f\? 
 
 " J*"3 'ys 
 
 flGt
 
 THE ] .IBRARY 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THYEZA
 
 NOVELS BY GEORGE GISSING. 
 
 Fcp. 8vo. pictorial boards, 2s. each ; or limp red cloth, 
 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 DEMOS: a Story of Socialist Life in England, 
 
 ' This remarkable novel presents the great social problem in a striking 
 garb. ..." Demos " does not aspire to vie with " Alton Locke," but it tells 
 a story more practical, and of more brightness and variety.' TIMES. 
 
 ' A really able and vigorous romance.' ATHEX^EUM. 
 
 ' This is a novel of very considerable ability. Nothing can be more skilful 
 than the sketch of the artisan family round whose fortunes the story of the 
 book revolves. The chief character is very powerfully drawn. . . . His 
 mother, too, with her narrow, complaining, and almost dumb integrity. . . . 
 the weak, pretty daughter, and the wortl;)e s s, blackguard son, are hardly 
 less truthful studies. . . . The sketch of the one or two Socialist meetings 
 which the author has occasion to describe, of the style of Socialist literature, 
 and the conversation of Socialist agitators, shows an intimate knowledge of 
 that field of action.' SPECTATOR. 
 
 A LIFE'S MORNING. 
 
 ' As a study of feminine nature, " A Life's Morning " is, perhaps, the 
 most successful of all Mr. Gissing's works.' PALL MALL GAZETTE. 
 
 'Marked by imaginative insight, subtle delineation of character, epi- 
 grammatic force of style, and gleams of genuine humour.' STANDARD. 
 
 THE NETHER WORLD. 
 
 'Terrible in its earnestness, in its "untouched" photography of the 
 desperate struggles and bitter misery of the London poor ; never was word- 
 painting more thoroughly and obviously true.' WORLD. 
 
 ' Mr. Gissiug is one of the few persons who can handle pitch without 
 being denied by it. While he runs Zola close as a realist, his thoughts and 
 language are as pure as those of Miss Yonge herself.' STANDARD. 
 
 'A powerful and most interesting novel.' MANCHESTER GUARDIAN. 
 
 THYRZA. 
 
 A very good story indeed. ... In power and pathetic treatment the 
 novel is above the average.' ATHENAEUM. 
 
 '"Thyrza" is a really exquisite figure; as pathetic a creation as can. 
 well be imagined. ... In short, " Thyrza " is a book of unusual literary 
 merit.' MOBNING POST. 
 
 NEW GRUB STREET. 
 
 'Mr. Gissing has produced a very powerful book. . . . Full of clever 
 touches on literary and social matters.' SATURDAY REVIEW. 
 
 'Mr. Gissing's new book is the best bit of work he has done since 
 " Thyrza." In none of his recent novels has there been such reality of 
 feeling, such pathos, such careful yet broad analysis of character. Mr. 
 Gissing's characters are real living men and women ; they are drawn with 
 great skill, sympathy, and truth.' GUARDIAN. 
 
 London : SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place.
 
 T H Y E Z A 
 
 A TALE 
 
 BY 
 
 GEOEGE GISSING 
 
 AUTHOR 0V 'DEMOS' ' THB XETHKB WOULD ' ETC. 
 
 A NEW EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1895 
 
 [All right* reserved]
 
 College 
 
 ^ 
 
 trfff 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTKR PAOR 
 
 I. AMONG THE HILLS . i ; .1 
 
 II. THE IDEALIST ........ 9 
 
 III. A COBNEB OF LAMBETH ...... 23 
 
 IV. THYEZA SINGS ...... 34 
 
 V. A LAND OP TWILIGHT ...... 47 
 
 VI. DISINHERITED .60 
 
 VII. THE WOBK IN PBOGEESS 75 
 
 VIII. A CLASP OP HANDS .89 
 
 IX. A GOLDEN PROSPECT 98 
 
 X. TEMPTING FOETUNE . . . . . . .114 
 
 XI. A MAN WITH A FUTURE ..*... 127 
 
 XII. LIGHTS AND SHADOWS . . . . . .142 
 
 XIII. THYEZA SINGS AGAIN . . . . . .148 
 
 XIV. MISTS 156 
 
 XV. A SECOND VISIT TO WALNUT TBEE WALK . . 167 
 
 XVI. SEA Music 178 
 
 XVII. ADEIFT . .190 
 
 XVIII. DBAWING NEAEEB ....... 201 
 
 XIX. A SONG WITHOUT WORDS ...... 210 
 
 XX. RAPIDS 226 
 
 XXI. MISCHIEF AFOOT 236 
 
 XXII. GOOD-BYE ......... 245 
 
 XXIII. CONFESSION ......... 260 
 
 XXTV. THE END OF THE DREAM ...... 278 
 
 1318611
 
 VI 
 
 THYEZA 
 
 CHAPTER FAGB 
 
 XXV. A BlBD OP THE AlB .... = . 294 
 
 XXVI. THE IDEALIST AND HIS FRIEND . 303 
 
 XXVII. FOUND 317 
 
 XXVIH. HOPE SURPRISED ....... 334 
 
 XXIX. TOGETHER AGAIN 346 
 
 XXX. MOVEMENTS 361 
 
 XXXI. AN OLD MAN'S REST 369 
 
 XXXII. TOTTY'S LUCK 383 
 
 XXXIII. THE HEART AND ITS SECRET ..... 395 
 
 XXXIV. A LOAN ON SECURITY 404 
 
 XXXV. THREE LETTERS . . 419 
 
 XXXVI. THYRZA WAITS ........ 429 
 
 XXXVII. A FRIENDLY OFFICE 438 
 
 XXXVIII. THE TRUTH 445 
 
 XXXIX. HER RETURN 456 
 
 XL. HER REWARD ........ 466 
 
 XLI. THE LIVIKO . 476
 
 THYEZA 
 
 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 memen- 
 toes of travel ; dwarf bookcases held overflowings from the 
 library ; volumes in disorder, clearly more for use than orna- 
 ment. 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 sha 
 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, 
 
 B
 
 2 THYR2A 
 
 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 re- 
 marked. 
 
 ' 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. 1 
 
 ' But surely he is not a source of news ? ' said her uncle 
 with surprise. 
 
 1 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
 
 AMONG THE HILLS 3 
 
 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. 1 
 
 She glanced at Annabel, and laughed merrily before rais- 
 ing 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, Kussell 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 consul- 
 tation 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 com- 
 plete ; 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, dis- 
 concerting 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 
 
 B 2
 
 4 THYRZA 
 
 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 temp- 
 tations 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 pande- 
 monium. 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 
 Blow-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 dis- 
 tinct small voice ; a sheep-dog barking over at Howtowu 
 seemed close at hand.
 
 AMONG THE HILLS 5 
 
 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. 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 4 You were able to tear yourself from London in mid- 
 eeason ? ' 
 
 4 But when was I a devotee of the Season, Miss New- 
 thorpe ? ' 
 
 4 We hear you progress in civilisation.' 
 
 4 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 ? ' 
 
 4 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 ? ' 
 
 4 On the whole.' 
 
 4 That is disappointing.'
 
 O THYRZA 
 
 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 waa 
 rather bony, and its lines expressed independence of character ; 
 his forehead was broad, his eyes glanced quickly and search- 
 ingly, 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, de- 
 livered 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 wag 
 very winning, very frank in its appeal to sympathy, and com- 
 pelled 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 ab- 
 sently, 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?' 
 
 4 He has just walked over from Pooley Bridge.' 
 
 ' Oh, Bell, do tell me 1 Have those horrid measles left 
 any trace? I really can't discover any, but of course one
 
 AMONG THE HILLS 7 
 
 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;
 
 8 THYEZA 
 
 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 con- 
 descending. 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 1 Work ! ' asked Paula in surprise. ' What sork 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 observa- 
 tion ; 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
 
 AMONG THE HILLS 9 
 
 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 con- 
 tinued 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.' 
 
 CHAPTEK 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
 
 10 THYRZA 
 
 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 enter- 
 prise 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 inte- 
 rest in the business, but had no intention of devoting him- 
 self 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 appear- 
 ance 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
 
 THE IDEALIST 11 
 
 cempted 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 ex- 
 pressions 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 with- 
 out 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 pur- 
 posed 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 possi- 
 bilities 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
 
 12 THYRZA 
 
 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 an ti- 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,' re- 
 marked Mr. Newthorpe philosophically. ' It is inevitable.' 
 
 1 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 won- 
 der 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 in- 
 fluences 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 no- 
 thing 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
 
 THE IDEALIST 
 
 13 
 
 it pays. An organ of culture for the people who enjoy bur- 
 lesquing the Bible couldn't possibly be made to pay.' 
 
 1 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 New- 
 thorpe,' 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 him- 
 self 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 re- 
 sumed, 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.
 
 14 THYRZA 
 
 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 pre- 
 sent they are all but wholly in the hands of men who can do 
 them nothing but harm journalists, socialists, vulgar propa- 
 gators of what is called freethought. These all work against 
 culture, yet here is the field really waiting for the right til- 
 lage. 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. 
 
 4 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 IDEALIST 15 
 
 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 New- 
 thorpe ' 
 
 ' Not so ! ' Annabel broke in, involuntarily. ' I think it 
 very beautiful and very noble.' 
 
 4 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 com- 
 parison 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 sun- 
 dry, 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
 
 1 6 THYRZA 
 
 years, and I believe lie 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. New- 
 thorpe. ' 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 
 are certain interesting English books ; let us see what they 
 are about, who wrote them, and why they are deemed ex- 
 cellent. 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 mako 
 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 pretti- 
 ness and the ndiveU 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.
 
 THE IDEALIST 17 
 
 4 1 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 saxi- 
 frage. 
 
 ' 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 be- 
 gan 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 
 
 c
 
 18 THYRZA 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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 read- 
 ing 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 atti- 
 tude. 
 
 ' 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.'
 
 THE IDEALIST 19 
 
 When her cousin had withdrawn Paula went to the win- 
 dow. 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 rne 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 mote 
 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 
 
 c 2
 
 20 THYKZA 
 
 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 friend- 
 ship 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 pre- 
 dominant. Yet he turned to her with the smile once more. 
 
 ' Those last words must be my hope. To have your friend- 
 ship 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. 
 
 1 1 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 insin-
 
 THE IDEALIST 21 
 
 cerity that he spoke of his love and his intellectual aims as 
 interdependent, yet he knew that Annabel revealed the truer 
 mind. 
 
 4 And my desire is for the happiness of your love ! ' he ex- 
 claimed. ' 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 un- 
 reality 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 I Look for once straight into my 
 eyes and know me ! ' 
 
 There was no doubtful ring in this ; Annabel felt the
 
 22 THYRZA 
 
 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. 1 
 
 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. 
 1 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 up- 
 stairs. 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 amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 ' 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.
 
 4 COBNEB OF LAMBETH 23 
 
 CHAPTER m 
 
 A CORNER OP 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 physio- 
 gnomy 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 ho 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
 
 24 THYKZA 
 
 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 : 
 
 I What now ? ' 
 
 4 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. Hia 
 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 1 found it at the shop by Westminster Bridge,' he con- 
 tinued. '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 p'enty of people that do.' 
 
 ' And that's the kind of thing Bunce gives his children to 
 read, eu ? ' 
 
 1 Yes ; he's bringing them up on it. He's made them learn 
 a secularist's creed, and hears them say it every night.' 
 
 1 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.
 
 A CORNER OF LAMBETH 25 
 
 Have you heard any talk, 1 lie 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. 
 
 1 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 con- 
 verted 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.'
 
 26 THYRZA 
 
 'Boddy?' 
 
 ' You know of him from the Trent girls, don't you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' Grail answered, nodding. He seemed ahout to 
 add something, but checked himself, and, with a ' good-bye, 1 
 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 wood- 
 work 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, fire- 
 wood, 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
 
 A CORNER OF LAMBETH 27 
 
 recognise. She was deemed a well-to-do woman, and &a 
 such Paradise Street held it axiomatic might reasonably 
 adorn herself for the respect of those to whom she sold mis- 
 cellaneous pennyworths. She did not depend upon the busi- 
 ness. 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. 
 
 4 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 hi 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 occu- 
 pied with thoughts which lay on the borderland between re- 
 flection and anxiety. Her dress was remarkably plain, con- 
 trasting 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-
 
 28 THYRZA 
 
 standing reputation for joviality, and, with the aid of hia 
 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. 
 
 1 You just make a note o' that in your head, Mary, my 
 dear,' the old man 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 almanack. 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 toon 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 i 
 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 sup- 
 pose the older the fiddle is the better it gets ? ' 
 
 ' Ah, 'taint like these fingers. Old Jo Backet 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
 
 A CORNER OF LAMBETH 29 
 
 " 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. ' Mat- 
 thew Trent was Matthew Trent, an' Lambeth '11 never know 
 another like him. Ho 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.' 
 
 1 Four years an' two months,' said Mr. Boddy, nodding 
 with a laugh. ' Let's be ac'rate, Mrs. Bower, ma'am. Thir- 
 teen 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 re- 
 member. 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 Wal- 
 ton's, the pump-maker's, in Ground Street.' 
 
 ' It's Simpson & Thomas's now,' remarked Mrs. Bower. 
 1 Why, where Jim Caudle 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 ! '
 
 30 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 1 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.
 
 A CORNER OF LAMBETH 31 
 
 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 persecu- 
 tion again ? ' 
 
 ' I don't want to persecute anybody, 1 the girl answered ; 
 ' but I wouldn't let them be misled by a bad and false re- 
 ligion.' 
 
 On any other subject Mary would have expressed her 
 opinion with diffidence ; not on this. 
 
 1 1 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 ob- 
 servant, 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 indepen- 
 dence, of fervid instincts ; perhaps of a temper a little apt to 
 be impatient. It was not an imaginative countenance, yet
 
 32 THYEZA 
 
 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 adorn- 
 ment, 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 '11 think I'm never coming home. I only 
 looked in just to ask Mary to come and have tea with us to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 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
 
 A CORNER OF LAMBETH 33 
 
 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 to- 
 morrow, 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 sus- 
 picion 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 ? ' 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 D
 
 34 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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 
 
 THYEZA SINGS 
 
 LYDIA, 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 unproniisingly 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 Lam- 
 beth'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 Ptoad. 
 
 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 com-
 
 THYRZA SINGS 35 
 
 plexion, 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, har- 
 monious, sweet ; each thought that passed through her inind 
 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 physio- 
 gnomy, 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 con- 
 tinued 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. 
 
 1 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 : 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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 : 
 
 1 I'll just go round with my boots, and get something for 
 dinner to-morrow.'
 
 THYJRZA SINGS 37 
 
 ' I'll come with you,' Thyrza said. ' 1 can't bear to sit 
 here any longer.' 
 
 They went forth, and were soon in the midst of the mar- 
 ket. 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 pave- 
 ment, in front of the busy shops, were rows of booths, stalls, 
 and barrows, 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 I ' rang clangorous above the hoarse roaring of coster- 
 mongers 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 Lam- 
 beth'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
 
 38 THYRZA 
 
 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 ex- 
 ceptions 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
 
 THYRZA SINGS 39 
 
 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 
 joyousuess 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 New- 
 port Street, an offshoot of Paradise Street. 
 
 1 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 
 head stood the name of a public-house, with that of its pro-
 
 40 THYKZA 
 
 prietor; 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 Totten- 
 ham Court Eoad. 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, doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 ' 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
 
 THYK2A SINGS 41 
 
 along the walls. At the upper end of the room an arrange- 
 ment of dirty red hangings in the form of a canopy, sur- 
 mounted by a lion and unicorn, of pasteboard showed that 
 festive meetings were regularly held here. Bound 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 contri- 
 bution 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-re- 
 proachful, 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
 
 42 THYRZA 
 
 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 
 eight 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 '01-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 over- 
 coming the diffidence of one. She was a pak, unhealthy 
 thing, and wore an ugly-shaped hat with a gruesome green 
 feather ; she sang with her eyes down, and in a voice which
 
 THYRZA SINGS 43 
 
 did not lack a certain sweetness. The ballad was of spring- 
 time 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. 
 
 1 Oh, what shall I sing ? ' she whispered distractedly to 
 Totty, whilst all eyes were turned to regard her.
 
 44 THYRZA 
 
 1 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 dia- 
 logue 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 wa? 
 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 over- 
 come, and again the room hushed itself, every hearer spell- 
 bound. 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 rui 
 home.'
 
 TRYRZA SINGS 46 
 
 ' 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 down- 
 stairs, 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 '11 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. Ack- 
 royd presently looked again into her face. 
 
 ' Will you come out to-morrow ? ' he asked, softly. 
 
 1 Not to-morrow, Mr. Ackroyd. 1 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.'
 
 46 THYRZA 
 
 '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 know 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 some- 
 one 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 ? ' 
 
 4 You'll come out with her to-morrow ? ' 
 
 'I can't promise. Good-night I'
 
 A LAND OF TWILIGHT 47 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A LAND OP TWILIGHT 
 
 TT 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 Thyzra came in. Lydia turned and went 
 upstairs. 
 
 Thyrza, entering the room, sought her sister's face ; it 
 h;id 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 
 ehe 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. 
 
