T.S. Arthur - "New Temperance Tales. No. 1: The Son of My Friend"

Anatole France - "Sur la pierre blanche"

F. Scott Fitzgerald - "This Side of Paradise"

John Greenleaf Whittier - "The Inner Life, Part 3, From Vol. VII,"

Thyrza

G >> George Gissing >> Thyrza




Thyrza held out her hand for them. She knew them all, including the
latest addition, which was a photograph of Walter Egremont. Egremont
had given it to Grail about three weeks ago; it was two years old.
She turned them out upon her lap.

'I think I'd better take them down now, hadn't I?' said Lydia.

'I wouldn't trouble till morning,' Thyrza answered, in a tired
voice.

Two lay exposed before her: that of Gilbert, taken six years ago.
and that of Egremont. Lydia, looking over her shoulder, remarked:

'What a boy Mr. Egremont looks, compared with Gilbert!'

Thyrza said nothing.

'Come, dear, put them in the envelope, and let me take them down.'

'Oh, never mind till morning, Lyddy!'

The voice was rather impatient.

'But I'm afraid Mrs. Grail 'll remember, and have the trouble of
coming up.'

'She won't think it worth while. And I want to look at them.'

'Oh, very well, dear.'

The two unlike faces continued to lie uppermost.





CHAPTER XIX

A SONG WITHOUT WORDS




Whilst the repairs were going on in the house behind the school, the
old caretaker still lived there. Egremont found that she had in
truth nowhere else to go, and as it was desirable that someone
should remain upon the premises, he engaged her to do so until the
Grails entered into possession.

As soon as painters, plasterers, and paperhangers were out of the
way, Grail and Thyrza went to the house to decide what furniture it
would be necessary to buy. The outlay was to be as little as
possible, for indeed there was but little money to spend. Mrs.
Butterfield--that was the old woman's name--admitted them, but
without speaking; when Gilbert made some kindly-meant remark about
its being disagreeable for her to live in such a strong odour of
paint, she muttered inarticulately and withdrew into the kitchen.
Thyrza presently peeped into that room. The old woman was sitting on
a low stool by the fire, her knees up to her chin, her grizzled hair
unkempt; she looked so remarkably like a witch, and, on Thyrza's
appearance, turned with a gaze of such extreme malignity, that the
girl drew back in fear.

'I suppose she takes it ill that the old state of things has been
disturbed,' Gilbert said. 'Mr. Egremont tells me he has found that
she is to have a small weekly allowance from the chapel people, so I
don't suppose she'll fall into want, and we know be wouldn't send
her off to starve; that isn't his way.'

The removal of such things as were to be brought from Walnut Tree
Walk, and the housing of the new furniture, would take only a couple
of days. This was to be done immediately before the wedding; then
Lydia and Mrs. Grail would live in the house whilst the husband and
wife were away.

Egremont found that the large school-room would be ready sooner than
he had anticipated. When it was cleaned out, there was nothing to do
save to fix shelves, a small counter, and two long tables. For some
time he had been making extensive purchases of books, for the most
part from a secondhand dealer, who warehoused his volumes for him
till the library should be prepared to receive them. He had drawn
up, too, a skeleton catalogue, but this could not be proceeded with
before the books were in some sort of order upon the shelves. He was
nervously impatient to reach this stage. Since his last visit to
Eastbourne he had seen no friends in civilised London, and now that
he had no longer lectures to write, his state of mind grew ever more
unsatisfactory. Loneliness, though to so great an extent
self-imposed, weighed upon him intolerably. He believed that he was
going through the dreariest time of his life.

How often he thought with envy of the little parlour in Walnut Tree
Walk! To toil oneself weary through a long day in a candle factory,
and then come back to the evening meal, with the certainty that a
sweet young face would be there to meet one with its smile, sweet
lips to give affectionate welcome--that would be better than this
life which he led. He wished to go there again, but feared to do so
without invitation. The memory of his evening there made
drawing-rooms distasteful to him.

He had a letter from Mrs. Ormonde, in which a brief mention was made
of Thyrza's visit. He replied:

'Why do you not tell me more of the impression made upon you by Miss
Trent? It was a favourable one, of course, as you kept her with you
over the Sunday. You do not mention whether Annabel saw her. She is
very fond of music; it would have been a kindness to ask Annabel to
play to her. But I have Miss Newthorpe's promise that she and her
father will come and see the library as soon as it is open; then at
all events they will make the acquaintance of Mrs. Grail.

'She interests me very much, as you gather from my way of writing
about her. I hope she will come to think of me as a friend. It will
be delightful to watch her mind grow. I am sure she has faculties of
a very delicate kind; I believe she will soon be able to appreciate
literature. Has she not a strange personal charm, and is it not
impossible to think of her becoming anything but a beautiful-natured
woman? You too, now that you know her, will continue to be her
friend--I earnestly hope so. If she could be for a little time with
you now and then, how it would help to develop the possibilities
that are in her!'

