!
I shouldn't wonder if you come to see me some day in Downing Street,
Bell.'

'I should be afraid, Paula.'

'Nonsense! Your husband will bring you. Don't you think Mr. Dalmaine's
looking remarkably well? I'm so sorry I haven't got my little boy here
for you to see. We've decided that _he's_ to be Prime Minister! I hope
you read Mr. Dalmaine's speeches, Bell?'

'Frequently.'

'That's good of you! He's thinking of publishing a volume of those that
deal with factory legislation. You should have heard what they said
about him, at the election time!'

Paula was still charming, but it must be confessed a trifle vulgarised.
Formerly she had not been vulgar at all; at present one discerned
unmistakably the influence of her husband, and of the world in which
she lived. In person, she showed the matron somewhat prematurely; one
saw that in another ten years she would be portly; her round fair face
would become too round and too pinky. Mentally, she was at length
formed, and to Mr. Dalmaine was due the credit of having formed her.

This gentleman did his kinsfolk the honour of calling upon them. He had
grown a little stouter; he bore himself with conscious dignity; you saw
that he had not much time, nor much attention, to bestow upon
unpolitical people. He was suave and abrupt by turns; he used his hands
freely in conversing. Mr. Newthorpe smiled much during the interview
with him, and, a few hours later, when alone with Annabel, he suddenly
exclaimed:

'What an ignorant pretentious numskull that fellow is!'

'Of whom do you speak?'

'Why, of Dalmaine, of course.'

'My dear father!--A philanthropist! One of the forces of the time!'

Mr. Newthorpe leaned back and laughed.

'Perfectly true,' he said presently. 'Whence we may arrive at certain
conclusions with regard to mankind at large and our time in particular.
That poor pretty girl! It's too bad.'

'She is happy.'

'True again. And it would be foolish to wish her miserable. Bell, let
us join hands and go to the old ferryman's boat together.'

'It would cost me no pang, father. Still we will walk a little longer
on the sea-shore.'

And whilst this conversation was going on, Mr. and Mrs. Dalmaine sat
after dinner on the balcony of their hotel, talking occasionally.
Dalmaine smoked a cigar: his eyes betrayed the pleasures of digestion
and thought on high matters of State.

He said all at once:

'By-the-by, Lady Wigger is at the Queen's Hotel, I see. You will call
to-morrow.'

'Lady Wigger? But really I don't think I can, dear,' Paula replied,
timidly.

'Why not?'

'Why, you know she was so shockingly rude to me at the Huntleys' ball.
You said it was abominable, yourself.'

'So it was, but you'd better call.'

'I'd much rather not.'

Dalmaine looked at her with Olympian surprise.

'But, my dear,' he said with suave firmness, 'I said that you had
better call. The people must not be neglected; they will be useful. Do
you understand me?'

'Yes, love.'

Paula was quiet for a few moments, then talked as brightly as ever....

One day close upon the end of September, Mrs. Ormonde had to pay a
visit to the little village of West Dean, which is some four miles
distant from Eastbourne, inland and westward. Business of a domestic
nature took her thither; she wished to visit a cottage for the purpose
of seeing a girl whom she thought of engaging as a servant. The day was
very beautiful; she asked the Newthorpes to accompany her on the drive.
Mr. Newthorpe preferred to remain at home; Annabel accepted the
invitation.

The road was uphill, until the level of the Downs was reached; then it
went winding along, with fair stretches of scenery on either hand,
between fields fragrant of Autumn, overhead the broad soft purple sky.
First East Dean was passed, a few rustic houses nestling, as the name
implies, in its gentle hollow. After that, another gradual ascent, and
presently the carriage paused at a point of the road immediately above
the village to which they were going.