 1 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 ques- 
 tion. She was deeply hurt that Thyrza made so little account 
 of her wishes ; jealous of the influence of Totty Naucarrow ; 
 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 recon- 
 cilement came.
 
 48 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 1 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 for- 
 ward 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 
 in the street below. A half-tipsy man and a nagging woman 
 had got thus far on their way home, the wife's shrill tongue 
 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 mur- 
 derous 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
 
 A LAND OF TWILIGHT 40 
 
 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 oppres- 
 sion 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 ' good- 
 night ' 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 
 ft 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
 
 50 THYRZA 
 
 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 con- 
 viviality ; 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
 
 A LAND OF TWILIGHT 51 
 
 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 clatter- 
 ing 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 moun- 
 tain. Even to Lydia, weary after her short sleep and un- 
 wontedly 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 laiighter. 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. 
 
 E 2
 
 52 THYRZA 
 
 ' I don't mean to be, Lyddy you know I don't. 1 
 
 ' But you do things that you know '11 make me angry. I'm 
 quick-tempered, and I couldn 't bear ts think of you going to 
 that place ; I ought to have spoke in a different way.' 
 ' Who told you I'd been singing ? ' 
 
 ' Mrs. Jarrney. 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? ' 
 
 4 1 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 down- 
 stairs 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 co go away, some time 
 when you didn't know. I did, really ! '
 
 A LAND OF TWILIGHT 53 
 
 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. 
 
 4 No,' she shook her head, smiling. ' I couldn't do with- 
 out 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, oeauiiful in its kind as her face. 
 
 1 1 don't care ! ' she said laughing. ' It's a good, soft, 
 sleepy hand.' 
 
 1 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 after- 
 noon. 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
 
 5-i THY.RZA 
 
 once more possessed the stillness. Few pedestrians wero 
 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 re- 
 mained for a few minutes, then on again with his ' 'Okey- 
 'okey-'okey ! ' Bung through the nose. 
 
 Next came a sound of distressful voices, whining the dis- 
 cords 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 choragua exclaimed 
 4 Gord bless yer ! ' 
 
 Thyrza sat in her usual place by the window, now reading 
 for a few minutes, noAV 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. 
 
 4 I suppose Mary '11 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 ? ' 
 
 4 There was something I wanted to tell you. I met Mr. 
 Ackroyd as I was coming homo 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.' 
 
 4 But what a pity ! ' returned Lydia. ' You knew I was 
 going to chapel. I'm afraid he'll wait for us.' 
 
 4 Yes, but I somehow didn't like to say we wouldn't go at 
 all. What time is he going to be there ? '
 
 A LAND OF TWILIGHT 56 
 
 ' He said at six o'clock.' 
 
 ' Would you mind just running out and telling him ? Per- 
 haps 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 re- 
 plied. ' But I'm afraid it's no good asking.' 
 
 ' Not a bit ! And, Lyddy, I told Mr. Ackroyd that it would 
 always be the same. He understands now.' 
 
 The other made no reply. 
 
 4 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 atten- 
 tion 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 consola- 
 tion. 
 
 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.
 
 56 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 1 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 kind- 
 ness, 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 tempta- 
 tion it was ; she does sing so sweetly. Bufc 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 hope- 
 less 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. 
 
 1 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 indig- 
 nation 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
 
 A LAND OF TWILIGHT 5 
 
 week at that place in Westminster Bridge Road where the 
 Atheists have their meetings. I don't deny there's some- 
 thing 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 rum 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 dis- 
 inclination not perhaps very clearly explained. The minutes
 
 58 THYRZA 
 
 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 pro- 
 mise 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 pre- 
 pared 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 Eoad. 
 Before Lydia had gone half a dozen steps she saw that Ack- 
 royd 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 dis- 
 appointment 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 ? ' 
 
 ' Nc, 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.
 
 DISINHERITED 59 
 
 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 vallance with lou# 
 tassels, whilst in front of it stocd a table with a great pot oi 
 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 house- 
 hold 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 bad 
 occupied a house in Baltersea ; 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 pre- 
 dominated, 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 ghe
 
 60 THYRZA 
 
 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 abso- 
 lutely 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 dis- 
 posed 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 un- 
 kind or an impatient word. 
 
 Thyrza liked especially to have tea here on Sunday. The
 
 DISINHERITED 61 
 
 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 - 
 talcing, she was flattared 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 ; num 
 berless 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 de- 
 pended 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 him- 
 self 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 ques- 
 tioning 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.
 
 62 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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 con- 
 tinuousness, 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. 
 
 4 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
 
 DISINHERITED 63 
 
 fingers just touched her chin. She regarded him with a gaze 
 of deep curiosity. 
 
 ' Men who wrote hooks,' 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 4 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 for- 
 gotten 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 ? '
 
 64 THYKZA 
 
 He thought for a moment, then reached down a book of 
 biographies, writing of a popular colour, not above Thyrza'a 
 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 ques- 
 tion 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 some- 
 thing 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 utter- 
 most 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 
 Bpoke. 
 
 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.
 
 DISINHERITED 65 
 
 1 Going already ? ' Mrs. Grail said, seeing her rise. 
 
 ' Lyddy '11 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. 
 
 1 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 re- 
 member that Lizzie used to walk home along with her almost 
 
 every day. Miss , Miss . Oh, dear me, what ivas 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.' 
 
 4 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'3 
 face still in your mind ! ' Gilbert protested, good-humouredly. 
 
 'My dear, don't be so hasty. It's as clear to me as if 
 
 P
 
 66 THYEZA 
 
 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 back- 
 wards 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 doAvn 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.
 
 DISINHERITED 67 
 
 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, occasion- 
 ally 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 
 
 F2
 
 68 THYRZA 
 
 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 fond- 
 ness 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 am- 
 bitions 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. Eeading 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 him- 
 self 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
 
 DISINHERITED G9 
 
 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 Bat- 
 tersea 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 un- 
 changing 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 ; con- 
 servative 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
 
 70 THYRZA 
 
 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 unattractive- 
 ness 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
 
 DISINHERITED fl 
 
 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, hia 
 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 hi 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. Hope- 
 lessness 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 tho 
 veil was lifted from the face of destiny, and he was bidden
 
 72 THYRZA 
 
 gaze himself into despair. At such times he would gladly havo 
 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 live 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 fall- 
 ing. 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 back 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, con- 
 sisting 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
 
 DISINHERITED 73 
 
 of meeting you on the 16th. Believe me to be youra vory 
 truly, 
 
 *WALTEB EGBEMONT.' 
 
 ' 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 some- 
 thing to say, and he may be only conceited ; there's no know- 
 ing. 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 pene- 
 trated 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. 
 
 4 Bower, no doubt.' 
 
 ' But how comes Bower to know anything about me ? ' 
 
 1 Oh, I've mentioned you sometimes.' 
 
 ' Well, do you think of going ? ' 
 
 ' No, I shan't go. It isn't at all La my line.' 
 
 Gilbert became silent. 
 
 4 Something the matter ? ' he asked presently, as his com- 
 panion puffed on in the same gloomy way. 
 
 1 A bit of a headache, that's all.' 
 
 His tone was unusual. Gilbert fixed his eyes on the pave- 
 ment.
 
 74 THYRZA 
 
 ' It's easy enough to see what it means,' Ackroyd continued 
 ifter 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 Mon- 
 dayish, as we used to say in Lancasbire.' 
 
 ' Aren't you coming, then 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 I ' 
 
 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 fre- 
 quent 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
 
 DISINHERITED 75 
 
 such close intercourse the two had grown skilled in the read- 
 ing of each other's faces. 
 
 4 My dear,' she replied, with something of solemnity, ' 1 
 was perfectly right. Miss Denny was those girls' mother.' 
 
 4 Nonsense ! ' 
 
 4 But there's no doubt ahout it. I've asked Thyrza. She 
 knows that was her mother's name, and she knows that her 
 mother was a teacher.' 
 
 4 In that case I've nothing more to say. You're a wonder- 
 ful old lady, as I've often told you.' 
 
 4 1 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 WOEK IN PKOGBESS 
 
 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 tine 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.
 
 76 THYRZA 
 
 Ormonde. That lady was not within, but would shortly re- 
 turn 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, argu- 
 ing 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 esta- 
 blishment 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 aca- 
 demic 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 pro- 
 blems 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 companion- 
 less from the beach. He was then but two-and-tweuty ; his 
 task was as terrible as a man can bo called upon to perform. 
 Mrs. Ormonde had the strength to remember that ; she shed 
 no tears, uttered no lamentations. When, after a few ques- 
 tions, 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
 
 THE WORK IN PROGRESS 77 
 
 back the son who would never return. Such moments do not 
 come often to the best of us, perhaps in very truth do not re- 
 peat themselves. Egrernont 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 tho 
 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. Be- 
 hind 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 pos- 
 sible, 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.
 
 73 THYRZA 
 
 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. ' Eeally, 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. Pro- 
 bably that will last for another year or so.' 
 
 1 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 affairs 
 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.
 
 THE WORK IN PROGRESS 79 
 
 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 ? ' 
 
 4 Ackroyd ? The young man of critical aspect ? ' 
 
 4 The same. He has now missed two lectures, and I don't 
 think he'll come again.' 
 
 4 Have you spoken to Bower about him ? ' 
 
 4 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 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 ? '
 
 80 THYRZA 
 
 ' Oh, no ! We still have that question to fight out. But 
 of course I must know him very v/ell 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 in- 
 sufferable publication. By-the-by, I found you had told them 
 the story at Ullswater.' 
 
 ' Yes. It came up a propos of my scheme. 1 
 
 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.
 
 THE WORK IN PROGRESS 81 
 
 Egremout 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. 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 1 think I must go and see them at Christmas,' he said, 
 ' if they don't come south.' 
 
 The other considered. 
 
 4 Don't go so soon,' she said at length. 
 
 4 So soon ? It will be six mortal months.' 
 
 4 Be advised.' 
 
 Egremont sighed and left the subject. 
 
 4 Tell me what you have been doing of late,' Mrs. Ormonde 
 resumed, ' apart from your lectures.' 
 
 4 Very little of which any account can be rendered. I read 
 a good deal, and occasionally come across an acquaintance.' 
 
 4 Have you seen the Tyrrells since they returned ? ' 
 
 4 No. I had an invitation to dine with them the other 
 day, but excused myself.' 
 
 4 On what grounds ? ' 
 
 4 1 mean to see less of people in general.' 
 
 Mrs. Ormonde regarded him. 
 
 4 1 hope,' she said, ' that you will pursue no such idea. 
 
 a
 
 82 THYRZA 
 
 You mean, of course, that your Lambeth work is to be absorb- 
 ing. 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.' 
 
 ' 4 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 invi- 
 tation 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 ? ' 
 
 1 No. They met him somewhere in Switzerland. He gave 
 them the benefit of his experience 011 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 Eussell 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 es- 
 tablish 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
 
 THE WORK IN PROGRESS 83 
 
 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, 
 he was indifferent as to where or how he lived ; all he asked 
 was the possibility of privacy. The ugliness of his surround- 
 ings 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 d 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 ho 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 bad 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 
 
 o 2
 
 84 THYRZA 
 
 as a mediator between two sections of society. But for his 
 private happiness, how ? 
 
 He spent this evening very idly, sometimes pacing hia 
 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, Lam- 
 beth, 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 pre- 
 sented 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 appear- 
 ance 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 skil-
 
 THE WORK IN PROGRESS 85 
 
 fal, steady, abundantly respectful to his employers. In private 
 life he enjoyed the fame of a petty capitalist ; since hig 
 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 manli- 
 ness 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 un- 
 deniable, 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 under- 
 standing, even if his countenance had not declared him of 
 higher grade than any of those among whom he sat. It had
 
 86 THYRZA 
 
 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 wag 
 beginning to regret that the choice of those to whom his invi- 
 tations 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 any- 
 thing 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 educa- 
 tion, 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,
 
 THE WORK IN PROGRESS 87 
 
 and here depth was not wanted ; sufficient that he was per- 
 spicuous 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 he anticipated. He was preaching a religion, but one 
 that could find no acceptance as such with eight out of nine 
 who heard him. Common rninds 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 advan- 
 tage 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 com- 
 prehension 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
 
 88 THYRZA 
 
 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 I Bead what Egremont on one occasion read to these 
 men: 
 
 ' " He beginneth not with obscure definitions, which must 
 blur the margent 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 for- 
 sooth 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 associa- 
 tions, 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 thence- 
 forth 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.'
 
 A CLASP OF HANDS 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A CLASP OF HANDS 
 
 GRAIL approached the desk with pleasure. Egremont ob- 
 served 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.' 
 
 1 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 unex- 
 pectedly. I'm sure he has a head for our matters as well as 
 for science.' 
 
 Grail was about to speak, but checked himself. An in- 
 quiring 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.' 
 
 Egremout 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 ? '
 
 CO THYRZA 
 
 1 1 shall be glad to, sir.' 
 
 ' Pray persuade him to. Any evening lie 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 advan- 
 tage 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 
 ptiore excellent thing if those disposed to use such an institu- 
 tion 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 suppres- 
 sion 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 he undertake to found a library at his own
 
 A CLASP OF HANDS 91 
 
 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 for- 
 tune had given such power ! He reverenced Egremont pro- 
 foundly. 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 : 
 
 1 1 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
 
 92 THFEZA 
 
 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 w r e 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 re- 
 forming society. Most of them seek to change its spirit by 
 change of institutions. But surely it is plain enough that re- 
 form 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 out- 
 weigh 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
 
 A CLASP OF HANDS 93 
 
 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 re- 
 ligious 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 news- 
 paper.' 
 
 ' And what does he get out of it ? The newspaper is the 
 rery 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.
 
 94 THYEZA 
 
 Walter put forth his hand, and it was grasped firmly. In 
 this nonient he was equal to his ambition, unwavering, ex- 
 alted, 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 Egremoiit, 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.' 
 
 1 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 corne 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 weari- 
 ness, 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 dark- 
 ness. ' You've come to look after that great good-for-nothing of
 
 A CLASP OF HANDS 95 
 
 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 be- 
 fore 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 in 
 him as there is in that eight-day clock ! You rascal, you ! ' 
 
 Like her brother, she had the northern accent still linger- 
 ing 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 sulkf, 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. Poolo, 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. 
 
 1 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 hear- 
 ing 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
 
 96 THYEZA 
 
 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.
 
 A CLASP OF HANDS 97 
 
 '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 confi- 
 dence 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 ? ' 
 
 1 1 wish you would, Ackroyd,' said Gilbert, bending for- 
 ward 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 reso- 
 lution. ' 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, lit'Je un ! ' Luke replied with a 
 sudden affectipnateness ono 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 Ms uproarious mirthfulrjess. 
 
 H
 
 98 THYBZA 
 
 ' 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 drop- 
 pings 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 aa 
 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 tendance 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.
 
 A GOLDEN PKOSPECT 99 
 
 1 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 grandads 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. 
 
 4 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 any- 
 thing 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 to- 
 night, 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 en- 
 trance, 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 condescend- 
 ing to sew. 
 
 1 Mary out ? ' Lydia asked, as she looked round. 
 
 ii 2
 
 100 THYRZA 
 
 ' Yes, my dear,' replied Mrs. Bower, with a sigh of resig- 
 nation. ' 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 with- 
 out sayin' prayers an' singin' 'yrnns 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 looldn' 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. 
 
 1 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
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT 101 
 
 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 nay 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 less 
 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.
 
 102 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 '11 come an' eat 
 your Christmas dinner with us ? ' 
 
 Lydia cast down her eyes. 
 
 ' It's very kind of you, Mrs. Bower, but I'm sure I don't 
 know whether Thyrza '11 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 set- 
 tled for the evening at the table. A volume lent by Egre- 
 mont 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 
 BO 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.' 
 
 Til go.' 
 
 Lydia opened. A gentleman stood without ; he inquired 
 in a pleasant voice if Mr. Grail was at home.
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT 103 
 
 ' 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 fall. 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 1 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 : 
 
 1 If you hadn't been in, I should have left a message, ask- 
 ing 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,! 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 ? '
 
 104 THYEZA 
 
 Grail expressed his readiness. 
 
 ' You were reading,' Walter 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. Per- 
 haps 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.' 
 
 1 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.'
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT 105 
 
 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 shift- 
 ing 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 inappro- 
 priate 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 thd 
 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 invi- 
 tation 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.'
 
 10G THYRZA 
 
 Egreraont 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,' Egre- 
 mont 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 re- 
 mained mute. 
 
 ' I should think it will do very well. What is there up- 
 stairs ? ' 
 
 ' 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.
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT 107 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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 aaythink 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 sem- 
 blance of a parlour. Here she lit a lamp ; then, without speak- 
 ing, guided them over the house, of which she appeared to 
 be the only inhabitant. There were seven rooms ; only three 
 of them contained any funiiture. Then they all returned to 
 the comfortless parlour. 
 
 Your chest ifl 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.' 
 
 1 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 curtsey, though without speaking.
 
 108 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 1 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, Gil- 
 bert continued to suffer even more than his wont from mental 
 dreariness ; Mrs. Grail was unable to draw him into conver- 
 sation. 
 
 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 '11 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 oi 
 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
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT 109 
 
 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 : 
 
 4 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 build- 
 ing 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 some- 
 thing of a rudimentary catalogue, and before summer the 
 library should be open. 
 