The desire to stop was simultaneous in Mrs. Ormonde and her companion;
their eyes rested on as sweet a bit of landscape as can be found in
England, one of those scenes which are typical of the Southern
countries. It was a broad valley, at the lowest point of which lay West
Dean. The hamlet consists of very few houses, all so compactly grouped
about the old church that from this distance it seemed as if the hand
could cover them. The roofs were overgrown with lichen, yellow on
slate, red on tiles. In the farmyards were haystacks with yellow
conical coverings of thatch. And around all closed dense masses of
chestnut foliage, the green just touched with gold. The little group of
houses had mellowed with age; their guarded peacefulness was soothing
to the eye and the spirit. Along the stretch of the hollow the land was
parcelled into meadows and tilth of varied hue. Here was a great patch
of warm grey soil, where horses were drawing the harrow; yonder the
same work was being done by sleek black oxen. Where there was pasture,
its chalky-brown colour told of the nature of the earth which produced
it. A vast oblong running right athwart the far side of the valley had
just been strewn with loam; it was the darkest purple. The bright
yellow of the 'kelk' spread in several directions; and here and there
rose thin wreaths of white smoke, where a pile of uprooted couch-grass
was burning; the scent was borne hither by a breeze that could be
scarcely felt.

The clock of the old church struck four.

'A kindness, Mrs. Ormonde!' said Annabel. 'Let me stay here whilst you
drive down into the village. I don't wish to see the people there just
now. To sit here and look down on that picture will do me good.'

'By all means. But I dare say I shall be half an hour. It will take ten
minutes to drive down.'

'Never mind. I shall sit here on the bank, and enjoy myself.'

Now it happened that on this same September day a young man left
Brighton and started to walk eastward along the coast. He had come into
Brighton from London the evening before, having to pay a visit to the
family of an acquaintance of his who had recently died in Pennsylvania,
and who, when dying, had asked him to perform this office on his return
to England. He was no stranger to Brighton; he knew that, if one is
obliged to visit the place, it is well to be there under cover of the
night and to depart as speedily as possible from amid its vulgar
hideousness. So, not later than eight on the following morning, he had
left the abomination behind him, and was approaching Rottingdean.

His destination was Eastbourne; the thought of going thither on foot
came to him as he glanced at a map of the coast whilst at breakfast.
The weather was perfect, and the walk would be full of interest.

One would have said that he had a mind very free from care. For the
most part he stepped on at a good round pace, observing well; sometimes
he paused, as if merely to enjoy the air. He was in excellent health;
he smiled readily.

At Rottingdean he lingered for awhile. A soft mist hung all around; sky
and sea were of a delicate blurred blue-grey, the former mottled in
places. The sun was not visible, but its light lay in one long gleaming
line out on the level water; beyond, all was vapour-veiled. There were
no breakers; now and then a larger ripple than usual splashed on the
beach, and that was the only sound the sea gave. It was full tide; the
water at the foot of the cliffs was of a wonderful green, pellucid,
delicate, through which the chalk was visible, with dark masses of weed
here and there. Swallows in great numbers flew about the edge, and
thistle-down floated everywhere. From the fields came a tinkle of
sheep-bells.

The pedestrian sighed when he rose to continue his progress. It was
noticeable that, as he went on, he lost something of his cheerfulness
of manner; probably the early rising and the first taste of exercise
had had their effect upon him, and now he was returning to his more
wonted self. The autumn air, the sun-stained mist, the silent sea,
would naturally incline to pensiveness one who knew that mood.

The air was unimaginably calm; the thistle-down gave proof that only
the faintest breath was stirring. On the Downs beyond Rottingdean lay
two or three bird-catchers, prone as they watched the semicircle of
call-birds in cages, and held their hand on the string which closed the
nets. The young man spoke a few words with one of these, curious about
his craft.

He came down upon Newhaven, and halted in the town for refreshment;
then, having loitered a little to look at the shipping, he climbed the
opposite side of the valley, and made his way as far as Seaford. Thence
another climb, and a bend inland, for the next indentation of the coast
was Cuckmere Haven, and the water could only be crossed at some
distance from the sea. The country through which the Cuckmere flowed
had a melancholy picturesqueness. It was a great reach of level
meadows, very marshy, with red-brown rushes growing in every ditch, and
low trees in places, their trunks wrapped in bright yellow lichen; nor
only their trunks, but the very smallest of their twigs was so clad.
All over the flats were cows pasturing, black cows, contrasting with
flocks of white sheep, which were gathered together, bleating. The
coarse grass was sun-scorched; the slope of the Downs on either side
showed the customary chalky green. The mist had now all but dispersed,
yet there was still only blurred sunshine. Rooks hovered beneath the
sky, heavily, lazily, and uttered their long caws.

The Cuckmere was crossed, and another ascent began. The sea was now
hidden; the road would run inland, cutting off the great angle made by
Beachy Head. The pedestrian had made notes of his track; he knew that
he was now approaching a village called West Dean. He had lingered by
the Cuckmere; now he braced himself. And he came in sight of West Dean
as the church clock struck four.

He wished now to make speed to Eastbourne, but the loveliness of the
hollow above which the road ran perforce checked him; he paced forward
very slowly, his eyes bent upon the hamlet. Something moved, near to
him. He looked round. A lady was standing in the road, and, of all
strange things, a lady of whom at that moment he was thinking.

'By what inconceivable chance does this happen, Miss Newthorpe?' he
said, taking her offered hand.

'Surely the question would come with even more force from me,' Annabel
made answer. 'You might have presumed me to be in England, Mr.
Egremont; I, on the other hand, certainly imagined that you were beyond
the Atlantic.'

'I have been in England a day or two.'

'But here? Looking down upon West Dean?'

'I have walked from Brighton--one of the most delightful walks I ever
took.'

'A long one, surely. I am waiting for Mrs. Ormonde. She is with the
carriage below. I chose to wait here, to feast my eyes.'

Both turned again to the picture. The two did not sort ill together.
Annabel was very womanly, of fair, thoughtful countenance, and she
stood with no less grace, though maturer, than by the ripples of
Ullswater, four years ago. She had the visage of a woman whose
intellect is highly trained, a face sensitive to every note of the
soul's music, yet impressed with the sober consciousness which comes of
self-study and experience. A woman, one would have said, who could act
as nobly as she could speak, yet who would prefer both to live and to
express herself in a minor key. And Egremont was not unlike her in some
essential points. The turn for irony was more pronounced on his
features, yet he had the eyes of an idealist. He, too, would choose
restraint in preference to outbreak of emotion: he too could be
forcible if occasion of sufficient pressure lay upon him. And the
probability remained, that both one and the other would choose a path
of life where there was small risk of their stronger faculties being
demanded.

They talked of the landscape, of that exclusively, until Mrs. Ormonde's
carriage was seen reascending the hill. Then they became silent, and
stood so as their common friend drew near. Her astonishment was not
slight, but she gave it only momentary expression, then passed on to
general talk.

'I always regard you as reasonably emancipated, Annabel,' she said,
'but none the less I felt a certain surprise in noticing you intimately
conversing with a chance wayfarer. Mr. Egremont, be good enough to seat
yourself opposite to us.'

They drove back to Eastbourne. All conversed on the way with as much
ease as if they had this afternoon set forth in company from The
Chestnuts.

'This is what, at school, we used to call a 'lift,'' said Egremont.

'A welcome one, too, I should think,' Mrs. Ormonde replied. 'But you
always calculated distances by 'walks,' I remember, when others measure
by the carriage or the railway. Annabel, you too are an excellent
walker; you have often brought me to extremities in the lakes, though I
wouldn't confess it. And pray, Mr. Egremont, for whom was your visit
intended? Shall I put you down at Mr. Newthorpe's door, or had you my
humble house in view?'

'It is natural to me to count upon The Chestnuts as a place of rest, at
all events,' Walter replied. 'I should not have ventured to disturb Mr.
Newthorpe this evening.'

'We will wait at the door, Mrs. Ormonde,' put in Annabel. 'Father will
come out as he always does.'

Accordingly the carriage was stopped at the Newthorpes' house, and, as
Annabel had predicted, her father sauntered forth.

'Ah, how do you do, Egremont?' he said, after a scarcely appreciable
hesitation, giving his hand with perfect self-possession. 'Turned up on
the road, have you?'

The ladies laughed. Annabel left the carriage, and the other two drove
on to The Chestnuts.

Egremont dined and spent the evening with Mrs. Ormonde. Their
conversation was long and intimate, yet it was some time before
reference was made to the subject both had most distinctly in mind.

'I went to see Grail as soon as I got to London,' Egremont said at
length.

'I am glad of that. But how did you know where to find him?'