 1 1 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
 
 110 THYRZA 
 
 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 arrange- 
 ments 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, Sun- 
 day 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, 
 
 ' WALTEB EGBEMONT.' 
 
 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, bufc 
 he moved with the certainty of habit to a chair by the 
 head of the bed, and there seated himself. Presently he
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT 111 
 
 felt a painful surging in his throat, then a gush of warm 
 tears forced its way to his eyes. It cost hiui 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 hi 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 eara' 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 bo 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 youth- 
 ful 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
 
 112 THYRZA 
 
 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 bare- 
 footed, nearly all bare-headed, but they danced with noisy 
 merriment. One there was, a little girl, on crutches; in- 
 capable 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 sur- 
 prise, 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 yellow- 
 ness 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 Parlia- 
 ment the few sparse lamps contrasted with the line of bright- 
 ness 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
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT 113 
 
 windows telling of the manifold woe within. Nearer was the 
 Archbishop's Palace, dark, lifeless ; the roofs were defined 
 against a sky made lurid hy 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 under- 
 stand 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 Embank- 
 ment. 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 aa 
 
 i
 
 114 THYRZA 
 
 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 for- 
 ward and snatched a lass. 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 FOBTUNE 
 
 THYBZA continued to be far from well. The day-long dark- 
 ness encouraged her natural tendency to sad dreaming. 
 When alone, in Lydia's absence at the work-room, she some- 
 times had fits of weeping ; it wa.s 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 con- 
 tentment, 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 ;
 
 TEMPTING FORTUNE 115 
 
 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 case, it was 
 decided that Mr. Boddy should corne 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 fore- 
 cast 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 re- 
 jecting 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 ; 
 
 I 2
 
 116 THYRZA 
 
 ' What '11 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.' 
 
 1 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 thread- 
 bare 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 sus- 
 ceptibilities. The hours passed quickly to nine o'clock, then 
 Mary said it was time for her to go.
 
 TEMPTING FORTUNE 117 
 
 1 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 
 'ud 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 '11 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. 
 
 1 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 re- 
 markable ; conscious of it, he held himself more upright and 
 stumped to the little square of looking-glass to try and re- 
 gard himself. Here he furtively brushed a hand over hia 
 eyes.
 
 118 THYRZA 
 
 '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, chil- 
 dren ! 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. 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 What is it ? ' she asked coldly. 
 
 4 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 ? ' 
 
 4 I think it's right you should know, on Thyrza's account.' 
 
 4 Thyrza has nothing to do with Mr. Ackroyd ; you know 
 that, Mary.' 
 
 4 But there's something else. He's begun to drink, Lydia. 
 Mr. Haggles 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. 
 
 4 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
 
 TEMPTING FORTUNE 119 
 
 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. 
 Haggles ? 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. 
 
 1 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 land. 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 acknow- 
 ledge 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. 
 
 ' Perhap's 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
 
 120 THYRZA 
 
 her way glancing at Gilbert's face, to see whether he was 
 annoyed at her disturbing him. It was scarcely that, yet un- 
 mistakably 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 : 
 
 4 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 : 
 
 4 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 hi 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. 4 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 jn implicit obedience, she m.Qved
 
 TEMPTING FORTUNE 121 
 
 to a chair. He stood gazing at her, and tho lovo which had 
 at length burst from the dark depths seized upon all hia 
 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 
 BO 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 then: 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.'
 
 122 THYRZA 
 
 1 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 wait- 
 ing, 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 waa 
 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.'
 
 TEMPTING FORTUNE 123 
 
 ' 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 como 
 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 cold- 
 ness at times. Surely she was very dull never to have sur- 
 mised 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 :
 
 124 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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 Nanrarrow ;
 
 TEMPTING FORTUNE 125 
 
 is 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 aban- 
 doned. How would he hear of Thyrza's having pledged her- 
 self ! 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 '11 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 '11 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 com- 
 municated to her, and she hastened with it to her sister. But 
 Gilbert had requested that they would as yet speak of it to no 
 tne ; it was better to wait till Mr. Egremont had himself made
 
 126 THYRZA 
 
 the fact known among the members of his class. Lydia waa 
 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 Eoad 
 end of Walnut Tree Walk. He seemed o 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 y 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 11 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 
 goon be cheerful again. Good-bye, Mr. Ackroyd.' 
 
 She did not wait for anything more from him.
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 127 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTUEB 
 
 Mil. 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 vaticinat- 
 ing 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 
 hia ntudy 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, books 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 hia
 
 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 poli- 
 tical, 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 mean- 
 time 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, fol- 
 lowed 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
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 129 
 
 vears 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. Dal- 
 maine's practice to talk of things in general with his secretary. 
 To-day, among other questions, he asked, with a meaning 
 smile : 
 
 1 What of young Egremont's lectures ? Has he recom- 
 menced ? ' 
 
 1 The first of the new course is to-night, 1 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 
 Las he 1 ' 
 
 1 Six only.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 4 Ha ! He is really going to bleed himself to prove his 
 sincerity ? ' 
 
 They discussed the subject a little longer. Then Mr.
 
 130 THYfiZA 
 
 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 op- 
 posite 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 intelli- 
 gence ; 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. New- 
 thorpe, for she foresaw that it could not turn out very well, and 
 she had been obh'ged to censure her sister for excessive devo- 
 tion 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
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 131 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 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 whole- 
 hearted in his desire to help these poor people, yet, I'm afraid, 
 SG very, very unpractical.' 
 
 The young married lady observed : 
 
 ' Oh, no one ought ever to interfere with philanthropy un- 
 less 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 mas- 
 culine 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 work- 
 ing 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 I ' 
 
 ' It sounds shocking, Miss Tyrrell, but if Mr. Egremont 
 stands before them as a teacher, he ought to charge for his 
 
 K 2
 
 132 TIIYR2A 
 
 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 under- 
 taken 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. Dal- 
 maine was supplied with the clearest opinions on every topic, 
 and he had a way of delivering them which was most effective 
 witk 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 any- 
 thing, 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 con- 
 victions 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 hi 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 Lan- 
 caster 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
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 133 
 
 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 man- 
 ner 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 nawetd and 
 capricious affectation that she wrought her spell. Her dress 
 was a miracle, and inseparably a part of her ; it was impos- 
 sible to picture her in any serious situation, so entirely was 
 she a child of luxury and frivolous concern. Exquisite as au 
 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
 
 134 THYEZA 
 
 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 im- 
 patience. Such astonishment fell upon her when she under- 
 stood 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 ex- 
 pression 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 re- 
 gard 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 con-
 
 A MAN WITEE A FUTURE 135 
 
 versation 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 Litera- 
 ture, 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
 
 136 THYRZA 
 
 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 re- 
 plied. He knew that this was exaggeration, but it pleased 
 him to exaggerate. He enjoyed the effect on the honourable 
 member's broad countenance. 
 
 1 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 news- 
 papers.' 
 
 ' 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 ? '
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 137 
 
 * Sometimes, I dare say. But I have found a librarian.' 
 
 Who is he ? ' 
 
 ' A working man in Lambeth. One of the most sympa- 
 thetic 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 1 
 And you really think you are doing good in that disagreeable 
 place ? ' 
 
 ' I can only hope.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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,
 
 138 THYEZA 
 
 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 corne to 
 London before long.' 
 
 Egremont shortly changed his place, and saw that Dal- 
 maine 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. New- 
 thorpe beyond his strength. You have influence with him, I 
 believe, Mr. Egremont. Pray join me in nay 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 admi- 
 rable temper, great in turf matters, with a genius for con- 
 viviality. 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 him- 
 self, 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 1
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 139 
 
 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' draw- 
 ing-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.' 
 
 I 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 1 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
 
 140 THYRZA 
 
 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 '11 do more 
 good in a day, just because he sees profit '11 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 Dal- 
 maine, 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 ia 
 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.
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 141 
 
 ' 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 every- 
 body 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.'
 
 142 THYKZA 
 
 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 fore- 
 head 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 pre- 
 sent 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 glimmer- 
 ings 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 loneli- 
 ness 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 ? Bather 
 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
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 143 
 
 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 he 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 aposto- 
 licisni. 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 some- 
 thing 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. 
 
 Hia 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 after-
 
 144 THYRZA 
 
 wards 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 Eussell 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 un- 
 utterable 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 
 Buffered from nervousness in undertaking this visit, and hia 
 relief at the simplicity of Egremont's rooms, by allowing him
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 145 
 
 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 Me, it's giving me a new one such as I never dared to 
 hope for.' 
 
 ' I'm right glad to hear it ! ' Walter reph'ed, with his 
 kindest look. ' It comes to make up to me for some little dis- 
 appointment 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 '11 for- 
 get them. It's likely they'll have their best effect in a little 
 time : the men '11 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 meet- 
 ing 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 atti- 
 tude 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 iipon 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. 
 
 4 I'm anxious about Ackroyd,' he replied. ' He's had private 
 trouble lately, and I begin to be afraid it's driving him into
 
 146 THYRZA 
 
 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 mis- 
 giving 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 occupa- 
 tion 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 intelli- 
 gence, 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 circum- 
 stances ? It was not easy to picture the suitable partner for 
 Grail. Clearly she must be another than the thriftless, shift- 
 less creature too common in working-class homes. Yet it was
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 147 
 
 not likely that ho 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 firsfc and last 
 anxiety would be to keep his home in order and see that he 
 lacked no comfort within her province to hestow? 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 happi- 
 ness 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 conic 
 to see your library and no less your librarian. Do not bo dis- 
 couraged 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 NEWTHOEPE.' 
 
 It was the first letter he had received from Annabel. For 
 some days he kept it close at hand, and looked over it 
 
 i. 2
 
 148 THYRZA 
 
 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 
 
 EGEEMONT 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-Feb- 
 ruary, 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 
 lie 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 I ' 
 
 ' Not so much as offerin' it ! How many 'ud he have got 
 to hear his lectures without me, I'd like to know I I shouldn't
 
 THYRZA SINGS AGAIN 149 
 
 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, magnani- 
 mously. ' 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 ? '
 
 150 TIIYBZA 
 
 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, hut 
 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 unkind- 
 ness 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 yeai
 
 THYRZA SINGS AGAIN 151 
 
 at a time. Gilbert understood the good sense of this disposi- 
 tion. 
 
 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 leaguer 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 com- 
 pliance 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 hi a moment found words. 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 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.
 
 152 THYRZA 
 
 ' All right. You can go in and look about. I ain't got 
 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 re- 
 paired and furnished, and she was predisposed to like every- 
 thing 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 stair- 
 case 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
 
 THYRZA SINGS AGAIN 153 
 
 casually learnt name delicacy prevented him from using tho 
 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 asto- 
 nishment scarcely allowed him to relieve her promptly. 
 
 4 Oh then, we already know each other, by name at least. 
 You have come to look at the building. Mr. Grail is down- 
 stairs ? ' 
 
 4 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. 
 
 1 Yes, sir,' she answered.
 
 154 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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 polite- 
 ness, 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 un- 
 gloved 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.'
 
 THYRZA SINGS AGAIN 155 
 
 She just raised her face. 
 
 4 Good-bye, Miss Trent,' he said, offering his hand. 
 
 4 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 tho 
 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 mo- 
 ment, then went out. 
 
 4 I want you to go somewhere with me,' Gilbert said. 
 
 4 Yes, I'm quite ready ; but ' 
 
 But ' 
 
 4 I have something to tell you, Gilbert. I wonder whether 
 you'll be cross.' 
 
 4 When was I cross last, Thyrza ? ' 
 
 4 No, but I'm not sure whether I ought to have done some- 
 thing. 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 
 eaid: 
 
 4 Not at all. Did you go over all the rooms ? ' 
 
 4 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 ivas 
 and it was Mr. Egremont.' 
 
 4 Eeally ? Did he knew who you were ? ' 
 
 4 1 told him, Gilbert.' 
 
 He laughed again, and there was a look of pride in hia 
 eyes.
 
 156 THYfiZA 
 
 ' 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 to- 
 day. 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 TYREELL was married at Easter. Convenience dic- 
 tated 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 dis- 
 ease, 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 him- 
 self 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
 
 MISTS 157 
 
 memory of his life's passion. As he lay in silence through 
 the days when spring combated with winter, he learned acquies- 
 cence ; 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 diffe- 
 rently, 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 happi- 
 ness of solitude, yet could render welcomest companionship ;
 
 168 THYRZA 
 
 at one time she conversed earnestly with those older and 
 wiser than herself, at another she was the willing play- 
 mate 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 pre- 
 served 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 com- 
 munion was of a kind not frequently existing between father 
 and daughter ; fellowship in study made them mental com-
 
 MISTS 159 
 
 rades, 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 hi 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 in- 
 dustrious 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 despon-
 
 160 THYRZA 
 
 dency ; 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 hooks, nor for the beauty 
 that was about her home. You remember that passage hi 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 suffer- 
 ing, 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
 
 MISTS 1 G 1 
 
 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 relin- 
 quish 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 circum- 
 stances 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 
 fctudious gravity in youth is succeeded by a desire for action 
 and enjoyment. Annabel's disposition to study did not return,
 
 162 THYRZA 
 
 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 him- 
 self. 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 re- 
 garded her without emotion. 
 
 Yet Annabel was not so calm as she wished to be. Only
 
 MISTS 163 
 
 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 disappoint- 
 ment. 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 hs 
 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. New- 
 thorpe 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 moun- 
 tains. 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 yom 
 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 
 
 M 2
 
 164 THYEZA 
 
 as something ideal. It is monstrous to think that lie might 
 have spent all his life in that candle factory.' 
 
 Annabel reflected for a moment. Then a look of pleasure 
 lighted 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 dp ? ' 
 
 ' 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 posi- 
 tive 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 any- 
 thing 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 1 ' 
 
 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.'
 
 MISTS 165 
 
 Annabel was sober again. 
 
 4 Do you often go and see him at his house ? ' she asked, 
 speaking of Grail. 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 4 You were curious, father told me, about the wife he had 
 chosen. Have you seen her yet ? ' 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 How absurdly one conjectures about unknown people ! I 
 suppose it was natural to think of Grail marrying someone not 
 quite young and very grave.' 
 
 4 But I hope she is grave enough to be his fitting com- 
 panion ? ' 
 
 He opened his lips, but altered the words he was about to 
 speak. 
 
 4 1 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 Egre- 
 mont'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
 
 166 THYRZA 
 
 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 wreks ? ' 
 
 ' 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 re- 
 ported 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.
 
 MISTS 167 
 
 1 We shall como and sec the library as soon as it is open,' 
 Baid Mr. Newthorpe. 
 
 Egremont smiled merely. 
 
 Mr. Newthorpe remarked that Egremont seemed disap- 
 pointed with the results of his work. 
 
 ' I should uncommonly like to hear one of these new lec- 
 tures,' 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. ' Cer- 
 tainly, 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 com- 
 panionship. 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 in tensely 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 hi any sense his associates. Two, 
 however, he induced to attend Egremont's lectures, thua
 
 168 THYRZA 
 
 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 ex- 
 periences. 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 Egremonfc 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 argu- 
 ments. 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
 
 A SECOND VISIT TO WALNUT TREE WALK 169 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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 con- 
 nection with the Children's Hospital. The matron, or what- 
 ever 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. 
 
 1 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
 
 170 TIIYRZA 
 
 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 rayed. 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.
 
 A SECOND VISIT TO WALNUT TREE WALK 17 1 
 
 Gilbert spoke with earnestness. To him his friend's teach- 
 ing 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 reli- 
 gious 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 apos- 
 tles 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 acquisi- 
 tions 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 ex-
 
 172 THYRZA 
 
 hibited a half-sucked lollipop. Her brother hid away his own 
 delicacy, feeling all at once that it compromised his mascu- 
 line 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 '11 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 '11 
 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. An<J 
 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,
 
 A SECOND VISIT TO WALNUT TREE WALK 173 
 
 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. 1 
 
 4 Then could I see her before Saturday ? ' 
 
 4 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 philo- 
 sophical 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 rational- 
 ists. 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
 
 174 THYRZA 
 
 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 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 reasoc 
 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. 1 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 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 1 think I should die if I hadn't someone to love me.' 
 >I don't think you'll ever want that, Thyrza.'
 
 A SECOND VISIT TO WALNUT TREE WALK 175 
 
 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.
 
 176 THYRZA 
 
 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'a 
 child to Eastbourne to-morrow, to Mrs. Ormonde's.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' Egremont exclaimed. ' I was there on Wednes- 
 day and heard that the child was coming. But this arrange- 
 ment 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.' 
 
 4 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.
 
 A SECOND VISIT TO WALNUT TREE WALK 177 
 
 * Yes, years ago,' was the reply, in the tone of a man who 
 Bees 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. 
 
 1 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 health- 
 ful ; of natural refinement there was abundance, only affecta- 
 tion 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 igno- 
 rance, 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 work- 
 man 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 
 
 N
 
 178 THYRZA 
 
 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 any- 
 one convey thanks more graciously ? 
 
 1 1 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 h'ttle. 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 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 
 
 KETUBNING 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.'
 
 SEA MUSIC 179 
 
 Still she made no preparations. Her mirth and excite- 
 ment 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 every- 
 where.' 
 