'They gave me his address at the old house. He seems comfortably lodged
with his friend Ackroyd. Mrs. Ackroyd opened the door to me; of course
I didn't know her, and she wouldn't know me; Grail told me who it was
afterwards. I could recall no likeness to her sister.'

'There is very little. The poor girl is in calm water at last, I hope.
She was to have been married on Midsummer Day, and, the night before,
Mrs. Grail died; so they put it off. And what of Mr. Grail?'

'He behaved admirably to me; he did not let me feel for a moment that I
excited any trouble in his memory.'

'But does his life seem bitter to him--his employment, I mean?'

'I can't think he finds it so. He spoke very frankly, and assured me
that he has all the leisure time he cared to use. He says he is not so
eager after knowledge as formerly; it is enough for him to read the
books he likes. I went with the intention of asking him to let me be of
some use, if I could. But it was a delicate matter, in any case, and I
found that he understood me without plain speech: he conveyed his
answer distinctly enough. No, I sincerely think that he has reached
that point of resignation at which a man dreads to be disturbed. He
spoke with emotion of Mrs. Ackroyd; she is invaluable to him, I saw.'

'She is a true-hearted woman.'

Egremont let a minute pass, then said:

'You will show me the portrait?'

'Certainly. It hangs in my bedroom; I will fetch it.'

She went and returned quickly, carrying a red crayon drawing framed in
plain oak. In the corner was a well-known signature, that of one of the
few living artists to whom one would appeal with confidence for the
execution of a task such as this, a man whom success has not
vulgarised, and who is still of opinion that the true artist will
oftener find his inspiration in a London garret than amid the banality
of the plutocrat's drawing-room. The work was of course masterly in
execution; it was no less admirable as a portrait. In those few lines
of chalk, Thyrza lived. He had divined the secret of the girl's soul,
that gift of passionate imagination which in her early years sunk her
in hour-long reverie, and later burned her life away. The mood embodied
was one so characteristic of Thyrza that one marvelled at the insight
which had evoked it from a dead face; she was not happy, she was net
downcast; her eyes _saw_ something, something which stirred her being,
something for which she yearned, passionately, yet with knowledge that
it was for ever forbidden to her. A face of infinite pathos, which drew
tears to the eyes, yet was unutterably sweet to gaze upon.

Holding the picture, Egremont turned to his companion, and said in a
subdued voice,

'This was Thyrza?'

'Her very self.'

'He knew her story?'

'The bare facts, of course without names, without details. He would
take nothing for the original drawing--Lydia has it--and nothing for
this copy which he made me. He said I had done him a great kindness.'

'Oh, if one could be a man like that!'

The words answered to his thoughts, yet implied something more than
their plain meaning. They uttered more than one regret, more than one
aspiration.

'Let me take it, Walter.'

'One moment!--This was Thyrza?'

'Let me take it.'

'Tell me--has Miss Newthorpe seen it?'

'Yes.'

Mrs. Ormonde bore the picture away. In a few minutes Egremont took his
leave, and went to the hotel to which he had sent his travelling-bag
from Brighton. It was long before he slept. He was thinking of a night
a little more than a year ago, when he had walked by the shore and held
debate with himself....

On the following evening, shortly before sunset, Annabel and he walked
on the short dry grass of the Down that rises to Beachy Head. There had
been another day of supreme tranquillity, of blurred sunshine, of
soothing autumnal warmth. And this was the crowning hour. The mist had
drifted from the land and the sea; as the two continued their ascent,
the view became lovelier. They regarded it, but spoke of other things.

'I have no wish to go back to America,' Egremont was saying, 'but, if I
do, I shall very likely settle there for good. I don't think I am
ideally adapted to a pursuit of that kind, but habit makes it quite
tolerable.'

'What should you do if you remained in England?' Annabel asked, her
voice implying no more than friendly interest.

'I might say that I don't know, but it wouldn't be true. I know well
enough I should live the life of a student, and of a man who looks on
contemporary things with an artistic interest, though he lacks the
artistic power to use his observations. In time I should marry. I
should have pleasure in my house, should make it as beautiful as might
be, should gather a very few friends about me. I should not become
morbid; the danger of that is over. Every opportunity I saw of helping
those less fortunate than myself I should gladly seize; it is not
impossible that I might seek opportunities, that I might found some
institution--of quite commonplace aims, be assured. For instance, I
should like to see other Homes like Mrs. Ormonde's; many women could
conduct them, if the means were supplied. And so on.'

'Yes, that is all very reasonable. It lies with yourself to decide
whether you might not have a breezier existence in America.'

'True. But not with myself to decide whether I remain here or go back
again. I ask you to help me in determining that.'

Annabel stood as one who reflects gravely yet collectedly. Egremont
fixed his eyes upon her, until she looked at him then his gaze
questioned silently.

'Let us understand each other,' said Annabel. 'Do you say this because
of anything that has been in the past?'

'Not _because_ of it; in continuance of it.'

'Yet we are both very different from what we were when that happened.'

'Both, I think. I do not speak now as I did then, yet the wish I have
is far more real.'

They were more than half-way up the ascent; it was after sunset, and
the mood of the season was changing.

The plain of Pevensey lay like a vision of fairyland, the colouring
indescribably delicate, unreal; bands of dark green alternated with the
palest and most translucent emeralds. The long stretch of the coast was
a faint outline, yet so clear that every tongue of sand, every smallest
headland was distinguishable. The sky that rested on the eastern
semicircle of horizon was rather neutral tint than blue, and in it hung
long clouds of the colour of faded daffodils. A glance overhead gave
the reason of this wondrous effect of light; there, and away to the
west, brooded a vast black storm-cloud, ragged at the edge, yet seeming
motionless; the western sea was very night, its gloom intensified by
one slip of silver shimmer, wherein a sail was revealed. The hillside
immediately in front of those who stood here was so deeply shadowed
that its contrast threw the vision of unearthly light into distance
immeasurable. A wind was rising, but, though its low whistling sound
was very audible, it seemed to be in the upper air; here scarcely a
breath was felt.

Annabel said:

'Have you seen Thyrza's portrait?

'Yes.'

She raised her eyes; they were sad, compassionate, yet smiled.

'She could not have lived. But you are conscious now of what that face
means?'

'I know nothing of her history from the day when I last saw her, except
the mere outward circumstances.'

'Nor do I. But I saw her once, here, and I have seen her portrait. The
crisis of your life was there. There was your one great opportunity,
and you let it pass. She could not have lived; but that is no matter.
You were tried, Mr. Egremont, and found Wanting.'

'Her love for me did not continue. It was already too late at the end
of those two years.

'Was it?'

'What secret knowledge have you?'

'None whatever, as you mean it. But it was not too late.'

They were silent. And as they stood thus the sky was again transformed.
A steady yet soft wind from the northwest was propelling the great
black cloud seaward, over to France; it moved in a solid mass, its
ragged edges little by little broken off, its bulk detached from the
night which lay behind it. And in the sky which it disclosed rose as it
were a pale dawn, the restored twilight. Thereamid glimmered the
pole-star.

Eastward on the coast, at the far end of Pevensey Bay, the lights of
Hastings began to twinkle; out at sea was visible a single gleam,
appearing and disappearing, the lightship on the Sovereign Shoals.

Annabel continued speaking:

'We have both missed something, something that will never again he
offered us. When you asked me to be your wife, four years ago at
Ullswater, I did not love you. I admired you; I liked you; it would
have been very possible to me to marry you. But I had my ideal of love,
and I hoped to give my husband something more than I felt for you at
that time. A year after, I loved you. I suffered when you were
suffering. I was envious of the love you gave to another woman, and I
said to myself that the moment I hoped for had come only in vain. Since
then I have changed more than I changed in those twelve months. I am
not in love with you now; I can talk of these things without a flutter
of the pulse. Is it not true?'

She held her hand to him, baring the wrist. Egremont retained the hand
in both his own.

'I can tell you, you see,' she went on, 'what I know to be the truth,
that you missed the great opportunity of your life when you abandoned
Thyrza. Her love would have made of you what mine never could, even
though she herself had been taken from you very soon. I can tell you
the mere truth, you see. Dare you still ask for me?'

'I don't ask, Annabel. I have your hand and I keep it.'

'You may. I don't think I should ever give it to any other man.'

The night was thickening about them.

'Shall we go up to the Head?' Egremont asked.

'No higher.'

She said it with a significant look, and he understood her.









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