 ' 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? 1 
 
 ' 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. Bunco 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 suffer- 
 ing 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 
 ether way about. You never had a weak chest, had you, Misa 
 
 x 2
 
 180 THYKZA 
 
 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 
 you 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 ! '
 
 SEA MUSIC 181 
 
 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 : ' Are 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 1 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 Provi- 
 dence has called them : the insignificant few who indulge a 
 reckless warmth of heart really cannot be seen to do appreciable 
 harm. 
 
 4 Mrs. Ormonde, mum,' whispered Bessie, when they were 
 seated in the carriage. 
 
 1 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.
 
 182 THYRZA 
 
 Thyrza replied mechanically. To ride in an open carriage 
 with a lady, this alone would have been an agitating expe- 
 rience ; 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 on- 
 wards. 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,
 
 SEA MUSIC 183 
 
 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 
 BO 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, 
 emiling. 
 
 ' 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 to- 
 morrow I shall write a letter to her and beg her to forgive 
 mo. If I do so, do you think you could stay ? ' 
 
 ' I I think so, ma'am.'
 
 184 THYRZA 
 
 '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, thej 
 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 out- 
 line, 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,'
 
 SEA MUSIC 185 
 
 4 "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 em- 
 ployed. 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 be- 
 fore 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 tunes disposed to interpret Egremont's 
 motives in a higher gense than would apply to the average 
 man,
 
 186 THYRZA 
 
 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 hedtime. 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 some- 
 times 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
 
 SEA MUSIC 187 
 
 them, and clung to her desperately when she said sne 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 altar- 
 piece, 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 tune she kept saying to her- 
 self, ' Another whole day ! I shall be by the sea again to- 
 morrow ! 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.' 
 
 1 1 was so delighted that I had to stop singing myself. I'm 
 sure it's a wonderful voice. 1 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 1 You are fond of music ? ' said Mrs. Ormonde.
 
 188 THYRZA 
 
 ' Very fond. How beautiful your playing is ! ' 
 
 ' To-inorrow you shall hear Miss Newthorpe play ; hers ia 
 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 multi- 
 tude 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, how- 
 ever, 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 ? ' 
 
 1 I'll open the door for you, Miss,' 
 
 ' What time is it, please ? '
 
 SEA MUSIC 189 
 
 1 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. 1
 
 190 THYKZA 
 
 ' 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 hirq ? ' 
 
 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 
 
 ADKIFT 
 
 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 aa 
 well. He talked of going up the river to Battersea Park, aa 
 tlio weather was so fine.
 
 ADRIFT 191 
 
 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 occasion- 
 ally 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, pur- 
 ported 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.
 
 ADIUFT 193 
 
 ' Hero's another book I'm going to get, 1 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 Tory'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; where- 
 upon followed inextinguishable laughter. 
 
 But they were 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 chanco 
 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.' 
 
 4 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 rurn 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 bo 
 ' 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 en their hats to have a ramble 
 in Lambeth Walk.
 
 194 THVRZA 
 
 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. 
 
 1 1 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 six- 
 pence.' 
 
 ' 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 dis- 
 missed 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
 
 195 
 
 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 ? ' be 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.' 
 
 1 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, 
 
 61
 
 Totty walked in the rear of the crowd; she had beeil 
 frightened hy 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-
 
 ADRIFT 197 
 
 hall ? 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 mantel- 
 piece 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. 
 
 4 Well, well, I won't do it again, Jenny,' he mumbled. 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 4 1 don't suppose you never had, Jim, till now.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 4 It ain't done with money ; you'll have to sign something. 
 I think.'
 
 198 THYRZA 
 
 1 All right. But I'll read it first, though. Who was it a3 
 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 
 Avoman'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 1 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
 
 ADRIFT 199 
 
 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 carne 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 1 Was I to let him insult you 
 and just stand by ? '
 
 200 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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 
 <o 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 back. 
 
 < 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. 
 
 1 Give me a kiss, Totty.' 
 
 * I'm sure I shan't, Mr. Ackroyd 1 ' 
 ' Then let me take one,'
 
 ADRIFT 201 
 
 She made no resistance. 
 
 4 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 ba, 
 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 neces- 
 sity 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 sub- 
 ject 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
 
 202 THYKZA 
 
 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 her- 
 self 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 case 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 arrange- 
 ments 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
 
 DRAWING NEARER 203 
 
 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 to- 
 morrow. 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 com- 
 panion. 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 Embank- 
 ment. 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 '11 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.' 
 
 1 We shall see, grandad. Wait till the summer comes, and
 
 204 THYRZA 
 
 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 plea- 
 sure 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 now- 
 adays. 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 re- 
 member ! ' 
 
 ' 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 under- 
 stand 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, look- 
 ing 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.'
 
 DRAWING NEARER 205 
 
 ' 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 hit ! 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. 
 
 1 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, some- 
 thing 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. 
 
 ' l)o 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
 
 206 THYRZA 
 
 1 Now I know what you're going to say, my clear. 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 inde- 
 pendent 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 
 j 
 
 1 There now, that's all we want,' interposed the old lady. 
 1 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 ef 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 J To think of you saying I should be cross with
 
 DRAWING NEARER 207 
 
 her t 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.' 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 4 Come to dinner ! ' 
 
 Lydia paused at the door, 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 4 Is there ? Yes, perhaps. Oh, we've a deal to talk about 
 to-night, Lyddy 1 ' 
 
 4 But Gilbert '11 want you to-night.' 
 
 4 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. Gil- 
 bert 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. Some- 
 times, when Thyrza and he were alone, he would hold 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
 
 208 THYRZA 
 
 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
 
 DRAWING NEARER 209 
 
 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 in- 
 spired 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 1 ' 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. 
 
 P
 
 210 THYRZA 
 
 4 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 : 
 
 4 What a boy Mr. Egremont looks, compared with Gilbert ! 
 
 Thyrza said nothing. 
 
 4 Come, dear, put them in the envelope, and let me take 
 them down.' 
 
 4 Oh, never mind till morning, Lyddy ! ' 
 
 The voice was rather impatient. 
 
 4 But I'm afraid Mrs. Grail '11 remember, and have the 
 trouble of coming up.' 
 
 4 She won't think it worth while. And I want to look at 
 them.' 
 
 4 Oh, very well, dear.' 
 
 The two unlike faces continued to lie uppermost. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 A BONG 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 desir- 
 able that someone should remain upon the premises, he en- 
 gaged her to do so until the Grails entered into possession. 
 
 As soon as painters, plasterers, and papcrhangers 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.
 
 A SONG WITHOUT WORDS 211 
 
 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 second- 
 1 hand 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. Lone- 
 liness, 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 bo 
 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 niado 
 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 
 
 r 2
 
 212 THYRZA 
 
 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 hap- 
 piness 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 with- 
 out 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 
 io refrain from too much kindness. It was very unlike her ;
 
 A SONG WITHOUT WORDS 213 
 
 what had she observed that made her so disagreeably prudent 
 all at once ? 
 
 It added to his mental malaise. What change was befall- 
 ing 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 revert- 
 ing to the condition wherein he was born. His attempt to 
 become a member of Society (with a capital) was proving it- 
 self 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 hope- 
 ful 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 
 Betting 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
 
 214 THYE2A 
 
 box into the building. She crossed to the opposite side of tha 
 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-cases 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. 1 
 
 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 : 
 
 1 Grail is my friend, and we always talk as friends should. 
 Won't you cease to think of me as a stranger ? ' 
 
 4 1 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 resum- 
 ing 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 tre- 
 mendously 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.'
 
 A SONG WITHOUT WORDS 215 
 
 ' 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 
 Bomeone. 
 
 ' 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 dis- 
 agreeable smile on Mrs. Butterfield's thin lips. 
 
 ' If you please, have you got a hammer ? ' Thyrza asked. 
 4 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 'a 
 BO 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 : 
 
 1 1 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.'
 
 216 THYRZA 
 
 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 with- 
 out a smile. 
 
 1 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, re- 
 maining 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
 
 A SONG WITHOUT WORDS 217 
 
 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. 
 Vlrs. 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 ap- 
 peared. 
 
 ' 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.'
 
 218 THYEZA 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 1 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 ' 
 
 1 All right. Be ready both of you by half-past six. 1 
 
 They nodded a good-bye to each other. 
 
 Thyrza was making believe to eat her dinner. Mrs. Grail 
 saw what a pretence it was. 
 
 4 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
 
 A SONG WITHOUT WORDS 219 
 
 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 '11 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 tune 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
 
 220 THYRZA 
 
 imagine how lie was going to spend his evening. From 
 Gilbert's description she had made a picture of his room in 
 Great Eussell 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 know- 
 ledge. 
 
 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 I 
 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. 
 
 ' Eeally ? 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
 
 A SONG WITHOUT WORDS 221 
 
 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. 
 
 1 How's things going on ? ' Totty asked, smiling. 
 
 4 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 4 What is there to tell ? ' she asked. 
 
 1 Is he doing as he promised ? ' 
 
 4 As far as I know,' said the other, in a voice which affected 
 indifference. 
 
 4 And do you think he'll keep right till Christmas ? ' 
 
 4 That's a good deal more than I can say, or anybody else. 1 
 
 4 But you'll do your best to make him ? ' 
 
 4 1 don't know that I shall bother much. It's his own look- 
 out. I shall know what he means if he goes wrong again.' 
 
 'But ' 
 
 'Well? What?' 
 
 ' You hope he'll keep his promise ? ' Thyrza said, bend- 
 ing a little nearer, and dropping her eyes as soon as she had 
 spoken. 
 
 4 H'm. Yes. Perhaps I do,' said Totty, putting her head
 
 222 THYKZA 
 
 on one side. And forthY. T ith 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 some- 
 thing very curious in her gaze, a kind of suspicion one would 
 have said. 
 
 ' I I like to know about you,' Thyrza said, with embar-' 
 rassment. 
 
 ' 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 tune 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. 
 
 'J 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, 
 zoldly. 
 
 ' 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 1 Well, I call this 
 nice ! ' 
 
 At the sound of the child's voice, Thyrza at once restrained
 
 A SONG WITHOUT WORDS 223 
 
 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 fare- 
 well 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, cama 
 to the bedside. 
 
 ' Aren't you well, my dear ? ' she asked, gently. 
 
 Thyrza made pretence of having just awoke. 
 
 1 1 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 aftemoon 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
 
 224 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 sub- 
 duing 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 obser- 
 vation 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 whis- 
 pered 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. 
 
 1 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 ? ' 
 
 4 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.
 
 Jd SONG WITHOUT WORDS 225 
 
 4 Oh dear ! ' said Lydia, with a wry face. ' I'm sure that 
 land of music won't do your head any good. Is it still 
 better ? ' 
 
 1 1 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 them- 
 selves 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, un- 
 imaginatively. 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 fore- 
 seen 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 fol- 
 lowed she whispered to Lydia : 
 
 Q
 
 226 THYKZA 
 
 ' 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 com- 
 panion. 
 
 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 1 ' 
 
 ' Just for a minute.'
 
 RAPIDS 227 
 
 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. 1 
 
 At the voice, Thyrza drew the window down, then turned 
 and stood before her sister, as if she were going to say some- 
 thing. But she did not speak. 
 
 1 Do you feel ill, dear ? ' Lydia asked, anxiously. 
 
 I 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 1 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 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 THYRZA 
 
 in order, went down to assist Mrs. Grail in getting the break- 
 fast. But on the morning after the concert Lydia was glad 
 to see that the head heside 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 un- 
 willing 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 '11 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. 
 
 1 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.
 
 RAPIDS 229 
 
 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 pleasur- 
 ably, 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.'
 
 230 THYEZA 
 
 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-alpud, 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 to- 
 day, 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.
 
 RAPIDS 231 
 
 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, 
 
 4 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 '11 be down to do those directly. 
 If you really don't find it too cold here, you may tell me some- 
 thing about the concert.' 
 
 ' Yes, I'll tell you, but I must work at the same time. I 
 want to, I must I 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 some- 
 thing 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 1 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 
 BO bright. I'm not at all sure that the sun 11 last till dinner- 
 time ; it's getting rather uncertain. Just go into Kennington 
 Road and back.' 
 
 Thyrza shook her head. 
 
 ' Not this morning. I'm a little tired.'
 
 232 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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 mys- 
 tery ; 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 Eoad ; 
 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 any- 
 thing 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.
 
 RAPIDS 233 
 
 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 for- 
 ward 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 yester- 
 day 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 recogni- 
 tion 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 disre- 
 gard 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.
 
 234 THYRZA 
 
 ' Thank you, Mr. Egreinont. 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. Egre- 
 mont 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. 
 
 1 1 was there myself,' were his next words. 
 
 1 Yes, I saw you. In the Hall, I mean ; not only after- 
 wards.' 
 
 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 hap- 
 pened 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.'
 
 RAPIDS 235 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 4 Weren't they good ? ' she asked in astonishment. 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 You have heard them ? ' Thyrza asked, gazing at him. 
 
 ' Several times.' 
 
 4 1 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. Egretnont. 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 hi 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 yesl 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. 
 
 4 And some more books are coming to-day ? ' she said. 
 
 1 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.
 
 236 THYRZA 
 
 Egremont perused the floor. The slight frown had re- 
 turned. 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 4 Is Grail still at his work ? ' Mrs. Bower inquired. 
 
 ' Safe enough. He goes on till Saturday. Ackroyd told 
 me BO yesterday.' 
 
 ' And her sister's at work too ? '
 
 MISCHIEF AFOOT 237 
 
 4 Safe enough.' 
 
 4 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 con- 
 temptuousness. 
 
 4 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 re- 
 garded 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 ad- 
 miration. 
 
 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. 
 
 4 Does Mr. Egremont happen to be here ? ' the visitor went 
 on to ask. 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 Cooking your supper, eh, Mrs. Butterfield? ' said Bower, 
 with genial familiarity. 4 Why, that's rigbi.' make yourself
 
 238 THYRZA 
 
 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 thia 
 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 ? '
 
 MISCHIEF AFOOT 239 
 
 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. 
 
 4 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 ? Docs 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
 
 240 THYRZA 
 
 stories. 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 conversa- 
 tion, 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 im- 
 mensely. 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 con- 
 ceived some deep plan of rascality, the man was not capable 
 pf anything above petty mischief. He liked to pose in secret 
 as a sort of transpontine schemer; that flattered his self-
 
 MISCHIEF AFOOT 241 
 
 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 autho- 
 rity 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.' 
 
 1 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 I 
 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.
 
 242 THYRZA 
 
 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 hi 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 impru- 
 dence on Grail's part, some thoughtlessness in keeping with 
 his character, which had in it so little of the everyday man ? 
 tt 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 abrupt- 
 ness which surprised Grail. 
 
 ' Oh, all the carpenter's work is finished,' 
 
 * Any books come yet ? ' 
 
 1 No, not yet.' 
 
 ' Ah ! Good-night ! ' 
 
 He passed on, leaving Gilbert still hi 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 police- 
 man 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 con- 
 stable showed him the approach to the caretaker's house. He 
 knocked at the door several times ; at length it was barely 
 opened.
 
 MISCHIEF AFOOT 243 
 
 ' Is that Mrs. Butterfield ? ' 
 
 1 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. 1 
 
 ' He's been here, but he left no message.' 
 
 ' Was he here long ? ' 
 
 * All the morning.' 
 
 1 Putting books on the shelves ? ' 
 
 'Yes. 1 
 
 1 Thank you. If there was no message, it'a 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. 
 
 1 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 some- 
 thing ; 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. 
 
 1 Totty ' 
 
 1 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 ori 
 Luke's tongue. 
 
 K 2
 
 244 THYRZA 
 
 ' Totty, I want to ask you something.' He spoke with 
 deepest earnestness, taking her hand. ' You won't keep any- 
 thing 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 tune 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 aa 
 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 Koad, 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 ACKBOYD.' 
 
 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 tho 
 postman, Thyrza would sec it ; it would lead to questionings. 
 
 He determined to deliver it at the hat factory in the morning, 
 with his own hand.
 
 GOOD-BYE 245 
 
 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 diffi- 
 culty. 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. Pre- 
 cisely; 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 hi 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 under- 
 standing 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 com- 
 pleter knowledge of her, he might not improbably discover 
 that after all she was but a pretty girl of the people, attractive 
 jn a great measure owing to her very deficiencies. He would
 
 246 THYRZA 
 
 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 hand 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
 
 GOOD-BYE 247 
 
 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 I 
 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, m every 
 note of the rare music of your voice ! ' 
 
 Even so. In the meantime, this happens to be West- 
 minster Abbey, where a working man, one Gilbert Grail, bag 
 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 doubt- 
 less 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 \yjfe 
 
 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. 
 
 4 You have come up to-day ? ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 Though not, seemingly, to bear hi mind my first wish.
 
 248 THYRZA 
 
 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 heen 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 
 Jie speak out and tell her everything ? If he did so, he was 
 aived. He would leave town. Grail should come back, after 
 ti e 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 ? Ho 
 had written so foolishly in the letter about Thyrza. But it 
 was impossible that she could divine such a thing. The cir- 
 cumstances 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 accus- 
 tomed 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 ? ' 
 
 4 Putting up books.' 
 
 With Mr. Grail ? ' 
 
 'No. He doesn't leave the factory till the end of the 
 week.' 
 
 1 Then leave the place as it stands, and come to Eastbourne 
 with me to-morrow. 1 
 
 ' I'm afraid I '
 
 GOOD-BYE 249 
 
 4 And so am I afraid,' she interrupted him gravely. ' I 
 wish you to come to Eastbourne. I wish you to 1 ' 
 
 ' 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. 1 
 
 ' You should have said that with a wave of the hand, as 
 omnipotent people do on the stage.' 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 1 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 astonish- 
 ing improvement, when they get fond of me.' 
 
 They talked of various things, but no mention was made 
 of the Newthorpes by either,
 
 250 THYRZA 
 
 I 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 1 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 him- 
 self 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 ! 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 Bunco's
 
 GOOD-BYE 251 
 
 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'a 
 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 ? ' 
 
 1 At half-past five.' 
 
 ' Thank you. I will call to-morrow evening. Could you 
 let him know that, from Mr. Egremont ? I wish to see him 
 particularly.' 
 
 I 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 1 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 dis- 
 appointed, 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 
 agairet her. She would go round to the house, and make
 
 252 THYRZA 
 
 inquiry of Mrs. Bufcterfield. 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 striv- 
 ing 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
 
 GOOD-BYE 2,53 
 
 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. Work- 
 men 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 be- 
 lieve 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
 
 254 THYKZA 
 
 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 sus- 
 picious 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 1 ' 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 speak- 
 ing 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
 
 GOOD-BYE 255 
 
 rising choler brought him to a full stop in the middle of the 
 sentence. 
 
 Egremont addressed himself in earnest to the task of 
 persuasion. More was involved than mere benefit to the 
 child's health ; it was easy to see that Bunco'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.' 
 
 4 Mrs. Ormonde will gladly come here, if you will let 
 her.' 
 
 ' I'd rather not, if you don't mind, sir.' 
 
 4 Then it will be simplest if you go to my rooms in Great 
 Eussell Street, just by the British Museum. I leave town to- 
 morrow; 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. 
 
 4 1 shall see you at the library soon, I hope,' Egremont 
 said. 4 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, hurry- 
 ing with light feet and woman's garments silently. 
 
 4 That you, Miss Nancarrow ? ' he asked, for there was no 
 light on the staircase. 
 
 4 No,' came a muffled reply. 4 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. Notwithstand- 
 ing 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
 
 256 THYRZA 
 
 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, fire- 
 less ; 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 
 Bunco'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 cornel 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
 
 GOOD-BYE 257 
 
 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 1 ' 
 
 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 recom- 
 mencing after a pause. 
 
 Egremont glanced towards the tower, startled and seem- 
 ingly annoyed. 
 
 ' I'm very sorry I couldn't come to the library this morn- 
 ing, 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, complaiiiingly. ' 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.' 
 
 8
 
 258 THYRZA 
 
 '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 polite- 
 ness 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. 
 
 1 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. 1
 
 GOOD-BYE 259 
 
 1 1 shall write to Mr. Grail, and tell him what I have been 
 doing. You can help him.' 
 
 4 Yes.' 
 
 The monosyllable fell from her like a whisper of despair. 
 But the utterance of Grail's name had brought Egreuiont 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, look- 
 ing 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 over- 
 whelming 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 
 
 a 2
 
 260 THYRZA 
 
 he could not judge how long he had stood battling with him- 
 self 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 dis- 
 appointed. 
 
 At the end of Newport Street a man stood, waiting. It 
 was Gilbert Grail; he had come in the hope of meetirg 
 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-con- 
 tempt. 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
 
 CONFESSION 261 
 
 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 them- 
 selves. A portion of the room was divided off by a glass parti- 
 tion, 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 coining 
 to work or not, all showed much cheerfulness at the com- 
 mencement 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
 
 262 THYRZA 
 
 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 whis- 
 pered. 'You needn't blush, you know.' 
 
 Lydia was too surprised to manifest any such self-con- 
 sciousness. 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'a 
 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 men- 
 tioned 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 abandon- 
 ment 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 under- 
 stand 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 heart- 
 ache. Her quarrel with Mary Bower seemed an encourage- 
 ment 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
 
 CONFESSION 263 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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.
 
 204 THYRZA 
 
 At present, Thyrza's anxiety to go out was another detail 
 connecting itself with Ackroyd's summons. Something un- 
 explained 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 Eoad, and found Luke waiting for 
 her. She approached him with veiled eyes. 
 
 ' I'm so glad you've come,' he began, with signs of dis- 
 turbance. ' 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. Ack- 
 royd? ' 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. 
 1 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
 
 CONFESSION 285 
 
 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. 1 
 
 He hurried out his words of self -justification, for he saw 
 the anger in her face. 
 
 1 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 I ' 
 
 She laughed scornfully, and, before he could speak, con- 
 tinued 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 1 
 You shall come, if you're an honest man, as you say you are 1 ' 
 
 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 '11 say so much '11 say 
 anything. You've told me quite enough, I should think, 
 eonsidering it's about my own sister,'
 
 266 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 1 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 Mon- 
 day ; 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 : 4 Have you anything more to tell me ? ' 
 
 4 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
 
 CONFESSION 267 
 
 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 1 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 kneAV 
 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. 
 
 I 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 
 culumniated, another to believe that the evil judgment was 
 merited. 
 
 I 1 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 keep- 
 ing 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 1 ' 
 
 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
 
 288 THYKZA 
 
 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. Egre- 
 mont 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 '11 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.
 
 CONFESSION 269 
 
 1 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 tit state to leave the house.' 
 
 4 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. 
 
 1 It was at the end of Newport Street,' Gilbert replied. 
 * Why are you so anxious to know where ? ' 
 
 1 I'm sure I don't know. I'm worrying so about that 
 child. I apoke 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 hap- 
 pened ? ' 
 
 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 dread-
 
 270 THYR2A 
 
 ful catastroplie. Thyrza seemed unable to speak, and her 
 eyes were so wild, so pain-stricken, that they looked like mad- 
 ness. 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. 
 
 1 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 : 
 
 1 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 cheer- 
 ful 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 re- 
 entered the room panting with the speed she had made. And 
 Bhe sat down at the bedside.
 
 CONFESSION 271 
 
 There was nc 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 hap- 
 pened, something worse, she thoughtj 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. Egremcnt 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 tc be credited, for many reasons. Totty by Luke's 
 account was angry with Thyrza, and refused to hear any- 
 thing 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 sha 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 ?ery 
 easily err in his judgment of a young man in Egremont'3 
 position. Ackroyd seemed to have no doubt at all ; be had 
 said at once that Egremont deserved to be thrashed. Clearly 
 he believed the worst of Egremont, attributed to him a, de- 
 liberate 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 Ack- 
 royd 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 pry- 
 ing eyes had watched her going and coming. Already it 
 might be too late ; the marriage with Gilbert might be impos- 
 sible, 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
 
 272 THYRZA 
 
 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 meet- 
 ings 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 ' gentle- 
 men.' 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. 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 Do you think there's anything in me but love for you, 
 my dearest, my Thyrza? Do you think I could say a cruel
 
 CONFESSION 273 
 
 word, tell me whatever you might ? Do you think I shan't 
 love you only the better, the more unhappy you are ? Per- 
 haps 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 any- 
 thing ! 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. 
 
 1 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 say- 
 ing what I've thought ? ' 
 
 ' I've got no secret ! I don't- know what you mean by 
 secret ! '
 
 274 THYRZA 
 
 'Thyrza have you have you seen Mr. Egremont to- 
 night ? ' 
 
 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 ic began,' she whispered. ' It seems so 
 sudden ; but I think it's been coming for a long time. Ever
 
 CONFESSION 275 
 
 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 carne 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 any- 
 thing.' 
 
 ' You mean last Monday ? This week ? ' 
 
 4 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 bo 
 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, ner- 
 vously. 
 
 'No one, dear. I only think it. The way you came 
 in ' 
 
 Thyrza suddenly bent forward, listening. 
 
 T 2
 
 276 THYEZA 
 
 ' Can any one hear us ? ' she whispered. ' Go and see if 
 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 morn- 
 ing. 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 ior 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.
 
 CONFESSION 277 
 
 Still he was innocent of the guilt she had suspected. 
 Thyrza had not come to the dreaded harm. Though heart- 
 broken, 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, wa& 
 surprised to see a faint smile on the beautiful pale face. 
 
 ' You thought he loved me? ' was whispered. 'Oh, if ho 
 did ! If he did !' 
 
 Lydia was still kneeling. New fears were making them- 
 selves 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. 
 
 4 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, appeal- 
 ing 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. Egre- 
 mont 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 some- 
 thing else.'
 
 278 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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 can't ! 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 DEEAM 
 
 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
 
 THE END OF THE DREAM 279 
 
 he could no longer pay attention to the day's business. Ha 
 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 Satur- 
 day 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 unreason- 
 ing fear lest something had come to pass hi his absence. And 
 now it was no longer only apprehension. Thyrza was chang- 
 ing 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 ? '
 
 280 THYRZA 
 
 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. Eain 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.'
 
 THE END OF THE DREAM 281 
 
 We can leave that for a few days,' he said absently. 
 
 ' It wouldn't make any difference to you at the library ? ' 
 
 4 N6ne, 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. 
 
 4 I've made you late for your work.' 
 
 4 1 shan't go to-day.' 
 
 ' You won't go ? ' she asked. 
 
 4 1 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 : 
 
 4 Will you stay here this morning ? ' 
 
 She just raised her face ; fear and entreaty were on the 
 features. 
 
 4 1 only came down for breakfast, to ask you that, and 
 and to tell you I was so sorry.' 
 
 4 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 : 
 
 4 Thyrza, is there anything on your mind, anything you 
 don't wish to tell me just now, but in a day or two per- 
 haps ? ' 
 
 4 No, Gilbert, no ! If you'll forgive me for behaving 
 unkindly.' 
 
 4 Dear, how can there be any forgiving, so long as I love 
 you? There must be blame before there is need of for- 
 giveness, and I love you too well to think a reproachful 
 thought.' 
 
 She bent her head and sobbed. 
 
 4 Thyrza, is it any happiness to you to know that I love 
 you?' 
 
 4 Yes, it is. You are very good. I know I am making 
 you suffer.' 
 
 4 But I shall see the old face again, before long ? ' 
 
 4 Soon. I shall be myself again soon.' 
 
 She left him and went upstairs. A minute or two after, 
 Lydia knocked at the door. 
 
 4 Thyrza has gone up ? ' she asked. 
 
 4 Yes. Come here, Lydia ! ' 
 
 He spoke with abruptness. Lydia drew near.
 
 282 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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. Kern ember 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. Egre- 
 mont, 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 waa
 
 THE END OF THE DHEAM 283 
 
 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-tune he had 
 all but made up his mind to go to work ; the thought, how- 
 ever, 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 post- 
 ponement 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.
 
 284 THYRZA 
 
 4 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 re- 
 quired ; 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 ? ' 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 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, 4 Good-bye, Lyddy ! ' 
 
 4 1 do wish I hadn't to go. But I shall be very quick.' 
 
 4 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 begin- 
 ning 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
 
 THE END OF THE DREAM 285 
 
 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 hi 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 wander- 
 ing 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.
 
 286 THYRZA 
 
 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 delibera- 
 tion. 
 
 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
 
 THE END OF THE DREAM 287 
 
 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 com- 
 plicated 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 Wednes- 
 day night, something that Totty also knew but did not care 
 to communicate herself. 
 
 Til try and find him,' Lydia said. 'But if you do hear 
 anything 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, hi 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. 1 
 
 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.' 
 
 4 And did she tell you everything ? ' 
 
 ' Everything ! She said he'd never spoken a word to her
 
 288 THYRZA 
 
 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. 
 4 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. 
 
 4 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 to- 
 night, 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 ? '
 
 THE END OF THE DREAM 289 
 
 1 1 don't think you can.' 
 
 1 1 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 now ? ' 
 
 ' 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 '11 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.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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, 
 
 u
 
 290 THYKZA 
 
 ' 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 
 Bpoken, burst into tears.
 
 THE END OF THE DREAM 291 
 
 4 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, 
 BO 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 
 ho didn't. She went on Wednesday morning, and he never 
 came. That was on purpose, I'm sure.' 
 
 4 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 
 
 v 2
 
 292 THYRZA 
 
 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.'
 
 THE END OF THE DliEAM 293 
 
 1 What do you mean by that ? How should I be able to 
 help her to find Thyrza ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, don't bother me 1 ' 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 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. 
 
 4 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.'
 
 294 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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 7 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 '11 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. 
 
 OHAPTEE XXV 
 
 A BIBD 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. Dal- 
 maine, 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.
 
 A BIRD OF THE AIR 29-3 
 
 It was with that same peculiar smile the bushy eyebrows 
 closing together, the lips very tight that her husband ap- 
 proached 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 tho 
 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. 
 1 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 to- 
 night, 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. 
 
 r l'm glad you know that it isn't polite,' she answered, 
 sourly. ' You often need to be told.' 
 
 4 1 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 amile fade into a look of ministerial importance.
 
 296 THYJKZA 
 
 ' 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 reve- 
 renced working men, the free and independent electors ? ' 
 
 1 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. How- 
 ever, 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 un- 
 derstand 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 reputa-
 
 A BIRD OF THE AIR 297 
 
 tion 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 rdle. 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 I And at last he carried her off. There's no getting on 
 his track, I'm told. The question is : What will become of
 
 298 THYRZA 
 
 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 in- 
 formation 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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.
 
 A 11IRD OF THE AIR 299 
 
 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 any- 
 thing 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.
 
 300 THYHXA 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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. Anbin's.'
 
 A BIRD OF THE AIR 301 
 
 1 Do you give credit to this, Mrs. Ormonde ? ' 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 4 Bat it does not seem to you incredible. I saw that on 
 your face.' 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 1 Yts.' 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 4 Then it was needless to add the untruth. I did not ask 
 him where he would live. Sit down, dear.' 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 You are taking the truth for granted, Mrs. Ormonde.' 
 
 4 I mean that we have no way of discovering whether it is 
 true or not.' 
 
 4 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. Or- 
 monde said. 
 
 4 Of course. If my aunt says anything to me about it, I 
 will write to you. Good-bye.' 
 
 4 1 shall see you to-morrow, as we arranged ? ' 
 
 4 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 Sun- 
 day 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
 
 302 THYRZA 
 
 Ullswater for the neighbourhood of the never-resting wavea. 
 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 wa3 
 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 hia 
 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 re- 
 serve 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 noble- 
 no?* For him, as for herself, her heart was heavy. She
 
 A BIRD OF THE AIR 303 
 
 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 
 
 THE IDEALIST AND HIS FEIEND 
 
 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 re- 
 covered. Having bidden a porter look after the bag which was 
 his only luggage, he walked to the book-stall to buy a periodi- 
 cal 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
 
 304 THYRZA 
 
 merely an urbane way of reminding him that lie 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 Eussell Street seemed to have suffered 
 neglect during his absence ; his return was unexpected ; every- 
 thing 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 even- 
 ing sky was heavy and featureless. 
 
 The landlady presented herself. She was grieved exceed- 
 ingly 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? ' 
 
 4 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.'
 
 THE IDEALIST AND HIS FlilESD 305 
 
 He entered into a fuller description of Gilbert Grail. The 
 landlady identified the caller as Grail beyond all doubt. 
 
 4 What day was it ? ' 
 
 4 Why, sir, it 'ud be Wednesday ; yes, Wednesday,' 
 
 4 H'm 1 And you told him I had left Jersey ? ' 
 
 4 Yes, sir. He said he knew that, and that 
 
 4 Said he knew it ? ' repeated Egremont, astonished. 
 
 4 Yes, sir, and that he wished to see if you had got home 
 again.' 
 
 4 Has he been since ? ' 
 
 1 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, look- 
 ing at the house. He hadn't called, however, and he didn't 
 again.' 
 
 Egremont bent his eyos on the ground, and delayed a 
 moment before asking : 
 
 4 Who else has been ? ' 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 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 : 
 
 4 1 am just back from the Continent. Am I right in think- 
 ing 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. 01 
 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 im- 
 mediately.' 
 
 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
 
 306 THYRZA 
 
 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 wag strange that he too had re- 
 fused 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 annoy- 
 ing 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 some- 
 thing 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.
 
 THE IDEALIST AND HIS FRIEND 307 
 
 Half an Lour 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 where- 
 in suspicion and reproach and all unutterable woe were 
 blended. 
 
 Walter took a step forward, vainly holding out his hand. 
 
 1 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, 
 GraH ? ' 
 
 ' I thought you knew, Mr. Egremont.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 x 2
 
 308 THYKZA 
 
 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 con- 
 tinued 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 Egrernont, 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. 
 1 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
 
 THE IDEALIST AND HIS FRIEND 309 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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 part- 
 ing 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 land- 
 lady'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
 
 310 THYRZA 
 
 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 my- 
 self.' 
 
 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 morn- 
 ing I was compelled by restlessness to give up my idea of re- 
 maining 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 per- 
 haps 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
 
 THE IDEALIST AND HIS FRIEND 311 
 
 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 impreg- 
 nable. The catastrophe which had come upon him was 
 proportionate hi its effects to the immeasurable happiness 
 which preceded it. Eemember that it was not only the ima- 
 ginary 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 tilings 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 Egre- 
 mont, could he preserve the nice balance of his judgment 
 through an experience such as this ? 
 
 Had he seen Egremont at once, after Thyrza's disappear- 
 ance, 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 counte- 
 nance with preternatural keenness. Walter could not sustain 
 such proof; his agitation spoke against him. Only when ho
 
 312 THYRZA 
 
 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 con- 
 temptible 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 ; 1 
 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 
 Bunco'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, touch- 
 ing 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
 
 THE IDEALIST AND HIS FRIEND 313 
 
 altered our relations, do you think I should have tried to keep 
 secret what had happened ? Do you think I could have con- 
 ceived 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 Gil- 
 bert 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 mis- 
 judgment. In the silence that followed all the details of the 
 story passed before him with a new significance. The great- 
 ness of his own love a love which drew into its service every 
 noblest element of his nature, enabled him, once the obscur- 
 ing 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 
 Toice. ' 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 I You go too far, Grail. You accused me of base- 
 ness, 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 sus- 
 picion 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
 
 314 THYKZA 
 
 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 wrong- 
 ing 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, re- 
 peated 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 mo, 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
 
 THE IDEALIST AND HIS FRIEND 315 
 
 and refinement was practically at an end, it seemed more than 
 a substitute to look forward to intimacy with that one house- 
 hold 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 mani- 
 festing 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 miyht hold it incredible 
 till she had a confession from his very lips. But were women 
 magnanimous ? And Annabe), very clear in thought, very
 
 316 THYRZA 
 
 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 inter- 
 view in Great Russell Street, when it might be that he had 
 betrayed himself. She had found him in a state of perturba- 
 tion which he could not conceal ; it was on the eve oi 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 bead-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
 
 THE IDEALIST AND HIS FRIEND 317 
 
 would rather face every hardship and peril of a hidden life in 
 Borne dark corner of London ? For she lived ; proof of it 
 Beemed 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 beckon- 
 ing; 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 
 
 POUND 
 
 MBS. 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 prepara- 
 tions with the same enjoyment as before. It was doubtful 
 whether, in writing, she would make any reference to Egre- 
 mont, 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 para- 
 graph : 
 
 4 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
 
 318 THYRZA 
 
 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 Eoad. 
 And I beg to end. From yours obedient, 
 
 *SABAH 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. Or- 
 monde 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. Orrnonda 
 knew, Bunce had given her when she brought Bessie to 
 Eastbourne. 
 
 Her first emotion was of joy, This was quickly succeeded
 
 FOUXD 319 
 
 by doubts and fears in plenty, for it was difficult to explain 
 Thyrza's taking such a step as this letter suggested. But Iho 
 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 ig- 
 noble 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 un- 
 disguised. All this northward-bearing tract, between Cam- 
 den Town on the one hand and Islington on the other, is the 
 valley of the shadow of vilest servitude. Its public monu- 
 ment 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 pic- 
 turesque 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 in- 
 quiries 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 wag 
 the dinner-hour of this part of the world. Every available
 
 320 THYRZA 
 
 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, 1 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
 
 321 
 
 see, We have to 'couomize 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 I ' cried Mrs. Gandle, and proceeded to execute the 
 orders. 
 
 ' What is this poor girl's name ? ' Mrs. Ormonde asked. 
 1 You didn't mention it.' 
 
 4 Well, mum, she calls herself Mary Wood. Do you know 
 any one o' that name ? ' 
 
 4 I think not.' 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 4 That's right, Mrs. Gandle ! ' roared some man. 4 You 
 give it her. It's the usial Bow-bells with her an' Sandy Dick 
 'ere ! ' 
 
 There was laughter, and 'Li/abeth 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 alittlish 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 an- 
 swered 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 
 
 Y
 
 322 THYR2A 
 
 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 'tin. 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' quiet- 
 ness 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 
 momin' 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 some- 
 body 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,
 
 FOUND 323 
 
 'Well, I begged an' I prayed of her as slie'd tell me where 
 ehe 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 '11 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 'onie 
 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 'Liza- 
 beth 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 4 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 
 
 Y 2
 
 324 T&YR2A 
 
 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 utter- 
 ance 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 discon- 
 nected 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 
 Ihe 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 Cale- 
 donian Road before the evening. Having made an appoint- 
 ment with him for seven o'clock, she next drove to the east
 
 FOUND 325 
 
 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 depress- 
 ing 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 Netting 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.' 
 
 4 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 pro- 
 mised 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 ? '
 
 326 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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 your're not 
 often so late ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't mind it a bit,' said the other, cheerfully. ' It's 
 a pupil at Sevenoaks, 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 some- 
 where 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 1 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 
 1 could write a novel if I tried. I think I will try some day ;
 
 FOUND 327 
 
 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, Cale- 
 donian Road. 
 
 Thyrza still lay in the same condition. In a little more 
 than half an hour came the trained nurse of Dr. Lambe'a 
 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 thia 
 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 circum- 
 stances 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 tho 
 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 trouble'
 
 328 THYRZA 
 
 some, he gave an assurance that there was no occasion for 
 alarm. 
 
 ' You are not associated in her mind with anything dis- 
 tressing ? ' he asked of Mrs. Ormonde. 
 
 ' I believe, the opposite.' 
 
 1 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
 
 FOUND 329 
 
 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 pre- 
 ferred 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 any- 
 body ? ' 
 
 ' Nobody. 1 
 
 ' 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 con- 
 tinuous thought, she showed less disposition to talk; the 
 trouble which still hung above her seemed to impose silence. 
 Bhe 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
 
 330 THYRZA 
 
 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 sick- 
 room. 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 1 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 Egre- 
 mont ; 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 con- 
 jecture 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
 
 FOUND 331 
 
 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 ful- 
 filling 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 accus- 
 tomed 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. Tyyrza 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. 
 
 1 But she must be in dreadful trouble, Thyrza.' 
 
 4 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 re- 
 veal her story. 
 
 4 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.'
 
 332 THYRZA 
 
 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 ;
 
 FOUND 333 
 
 '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, endea- 
 voured to remove her trouble. 
 
 ' Then no doubt he has gone, Thyrza. We shall hear all 
 about it very soon.' 
 
 1 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 camo 
 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 in- 
 telligence ; 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 Kegent's Park. 
 
 This took place on the following day, with care which
 
 334 THYRZA 
 
 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 Eoad 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 in- 
 valid 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. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXVIII 
 
 HOPE SURPRISED 
 
 MRS. TYRRELL and Annabel were lunching with friends some- 
 where : 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 infor- 
 mation,' Mr. Newthorpe replied, with cold sarcasm. ' The
 
 HOPE SURPRISED 335 
 
 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, assum- 
 ing 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 Egre- 
 mont, 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 Dalrnaine 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 hap- 
 pened 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 ? ' 
 
 1 Astonishingly. I don't see much of her. She came hi 
 the other night to tell me that a Captain Somebody had pro- 
 posed 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 responsi- 
 bility 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
 
 336 
 
 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, won- 
 derfully 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.' 
 
 1 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,
 
 HOPE SURPRISED 337 
 
 I fancy, as I don't know how to make plans for her elsewhere. 
 And in the meantime we must think.' 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 4 What of the sister ? Is she a person to be trusted ? ' 
 4 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 : 
 4 What is Egremont doing, then, do you suppose ? ' 
 * I can form no idea.' 
 4 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.' 
 1 Had I better try to find him ? ' 
 4 Write, if you like, and see what answer you get.' 
 4 A gloomy business for that poor fellow in Lambeth.' 
 4 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 I It makes everything easy.' 
 
 4 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
 
 338 THYRZA 
 
 office stamp might give no clue. Mrs. Ormonde provided hef 
 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.
 
 HOPE SURPRISED 339 
 
 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 circum- 
 stance, and the dark colour o^f 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 con- 
 structed 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, BO 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. 
 
 z 2
 
 340 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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 yon 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.' 
 
 1 Why, then, have you come now ? ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 4 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
 
 HOPE SURPRISED 341 
 
 that I have not had my moments of uneasiness. For in- 
 stance, I wrote to you to Jersey, and the letter was returned 
 to me; that came disagreeably, in connection with news 1 
 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 with- 
 out 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 Egre- 
 mont, 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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. 
 Kemember that, by your own admission, you are ill ; you
 
 342 THYRZA 
 
 cannot judge soundly of anything, even of your own feelings. 
 You have done a good deal of harm, Walter, though uninten- 
 tionally ; 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 hi your cha- 
 racter. 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 spiri- 
 tual 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 youth- 
 ful 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
 
 HOPE SURPRISED 343 
 
 wholly without blame in that intercourse. I strove with my- 
 self 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 fit- 
 ness 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 con- 
 viction ; 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 4 1 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 loss. Be human ! Be honest 1 Would you not de- 
 spise 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 1 ' 
 
 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 trust- 
 ful friends, indeed I 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
 
 344 THYRZA 
 
 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 1 
 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 alwaya 
 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 1 ' 
 
 1 1 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 jou make any 
 attempt to discover her after this. Do so, and we are friends 
 no longer.'
 
 HOPE SURPRISED 345 
 
 ' How can you exact any such promise as that 1 ' 
 ' 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 1 
 ' Will Grail know where she is living 1 ' 
 1 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 explana- 
 tion ; it shall merely be my desire, and if she prove untrust- 
 worthy 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 1 
 1 For two years 1 That is a long time.' 
 ' Not at all, the circumstances considered. Are you afraid 
 of submitting your love to the test ? ' 
 
 1 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 confi- 
 dences ; I get impatient, and am apt to be satirical. I shall 
 never talk to you of Thyrza.'
 
 346 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. 
 
 CHAPTEE 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'a 
 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
 
 TOGETHER AGAIN 347 
 
 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 Bussell 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 ac- 
 cumulated 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 occu- 
 pation 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 hi 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 him- 
 self from madness.
 
 348 THYRZA 
 
 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 inter- 
 course 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 gene- 
 rosity. 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 re- 
 proach 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
 
 TOGETHER AGAIN 349 
 
 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 un- 
 likely 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. 
 
 Seasoning 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 sit- 
 ting-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
 
 350 THYRZA 
 
 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 heen 
 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 in- 
 fluenced 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 com- 
 mon 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 bene- 
 fits to Gilbert. She no longer believed that he was inno- 
 cent 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.
 
 TOGETHER AGAIN 351 
 
 I 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 1 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 persist 3nce. 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 : 
 
 1 1 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
 
 352 THYRZA 
 
 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 morn- 
 ing 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 Eoad 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 com- 
 plaint. ' Dear Mr. Ackroyd ' that was written, but might it
 
 TOGETHER AGAIN 353 
 
 Btand ? 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 tune, 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 oppor- 
 tunity 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 con- 
 versing together as close friends. Ackroyd had evidently re- 
 membered 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 coii 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'a 
 
 A A
 
 354 THYEZA 
 
 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 per- 
 haps it was given to her by an enemy under this name Lydia 
 bad come to think of Egremont. 
 
 She told Gilbert in private. The concealment from him
 
 TOGETHER AGAIN 355 
 
 of Thyrza's address lie 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 under- 
 stood. 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 com- 
 fortable 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 
 
 A A 2
 
 35 G THYRZA 
 
 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 hi 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, 1 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 
 mo to-night, you know. *}it still, and let me take them oil'.
 
 TOGETHER AGAIN 357 
 
 Dear, good old Lyddy ! Oh, will you do my hair for me to- 
 morrow 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 some- 
 thing 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 : 
 
 4 How is Gilbert, Lyddy ? ' 
 
 * He seems pretty well, dear.' 
 
 1 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.
 
 858 THYRZA 
 
 ' He goes to work, as usual. It's a new place.' 
 
 ' Poor Gilbert ! Oh, I'm sorry for him ! He never de- 
 served this of me. Lyddy,' she added in a whisper, ' it makes 
 you so cruel to other people when you love any one.' 
 
 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 pur- 
 sued, 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
 
 TOGETHER AGAIN 359 
 
 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 ! ' 
 
 1 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 ! 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 any- 
 thing 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 1 How you distrust me 1 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 t It's very hard to bear. We shall
 
 360 THYRZA 
 
 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 '11 know where you are.' 
 
 ' Lyddy, he won't know ! I give you my solemn word ho 
 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. 
 
 1 What ! you didn't use it ? ' 
 
 ' No ; I had enough of my own. Please give it back.' 
 
 ' Oh, Lyddy, how proud you are 1 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 1 '
 
 TOGETHER AGAIN 3d 
 
 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 I ' 
 
 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 I ' 
 
 CHAPTEE 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 con- 
 vinces 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 1 ' 
 
 4 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.
 
 362 THYRZA 
 
 Her tint was, as they say, a little fatigued. Fatigued, ioo, 
 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 morbi- 
 dity. 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.' 
 
 1 1 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 con- 
 fusion 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 abso- 
 lutely 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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.'
 
 MOVEMENTS 363 
 
 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. Egre- 
 mont 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. Egre- 
 mont. I also found out I am old, you know, Bell, and can 
 be very deceitful that Lydia, no more than her sister, sus- 
 pects 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 les- 
 sons 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.'
 
 364 THYRZA 
 
 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 ? ' 
 
 4 Then you do not greatly care about it even for the sake 
 of meeting Mr. Lanyard ? ' 
 
 ' Lanyard ? Great Heavens I 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 back 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 1 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
 
 MOVEMENTS 365 
 
 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 I The stairs are portentous, Bell 1 ' 
 ' 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 1 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 meet- 
 ing, Paula had betrayed a sort of timid desire to speak with 
 more intimacy than was her wont. Annabel was not eager 
 in response, but, 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 ? ' 
 
 1 We are a little tired of society, and father needs quietness 
 again. Where do you go ? '
 
 366 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 1 Then you have seen him ? ' 
 
 1 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 sin- 
 cere. 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 instruc- 
 tions 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.
 
 MOVEMENTS 367 
 
 ' 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. 1 
 
 She was obeyed, and, as the vehicle rolled on, she leaned 
 back, suffering a little from palpitation. It was a long drive 
 to Great Kussell 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 Egre- 
 mont 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, 
 und 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 * 
 
 1 1 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 tune 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. 1 
 1 Then I'll say good-bye.'
 
 368 THYRZA 
 
 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. Egre- 
 mont ? I'm to be trusted I am, indeed.' 
 
 ' I'm very sure you are, Miss Tyrrell Oh, pardon me ! ' 
 
 ' No, no I 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 1 ' 
 
 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 Kussell 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 hi their rooms ; if I have mis- 
 understood the social rules hi 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 hia 
 home policy, at present, to crush Paula's will. He practised 
 upon her the faculties which he would have liked to use in 
 terrorizing 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.'
 
 MOVEiMENTS 369 
 
 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 ? ' 
 
 4 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 retire- 
 ment whilst I am occupied with my study of the factory ques- 
 tions 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 BEST 
 
 IT was not without much reluctance, much debate with con- 
 science, 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 
 
 6 B
 
 370 TUYRZA 
 
 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 super- 
 stition 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 assur- 
 ance 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 ungra- 
 ciously 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 Eoman 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
 
 AN OLD MAN'S REST 371 
 
 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 Bunco's room. 
 These two discussed religion and politics together, and their 
 remarks on these subjects lacked neither vigour nor per- 
 spicuity. Ye gods ! how they went to the root of things ! 
 Ackroyd had persevered in his pronounced Antinomianisni ; 
 he did not take life as ' hard ' as his companion, and conse- 
 quently 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 dis- 
 sipation had come of that kind of vanity whereof young gentle- 
 men 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 
 
 B B 2
 
 372 THYMA 
 
 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 Eoman 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, 
 jot if you'd a fortune.' 
 
 But in the end she yielded, for she saw that the matter 
 was serious. 
 
 4 1 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
 
 AN OLD MAN'S REST 373 
 
 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,' sho said to 
 her husband. ' I shall have no peace till he does. He worrita 
 my life out.' 
 
 4 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 posi- 
 tively 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 hi 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. 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 4 But do you think Lydia Trent knows that ? ' 
 
 4 1 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.' 
 
 4 He's got no work then ? ' 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 4 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 'U have to be told about it.'
 
 374 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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. 1 
 
 ' 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 re- 
 frain 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 bestead 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
 
 AN OLD MAN'S REST 375 
 
 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 earnest- 
 ness, 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 un- 
 graciously 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, 
 1 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 '11 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 clos- 
 ing. It was all he could do, after a dozen vain efforts to earn 
 a copper.
 
 376 THYRZl 
 
 But, when lie 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 con- 
 dition 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 per- 
 son. 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-
 
 AN OLD MANS REST 
 
 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 balls hung above an 
 illuminated shop front. The entrance to the pawning depart- 
 ment 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 dullness of his blood, which yet beat fever- 
 ishly 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 appre- 
 hension, 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 Koad. 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 hi 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.
 
 378 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 I Yes, it's old Mr. Boddy 1 ' 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 em- 
 ployed 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 charac- 
 teristic 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 1 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 Hke 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 repro- 
 bation of the Bowers. Ackroyd returned, saying that the 
 doctor would be at hand in a minute or two.
 
 AN OLD MAN'S REST 37 & 
 
 1 Oughtn't you to go and tell Miss Trent ? ' Jane asked 
 him, as all three stood helpless, waiting. 
 
 ' I've thought of it, hut I'd rather not, if it can he 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. Jarrney 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.
 
 380 THYRZA 
 
 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 any- 
 thing 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 conscious- 
 ness. 
 
 At five o'clock, when, in spite of fire and lamp, the little 
 kitchen looked haggard, Mrs. Poole entered, hurriedly.
 
 AN OLD MAN'S REST 381 
 
 ' Do you tliink 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 I Tliyrza ! ' 
 
 ' 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 1 ' 
 
 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.
 
 382 THYEZA 
 
 ' 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, in- 
 deed, 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 down- 
 cast. 
 
 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 there- 
 after.
 
 TOTTY'S LUCK 383 
 
 CHAPTER XXXH 
 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-half- 
 penny 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 in- 
 difference 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-pre- 
 pared 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
 
 384 THYKZA 
 
 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 appear- 
 ance 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, nasti- 
 ness for which, as it proved, there was no justification what- 
 ever. 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 marma- 
 lade 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 under- 
 stood, 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 ' stool 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
 
 TOTTY'S LUCK 385 
 
 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 
 "hop in Tottenham Court Eoad ; in fact, he had behaved 
 badly to her branch of the family, and such behaviour can- 
 not 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 scamper- 
 ing 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. ^Delibe- 
 rately, 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 enor- 
 mous 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 
 
 G C
 
 386 THYRZA 
 
 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 m Tottenham Court Eoad 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 her- 
 self 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.' 
 
 4 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 horso he has thoughts of 
 purchasing.
 
 TOTTY'S LUCK 387 
 
 * 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 Nan- 
 carrow, if you will allow me.' 
 
 ' You can't say it here, sir.? ' 
 
 4 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 intro- 
 duced 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 "eye- 
 brows. 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, haying regarded her fixedly for a moment, bent his 
 head till hia forehead rested upon the umbrella, and seemed 
 to brood. 
 
 o c 2
 
 388 THYRZA 
 
 Don't you feel well, sir ? ' Totty asked, with a na/ivetA 
 which betrayed her impatience. 
 
 ' Quite well, quite well.' 
 
 4 You was saying something about my uncle's will.' 
 
 ' ^Fusso ! Your name is in the will, Miss Nancarrow. 
 Your uncle has bequeathed to you the sum of two hundred 
 and fifty pounds.' 
 
 4 Have you brought it with you, sir ? ' 
 
 1 The will ? ' 
 
 ' No, the money.' 
 
 4 My dear Miss Nancarrow, things are not done in that 
 way,' remarked Mr. Barlow, smiling at her ingenuousness. 
 
 ' How then, sir ? ' 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 I'll do my best, sir.' 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 This sum of two hundred and fifty pounds, Miss Nan- 
 carrow, 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 ? ' 
 
 4 1 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 tap- 
 ping together. 
 
 4 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!' 
 
 4 1 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.'
 
 TOTTY'S LUCK 389 
 
 0h!' 
 
 4 You have understood, I hope ? ' 
 
 4 1 shall marry who I like, sir,' observed Totty, quietly. 
 
 Mr. Barlow looked at her with surprise. 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 4 1 don't see what it's got to do with anybody who I choose 
 to marry.' 
 
 4 Jusso, jusso ! nothing could be truer. It's only a ques- 
 tion 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 : 
 
 4 And suppose I don't choose to marry anybody at all ? ' 
 
 4 1 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.' 
 
 4 Oh ! I don't see why my uncle bothered himself so much 
 about me marrying.' 
 
 4 No doubt your late uncle had some good reason for these 
 provisions, Miss Nancarrow,' said the other, gravely. 4 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. 
 
 4 Will you tell me,' she asked after a silence, speaking 
 with a good deal of hauteur, 4 what sort of a man you'd 
 approve of ? ' 
 
 4 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 : 
 
 4 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 ? ' 
 
 4 1 think I do.' 
 
 4 Secondly, he must have a recognised profession, business, 
 trade, or handicraft, and must satisfy me and MT, Higgins thai 
 he is able to support a wife.,' 
 
 ' And then ? '
 
 390 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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 dif- 
 ferent. 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 1 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 him- 
 s.elf up, cleared his throat, and stalked to the door, regarding 
 with lofty patronage the signs of poverty about him. At the 
 ttoor 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. Eeckon it up, for instance, in 
 marmalade and pickles ; it became confusing very soon. 
 Eeckon it up in tables and chairs ; ah, that was more to the 
 ]boint. 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
 
 TOTTY'S LUCK 391 
 
 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 1 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. Some- 
 how, 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 1 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. 
 1 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, aa 
 I always said I wouldn't. I was right enough as long as I 
 kept to that. The girls '11 only make fun of me.' 
 
 Yes, but her promise ? She began to feel gloomy. Per- 
 haps 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
 
 392 THYBZA 
 
 Cathedral. It is a long, vast, ugly building, unfinished, for it 
 still lacks towers ; in the dark it looked very cold and forbid- 
 ding, 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 super- 
 scription : ' 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 sooth- 
 ingly upon all who made appeal. To Totty her religion waa 
 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 sympa- 
 thetic 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 ac- 
 customed to the thought of her wealth, she derived from it 
 a quiet pride, which made her walk homewards more staidly
 
 TOTTY'S LUCK 393 
 
 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 some- 
 thing 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 com- 
 panion 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 accus- 
 tomed 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 for- 
 ward. 
 
 4 1 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 events, 
 it'll be your fault if we do.'
 
 394 THYEZA 
 
 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 sliouldn'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 ? ' 
 
 1 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, 1 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.
 
 TOTTY'S LUCK 395 
 
 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.' 
 
 4 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 XXXIH 
 
 THE HEAET AND ITS SECEET 
 
 THYEZA was not to be a boarder with the Emersons, nor did 
 Mrs. Ormonde request them to make a friend of her. No- 
 thing 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 companion- 
 ship. 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 
 4 Home ' at Hampstead. For this work she received pay- 
 ment, which Mrs. Ormonde made it appear would suffice 
 to discharge her obligations to the Emersons and her land- 
 lady. 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 proba- 
 bility 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
 
 396 THYRZA 
 
 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 soher 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 inter- 
 course ; 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 for- 
 ward 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, un- 
 burdened 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 
 ahe 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
 
 THE HEART AND ITS SECRET 397 
 
 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 1 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 His- 
 tory,' 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
 
 THYRZA 
 
 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 exemplifica- 
 tion. 
 
 1 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 ?
 
 THE HEART AND ITS SECRET 399 
 
 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 ill 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 over- 
 heard conversation ? ' Have you altogether forgotten Anna- 
 bel ? ' 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 Misa 
 Newthorpe by that name. She remembered Miss Newthorpo 
 very distinctly, her refined beauty, her delightful playing; 
 strangely, too, she had associated Egremont with that lady
 
 400 THYRZA 
 
 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 ac- 
 complishments, 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 book, thoughts 
 of this kind would come and distract her. What to her were 
 the kings of old Eastern lands, the conquests of Rome, tho 
 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 uncon- 
 sciously 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
 
 THE HEART AND ITS SECRET 401 
 
 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 conver- 
 sation between her and Dr. Lambe, who was again attending 
 Thyrza. It was declared that the latter had been over-exert- 
 ing herself; work of all kind was prohibited for a season. 
 And when a week or two brought about little, if any, improve- 
 ment, 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, be- 
 cause 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 in- 
 stincts 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 fait, was con- 
 vinced 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, 
 
 D D
 
 402 THYRZA 
 
 soon after they had met. ' Do you go and have tea with her 
 on Sundays sometimes ? ' 
 
 ' No, she comes to me.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 Please, do.' 
 
 1 It was because Mary spoke against Mr. Ackroyd. I still 
 don't think that she ought to have spoken as she did, and Mary
 
 THE HEART AND ITS SECRET 408 
 
 owns she was unkind ; but I understand better now what she 
 meant.' 
 
 4 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 
 Bame kind happens, remember you tell me.' 
 
 D D 2
 
 404 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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 sud- 
 denly, 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 Eoad. 
 
 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
 
 A LOAN ON SECURITY 405 
 
 Beven. 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.' 
 
 1 But where are you going ? Why won't you come in ? ' 
 
 1 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 per- 
 sistence. ' 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 '11 
 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 
 ha've 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.
 
 406 THYRZA 
 
 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, yts, 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 con- 
 tent 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 1 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 1 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
 
 A LOAN ON SECURITY 407 
 
 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 to- 
 gether. 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 Lon- 
 don. 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. Eedfern's choir, that's all.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 Wouldn't she have liked to go with you ? * 
 
 1 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
 
 408 THYRZA 
 
 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 rest- 
 less 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' com- 
 fortable 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 even- 
 ing, 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 experi- 
 mentalising. 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 I Well, mind it don't go through to your 
 shirt, that's all. Now run away home, Jacky, there's a good 
 boy.
 
 A LOAN ON SECURITY 409 
 
 ' 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 with- 
 drew. 
 
 ' 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 prepa- 
 ration 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 oppo- 
 sition 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
 
 410 THYRZA 
 
 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 hard 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 scien- 
 tific 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. 
 
 1 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 ? ' 
 
 4 First-rate.' 
 
 ' I say, Mr. Ackroyd, why don't you never come now and 
 call for her, like you used to ? ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 Well it didn't seem so long. I say, why don't you ? I've 
 only just thought of it.' 
 
 4 There's no need to call. I see her sometimes, and that's 
 enough for friends, isn't it ? ' 
 
 4 1 believe you was going to marry Miss Nancarrow, wasn't 
 you?' 
 
 4 Hollo ! Who told you such a thing as that ? ' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 4 It seems you do.'
 
 A LOAN ON SECURITY 411 
 
 ' Well but, tell me, Mr. Ackroyd.' 
 
 4 No, I shan't. When you get a bit older still, you'll know 
 that men have no business to talk about such things. Under- 
 stand 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 tune.' 
 
 But Luke was ready to leave the room. He appointed 
 another evening when Jack should come, and the lad scam- 
 pered 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 land- 
 ing. He saw a light beneath it. He advanced and rapped 
 softly. 
 
 ' Who's that ? ' was asked from within. 
 
 1 You ain't in bed yet, Miss Nancarrow, are you ? ' Jack 
 asked, with the frankness of expression which became hia
 
 412 THYRZA 
 
 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 ! ' 
 
 1 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 waa 
 coming ! Tell me how he said it.'
 
 A LOAN ON SECURITY 413 
 
 ' 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 1 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 
 
 Eoverty. The shadow of his evil domestic experiences 
 mgthened 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, whole- 
 some, 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 companion- 
 ship 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 under- 
 standing, 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
 
 414 THYRZA 
 
 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 pre- 
 ferable 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 chil- 
 dren 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 
 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. 1 
 
 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 ? ' 
 
 1 Why, I think if you asked Miss Nancarrow to come and 
 take a room in the new house, she would.' 
 
 1 Why on earth should I ask her to do such a thing ? ' 
 inquired Bunce, laying down his pipe on the grass ; it had
 
 A LOAN ON SECURITY 415 
 
 gone out since Totty's passing. He looked at hia son with 
 bent brows, and rather fiercely. 
 
 I 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.' 
 
 Bunco 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? 1 he inquired at 
 length, with a blundering attempt at indifference of tone. 
 
 I 1 talked to her about it the other night.' 
 
 1 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 pro- 
 voked. 
 
 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 '11 quarrel, Jack.' 
 
 The boy fell into a fit of sulks, and drew to a little dis- 
 tance, where he lay flat, 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 unaccom- 
 panied. Bunce did not notice her till she stood before him, 
 then he jumped to his feet. 
 
 1 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
 
 416 THYRZA 
 
 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. 
 
 1 Where are you going, Jack ? ' cried Bunce. 
 
 1 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, look- 
 ing 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. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 Shall you still work at the same shop ? ' Totty asked, 
 paying no attention to the last remark. 
 
 ' Yes, for a bit at all events.' 
 
 1 Why don't you start a shop of your own, Mr. Bunce ? ' 
 Bho next inquired, as if a happy idea had struck her.
 
 A LOAN ON SECURITY 417 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 1 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 begun to 
 sing a hymn. The voices, harmonised by distance, sounded 
 pleasantly. 
 
 ' I like that hymn-tune, Mr.Bunce,' saidTotty, ' don'tyou ? ' 
 
 ' 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, 1 he said in a half-ashamed way. 
 ' I don't forget, and I'm not likely ever to. And I shan't for- 
 get 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 
 
 E E
 
 418 TEYRZA 
 
 you had two hundred and fifty pounds ; could you make a 
 etart, do you think ? ' 
 
 'I rather suppose I could. And where' s two hundred and 
 fifty pound to come from, Miss Nancarrow ? ' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 4 1 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 ex- 
 plain. 1 
 
 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 re- 
 markable 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 busi- 
 ness.' 
 
 ' 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.
 
 A LOAN ON SECURITY 419 
 
 1 Why did you say anything about that money ? 'he hegan, 
 able to speak without restraint at length. 'If I hadn't known 
 about that I ' 
 
 ' 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 my- 
 self a man of my age and with two children but I do be- 
 lieve 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.' 
 
 1 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 chil- 
 dren?' 
 
 4 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 
 
 ' WERE 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 neg- 
 lect, 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 
 
 E E 2
 
 420 THYBZA 
 
 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 he 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, in- 
 deed, that he will in the end come to mean much to me. But 
 I cannot write of him yet ; I am struggling with him, strug- 
 gling with myself as regards him ; in a month or so I shall 
 have more to say. It is perfectly true, then, that till quite re- 
 cently 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 frank- 
 ness, 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.
 
 THREE LETTERS 421 
 
 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 rela- 
 tions to my personality, that I may henceforth avoid the absur- 
 dities to which I have such a deplorable leaning. 
 
 'Do you know what I ought to have been? a school- 
 master. 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. 
 
 1 1 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 be stmedicine any one could have prescribed to me. It was 
 you who prescribed it, and it was your crowning act of kind- 
 ness 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 for- 
 merly 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 listen-
 
 422 THYKZA 
 
 ing 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 those 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 &fact, and only other facts will re- 
 place 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 assur- 
 ance addressed myself to the task of improving the world I 
 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 re- 
 source 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
 
 THREE LETTERS 423 
 
 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, 
 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 cau- 
 tiously I have proceeded with this American vates. At first 
 I found so much to repel me, yet from the first also I was con- 
 scious 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, ono 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 hi him I have met with one who is, first and fore- 
 most, 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 I He knows the truth of the life that is in 
 all things. From joy in a railway train " the laughing loco- 
 motive ! To push with resistless way and speed off hi 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 Hfe 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 01 
 
 night ; 
 Joys of the thought of Death, the great spheres Time and Space 1
 
 424 THYEZA 
 
 What would not I give to know the completeness of manhoo3 
 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 hahits 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. 
 
 4 1 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 im- 
 press 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 sympa- 
 thetic, 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 per- 
 suading those men to read him, and helping them to under- 
 stand 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 drug- 
 gist's shop. I image 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.
 
 THREE LETTERS 425 
 
 ' He makes one ashamed to groan at anything. Whatever 
 comes to us is in the order of things, and the sound man ac- 
 cepts it as his lot. Yes, even Death of which he says noble 
 things. The old melodious weeping of the poets Moschua 
 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 whichjis 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 Catullus 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 judg- 
 ment. 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
 
 426 THYHZA 
 
 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. 
 
 ' Bead 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 inte- 
 resting 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 prac- 
 tical 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 explain- 
 ing, 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
 
 THREE LETTERS 427 
 
 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-failing source of sympathy 
 between her and myself. 
 
 ' Do you think she expects my coming before long ? Does 
 such expectation explain her constant cheerfulness ? other- 
 wise, 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
 
 428 THYEZA 
 
 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 no- 
 thing in this world until her heart is at rest ; to sacrifice every- 
 thing 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 pro- 
 bable that, after once quitting it, I shall return to this hum- 
 drum 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.
 
 THYRZA WAITS 429 
 
 'By-the-by, suppose when I offer myself to her, she re- 
 fuses to marry me ! Is it possible ? Is it impossible ? Of 
 course, if her contentment has nothing to do with hope of see- 
 ing 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.' 
 
 CHAPTEK XXXVI 
 
 THYBZA 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. 
 
 4 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 neces- 
 sary, 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 I And, as you say, I feel certain that your sister needn't
 
 430 THYRZA 
 
 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 ' 
 
 ' 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 think- 
 ing 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 ' 
 
 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. Eedfern'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 repug- 
 nant 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.
 
 THYRZA WAITS 431 
 
 To the latter Thyrza's relation was a strange one. As her 
 niind 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 East- 
 bourne 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 re- 
 member 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 mar- 
 riage 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 
 Bcene between them on the afternoon before the concert at
 
 432 THYRZA 
 
 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 any- 
 one ; 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,
 
 THYJRZA WAITS 433 
 
 Wise, steadfast ? She had heard much praise of him in tho 
 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 occasion- 
 ally 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 immedi- 
 ately after dinner ; and, perhaps, though it remained uncer- 
 tain 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 curi- 
 osity, 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 
 
 F p
 
 434 THYRZA 
 
 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 becom- 
 ingly. 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. How- 
 ever, 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 Nan- 
 carrow. 
 
 * 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
 
 THYJRZA WAITS 435 
 
 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 ac- 
 count. 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. 
 
 1 Next Sunday, at the same time, Lyddy I ' she repeated 
 again and again. 
 
 1 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 down- 
 stairs 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 per- 
 formed as usual, but with as little consciousness as if she 
 had done all in sleep. She rose, and it was Saturday 
 morning. 
 
 F F 2
 
 436 THYRZA 
 
 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 ; to- 
 day 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 mis- 
 taken ? 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.
 
 THYRZA WAITS 437 
 
 "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, aa 
 if for an ordinary walk, and left the house.
 
 438 THYRZA 
 
 CHAPTER XXX7H 
 
 A FBIENDLY OFFICE 
 
 ON the Friday when Thyrza, in her happiness, had said 4 To- 
 morrow 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 nervous- 
 ness 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.' 
 
 1 1 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.' 
 
 ' Eather from a pestilent English railroad car ! ' 
 
 ' We say " railway " and " carriage," Walter.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I confused a cabman at Liverpool by talking about 
 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 pro- 
 nounced, and the sea-tan on his cheeks prepared one for a 
 robuster kind of speech from him than formerly.
 
 A FRIENDLY OFFICE 439 
 
 I 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 1 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.' 
 
 4 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, hi 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 Ra- 
 phael ? ' 
 
 ' Andrea del Sarto.' 
 
 ' Barbarian that I am ! I should have known Lucrezia'a 
 face. And your poor little girls ? I was grieved to hear of 
 the death of Bunco'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 I 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.'
 
 440 THYEZA 
 
 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 ? ' 
 
 4 Quite recently. She is well and very cheerful.' 
 
 ' Always so cheerful ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 4 And you will tell me now where she is ? ' 
 
 She looked him steadily in the face. 
 
 4 You wish to know, Walter ? ' 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 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 ' 
 
 4 Man of business ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Ormonde tried to jest, but did it nervously. 
 
 4 Do I seem to you coarser-grained than I used to be ? ' 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 1 Much better, if I am not mistaken.' 
 
 4 But still can have la tete monte, on occasion ? Still 
 think of many things in the idealist's fashion ? ' 
 
 ' I sincerely hope so. Of everything, I trust.' 
 
 4 Could make great sacrifices for an imaginary obligation ? ' 
 
 He left his seat again. Mrs. Ormonde was agitated, and 
 both kept silence for some moments. 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 4 I cannot speak so clearly as I should like to, Walter. I, 
 too, have my troublesome thoughts.' 
 
 4 Let us go back to my questioning. Tell me everything 
 about her, from the day when you decided what to do. Will 
 you?' 
 
 4 Freely, and hide nothing whatever that I know.' 
 
 For a long time her narrative, broken by questioning, con- 
 tinued. Egremont listened with earnest countenance, often 
 looking pleased, At the end, he said : 
 
 4 You have done a good work, I thank you with all my heart. 1
 
 A FRIENDLY OFFICE 441 
 
 1 Yes, you owe me thanks,' Mrs. Ormonde returned, quietly. 
 1 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 
 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 direc- 
 tion. 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. 
 
 ' Put % contradiction is involved ! ' he exclaimed presently.
 
 442 THYRZA 
 
 ' How can a girl of her character have forgotten so quickly 
 such profound emotion ? ' 
 
 ' You must not forget that weeks passed between my find- 
 ing 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 consola- 
 tions. And she has art to aid her, a resource you and I can- 
 not judge of with assurance.' 
 
 Walter looked up and said : 
 
 4 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
 
 A FKIENDLY OFFICE 443 
 
 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.' 
 
 4 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 ? ' 
 
 1 You do not know it, Walter. I doubt whether you would 
 ever know it. Eecall 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 
 Bmiled 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. Best till to-morrow ; then let us 
 speak again. Shall it be so ? ' 
 
 Egremont left The Chestnuts and walked along the shore
 
 444 THYRZA 
 
 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 inter- 
 vened 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 ?
 
 A FKIENDLY OFFICE 445 
 
 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 
 
 MBS. 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 happi- 
 ness 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
 
 446 THYRZA 
 
 knew, moreover, that Egremont had never in reality compro- 
 mised 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 marrirge 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.
 
 THE TRUTH 447 
 
 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 sur- 
 prised 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 
 /eason 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 sus- 
 picion to him at all. 
 
 ' I expected to see him,' Thyrza replied. ' I knew he was
 
 448 THYRZA 
 
 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 need- 
 ful to explain her knowledge. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 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 ? 
 
 4 Not in London? Then where? You saw him on 
 Saturday ? ' 
 
 4 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
 
 THE TRUTH 449 
 
 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 over- 
 come 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.' 
 
 1 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, wonder- 
 ingly. ' 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 Satur- 
 day 1 You said I thought no more of him, and that it was 
 better he shouldn't see me 1 Oh, what right had you to say 
 
 GO
 
 450 THYRZA 
 
 that ? Where is he now ? You say you are 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, some- 
 thing 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, 1 
 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, with- 
 out 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 ? ' 
 
 1 Your love ? ' Thyrza repeated, more coldly than she had 
 spoken yet. ' And you persuaded him not to come to me.'
 
 THE TRUTH 451 
 
 It ia true, I did. 1 
 
 Mrs. Ormonde had never spoken to any one with a feel- 
 ing 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 ? ' 
 
 4 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 ? ' 
 
 1 1 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.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 o o 2
 
 452 
 
 ' You say you can't prevent me from seeing him. 
 me where he is the place. You won't tell me ? ' 
 
 4 And if I did, how would it help you ? ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 4 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 heard if she called for help. But the faint- 
 ing 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 
 checked 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 some- 
 thing ? ' 
 
 4 1 am well, quite well again, thank you.' 
 
 Mrs. Ormonde went and speedily returned. Thyrza waa 
 sitting with her eyes closed. They spoke only broken words. 
 Dut at length Mrs. Ormonde said :
 
 THE TRUTH 453 
 
 4 You must come into the house now, Thyrza. You shall 
 be quite alone ; you must lie down.' 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 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 aloue 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. 
 
 4 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. 
 
 4 You said you had more to tell me, Mrs. Ormonde,' she 
 began, when the latter sat silently by her. 
 
 4 To speak with you and to try to help you, my child, that 
 was all.' 
 
 4 But you told me very little yesterday. I am not sure
 
 454 THYRZA 
 
 that I understood. You need not be afraid to tell me any- 
 thing. 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. 
 
 4 1 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 Eng- 
 land?' 
 
 ' 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
 
 TRUTII 455 
 
 a satisfaction to her that she had avoided naming Egremont's 
 address, yet a satisfaction that caused her some shame. In- 
 deed, 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 extin- 
 guishable ardour. As a woman she felt herself rebuked by 
 the ideal of womanly fidelity ; she was made to feel the in- 
 feriority 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 to- 
 morrow morning, Thyrza. If my presence pains you, I will 
 keep away. But stay till to-morrow.' 
 
 ' If you wish it, Mrs. Ormonde.' 
 
 1 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 con- 
 tinued : 
 
 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.'
 
 456 THYBZA 
 
 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 with- 
 out 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 BE TURN 
 
 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 apd very
 
 HER RETURN 457 
 
 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, 4 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 ot 
 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.' 
 
 4 So I am, dear, as I told you a long tune 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 some- 
 thing I couldn't let you have, quite well."
 
 458 THYRZA 
 
 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 fra- 
 grance 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 Egre- 
 mont 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
 
 HER RETURN 459 
 
 toll 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 hi 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
 
 460 THYRZA 
 
 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 Eoad 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.
 
 fiER RETURN 461 
 
 * Are you Sure you did right to come, dearest ? ' Lydia said 
 in a low voice. 
 
 ' Yes, Lyddy, quite sure, 1 was the grave answer. 
 ' You look worse to-night you IOOK ill, Thyrza.' 
 
 I 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 some- 
 thing 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 1 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.'
 
 462 THYRZA 
 
 ' No one that we need to care about, Thyrza.' 
 
 ' Gilbert bas no sucb thougbts 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 bun, 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 como 
 down with you ? ' 
 
 ' No, Lyddy. 1 
 
 ' 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
 
 HER RETURN 463 
 
 open. She entered, and closed it. Gilbert came forward. 
 His face was not at all what she had feared ; he smiled plea- 
 santly, 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, 1 she said with 
 hurried breath. 
 
 ' I am very, very glad to see you. 1 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 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. 1 
 
 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
 
 4J4 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 Will you let me fulfil the promise I made to you ? Can 
 you forget what I have done ? Will you let me be your com- 
 panion 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 pro- 
 mise 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 ! ' . . .
 
 HER RETURN 465 
 
 It did not seem to Lydia that she had waited long when 
 ahe 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. 
 
 4 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?' 
 
 4 I shall never be sorry, and everything wilL be better, 
 Lyddy.' 
 
 They kissed each other. 
 
 1 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!' 
 
 4 Be at the door again at the same time.' 
 
 H B
 
 466 THYKZA 
 
 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 house- 
 tops 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 lie 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 for- 
 gotten 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
 
 IJER REWARD 467 
 
 remain in England ? Were there no countries where the sun 
 Bhone 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 slight- 
 ing 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. Eeckless 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 fiva 
 years. But do come with us. It really is nice to watch them 
 skating.' 
 
 Hi
 
 468 THYRZA 
 
 'Yes, I will come, gladly,' Thyrza said. 
 
 And so they went to the ice in Eegent'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. 
 
 1 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.
 
 HER REWARD 469 
 
 1 Poor ducks I I never saw anything so ridiculous. There, 
 look I 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 Sun- 
 day night. 
 
 On setting forth, she had a letter to post. It was to Mrs. 
 Ormonde. Purposely she had delayed writing this till Satur- 
 day 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.
 
 470 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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 pro- 
 cesses 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 sub- 
 ject 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 be- 
 come 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.
 
 HER REWARD 471 
 
 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 ! ' 
 
 1 No, never as long as we live 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 for- 
 gotten 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 extrava- 
 gant in providing. 
 
 ' I see how you indulge yourself, now that I'm away I Oh 
 yes, of course you pretend it's only for me.'
 
 472 THYRZA 
 
 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 re- 
 turned. 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, un- 
 decidedly. 
 
 ' 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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.'
 
 HER REWARD 473 
 
 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 pas- 
 sionate; but its tenderness none knew as Thyrza did, ita 
 tenderness and its steadfast faith. 
 
 ' Thyrza, any one would think you are more glad of it than 
 I am.' 
 
 1 There are no words to tell my gladness, dearest ! Good 
 Lyddy ! At last, at last I ' 
 
 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 sup- 
 pressing pain. In a few minutes she said : 
 
 1 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 1 ' 
 
 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 maiden- 
 hood. 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.
 
 474 THYRZA 
 
 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 thanks- 
 giving, 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 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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 stir- 
 ring, 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 un- 
 certainty, 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 
 Baid, giving him her hand. 
 
 ' She could not come herself, Mrs. Ormonde.' 
 
 1 Thyrza is ill ? ' 
 
 He hesitated. His face had told her the truth before he 
 uttered : 
 1 She is dead 1 ' 
 
 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
 
 HER REWARD 475 
 
 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 imagina- 
 tiveness 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.' 
 
 1 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
 
 476 THYRZA 
 
 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 sun- 
 shine was already a thing of the far past ; in the streets was 
 the slush of thaw, and darkness fell early from the obscured 
 sky. 
 
 CHAPTEE 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.'
 
 THE LIVING 477 
 
 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 re- 
 mained 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. 
 
 4 I am the sort of man,' he once said, ' of whom Tourgue*- 
 neff 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.' 
 
 4 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 beau- 
 tiful, and these two were tempted to remain and watch the 
 sea. 
 
 4 You mean Mr. Egremont,' Annabel said. 
 
 4 Yes. I wonder very much what he will be at my age. 
 He won't be anything particular, of course.' 
 
 4 No, I don't suppose he will do anything remarkable,' 
 the girl assented impartially. 
 
 4 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 disci- 
 pline. I should have thought two years of it enough ; three 
 certainly ought to be. A fourth, and he will never do any- 
 thing else.' 
 
 4 What else should he do ? ' 
 
 Mr. Newthorpe laughed a little.
 
 478 THYRZA 
 
 1 There's only one thing for such a fellow to do nowadays. 
 Let him write something.' 
 
 ' Write ? ' Annabel mused. ' Yes, I suppose there ia 
 nothing else. Yet he happens to have sufficient means.' 
 
 ' Do you mean it for an epigram ? Well , it wih 1 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 ? ' 
 
 4 1 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 pre- 
 serve 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/ 
 
 1 Oh ? Then I have been on a wrong tack.' 
 
 ' Shall we walk homewards ? '
 
 THE LIVING 479 
 
 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 Vaux- 
 hall. 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 I 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 ia 
 enormously popular, my husband. And everybody says he ia 
 doing an enormous lot of good. You know, Bell, it was a 
 mere chance that he isn't in the Ministry 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 I hope you read Mr. Dal- 
 maine's speeches, Bell ? ' 
 
 ' Frequently.'
 
 480 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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, hut 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 con- 
 versing. 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 1 ' 
 
 ' Of whom do you speak ? ' 
 
 ' Why, of Dalmaine, of course.' 
 
 ' My dear father ! A philanthropist 1 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 mise- 
 rable. 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, talk- 
 ing occasionally. Dalmaine smoked a cigar: his eyes be- 
 trayed the pleasures of digestion and thought on high matters 
 of State. 
 
 He said all at once : 
 
 4 By-the-by, Lady Wigger is at the Queen's Hotel, I see. 
 You will call to-morrow.'
 
 THE LIVING 481 
 
 Lady Wigger? But really I don't think I can, dear, 1 
 Paula replied, timidly. 
 
 4 Why not ? ' 
 
 ' Why, you know she wag so shockingly rude to me at the 
 Huntleys' ball. You said it was abominable, yourself.' 
 
 4 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 ? ' 
 
 4 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 ia 
 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 beauti- 
 ful ; she asked the Newthorpes to accompany her on the drive. 
 Mr. Newthprpe 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 imme- 
 diately 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 land* 
 scape as can be found in England, one of those scenes which 
 are typical of the Southern counties. 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 han4 
 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 ; 
 
 XI
 
 482 THYRZA 
 
 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 ac- 
 quaintance 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 Eottingdean. 
 
 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 Eottingdean he lingered for awhile. A soft mist hung
 
 THE LIVING 483 
 
 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 every- 
 where. From the fields came a tinkle of sheep-bells. 
 
 The pedestrian sighed when he rose to continue his pro- 
 gress. It was noticeable that, as he went on, he lost some- 
 thing 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 Cuck- 
 mere Haven, and the water could only be crossed at some 
 distance from the sea. The country through which the Cuck- 
 mere 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 
 
 1 1 2
 
 484 THYRZA 
 
 sunshine. Eooks 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 pre- 
 sumed 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 ? ' 
 
 1 1 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 experi- 
 ence. 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 out- 
 break of emotion : he too could be forcible if occasion of suffi-
 
 THE LIVING 485 
 
 cient 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 de- 
 manded. 
 
 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. 
 
 4 1 always regard you as reasonably emancipated, Anna- 
 bel,' 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. 
 
 4 A welcome one, too, I should think,' Mrs. Ormonde re- 
 plied. 'But you always calculated distances by 4 ' walks," I 
 remember, when others measure by the carriage or the rail- 
 way. 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 ? ' 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 4 We will wait at the door, Mrs. Ormonde,' put in Annabel. 
 4 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. 
 
 4 Ah, how do you do, Egremont ? ' he said, after a scarcely 
 appreciable hesitation, giving his hand with perfect self-posses- 
 sion. 4 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 dis- 
 tinctly in mind.
 
 486 THYRZA 
 
 * I went to see Grail as soon as I got to London,' Egremont 
 Baid at length. 
 
 ' I am glad of that. But how did you know where to find 
 him?' 
 
 4 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 ia 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 inspira- 
 tion in a London garret than amid the banality of the pluto- 
 crat'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
 
 THE L1VINU 487 
 
 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 not down- 
 cast ; 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 un- 
 utterably 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 some- 
 thing 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, bufc 
 Bpoke of other things. 
 
 ' I have no wish to go back to America,' Egremont was 
 Baying, ' but, if I do, I shall very likely settle there for good.
 
 488 THYRZA 
 
 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 obser- 
 vations. 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 opportuni- 
 ties, that I might found some institution of quite common- 
 place aims, be assured. For instance, I should like to see 
 other Homes like Mrs. Ormonde's ; many women could con- 
 duct 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 
 gay 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 distinguish- 
 able. The sky that rested on the eastern semicircle of horizon
 
 THE LIVING 489 
 
 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 lasb 
 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 north- 
 west 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. 
 
 K K
 
 490 THVRZA 
 
 Annabel continued speaking : 
 
 ' We have both missed something, something that will 
 never again be 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 
 eee. Dare you still ask for me ? ' 
 
 1 1 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. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 BPOTTIBWOODB AJCD CO., KEW-STRKST BCMUBQ 
 LONDON
 
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