To the letter of which this was part, Mrs. Ormonde quickly
responded:

'With regard to Miss Trent,' she said, 'I beg you not to indulge
your idealistic habits of thought immoderately. I found her a pretty
and interesting girl, and it is not unlikely that she may make a
good wife for such a man as Mr. Grail--himself, clearly, quite
enough of an idealist to dispense with the more solid housewifely
virtues in his life-mate. But I add this, Walter: It certainly would
not be advisable to fill her head too suddenly with a kind of
thought to which she has hitherto been a stranger. If I had
influence with Mr. Grail, I should hint to him that he is going to
marry a very young wife, and that, under the circumstances, the
balance of character to be found in sober domestic occupation will,
for some time, be what she most needs to aim at. You see, I am _not_
an idealist, and I think commonplace domestic happiness of more
account than aspirations which might not improbably endanger it.
Forgive me for these remarks, which you will say have a slight odour
of the kitchen, or, at best, of the store-room. Never mind; both are
places without which the study could not exist.'

Egremont bit his lips over this; for the first time he was
dissatisfied with Mrs. Ormonde. He wondered on what terms she had
received Thyrza. He had imagined the girl as treated with every
indulgence at The Chestnuts, but the tone of this letter made him
fear lest Mrs. Ormonde had deemed it a duty to refrain from too much
kindness. It was very unlike her; what had she observed that made
her so disagreeably prudent all at once?

It added to his mental malaise. What change was befalling his life?
Was he about to find himself actually sundered from the friends he
had made in the sphere which his birth gave him no claim to enter?
It all meant that he was reverting to the condition wherein he was
born. His attempt to become a member of Society (with a capital) was
proving itself a failure. Very well, he would find his friends in
the working world. When he needed society of an evening, he would
find it with Gilbert Grail and his wife. He would pursue his work
more earnestly than ever; he would get his club founded, as soon as
the library was ready for a rallying-place; he would seek diligently
for the working men of hopeful character, and by force of sincerity
win their confidence. Let the wealthy and refined people go their
way.

And at this point he veritably experienced a great relief. For two
days he went about almost joyously. His task was renewed before him,
and his energy at the same time had taken new life. Doubt, he said
to himself, was once more vanquished--perchance finally.

Then came another letter from Mrs. Ormonde, asking him to come and
drink the air of these delicious spring days by the shore. He
replied that it was impossible to leave London. That very day he had
despatched seven packing-cases full of volumes to the library, and
he was going to begin the work of setting the books on the shelves.

That was a Monday; a week remained before Thyrza's marriage-day.
Thyrza had not been to the new house since she went with Gilbert to
see about the furniture. Her curiosity was satisfied; her interest
in the place had strangely lessened. More than that: in walking by
herself she never chose that direction, whereas formerly she had
always liked to do so. It seemed as if she had some reason for
avoiding sight of the building.

This Monday her mind changed again. She frequently went to meet her
sister at the dinner-hour, and to-day, having set forth somewhat too
early, she went round by way of Brook Street. No positive desire
impelled her; it was rather as if her feet took that turning
independently of her thoughts. On drawing near to the library she
was surprised to see a van standing before the door; two men were
carrying a wooden box into the building. She crossed to the opposite
side of the way, and went forwards slowly. The men came out, mounted
to the box-seat of the van, and drove away.

That must be a delivery of books. Who was there to receive them?

She crossed the street again, and approached the library door. She
walked past it, stopped, came back. She tried the handle, and the
door opened. There was no harm in looking in.

Amid a number of packing-oases stood Egremont. His head was
uncovered, and he had a screw-driver in his hand, as if about to
open the chests. At sight of Thyrza he came forward with a look of
delight and shook hands with her.

'So you have discovered what I'm about. I didn't wish anyone to
know. You see, the shelves are all ready, and I couldn't resist the
temptation of having books brought. Will you keep the secret?'

'I won't say a word, sir.'

Warmth on Thyrza's cheeks answered the pleasure in his eyes as he
looked at her. Perhaps neither had fully felt how glad it would make
them to meet again. When Thyrza had given her assurance, Egremont's
face showed that he was going to say something in a different tone.

'Miss Trent, will you speak to me in future as you do to your
friends? I want very much to be one of your friends, if you will let
me.'

Thyrza kept her eyes upon the ground. She could not find the fitting
words for reply. He continued:

'Grail is my friend, and we always talk as friends should. Won't you
cease to think of me as a stranger?'

'I don't think of you in that way, Mr. Egremont.'

'Then let us shake hands again in the new way.'

Thyrza gave hers. She just met his eyes for a moment her own had a
smile of intense happiness.

'Yes, keep this a secret,' Egremont went on, quickly resuming his
ordinary voice. 'I'll surprise Grail in a few days, by bringing him
in. Now, how am I to get this lid off? How tremendously firm it is!
I suppose I ought to have got the men to do it, but I brought a
screw-driver in my pocket, thinking it would be easy enough. Ah,
there's a beginning! I ought to have a hammer.'

'Shall I go and ask Mrs. Butterfield if she has one?'

'Oh no, I'll go myself.'

'I'll run--it won't take me a minute!'

She went out by the door that led into the house. In the dark
passage she was startled by coming in contact with someone.

'Oh, who is that?'

A muttered reply informed her that it was the old woman. They went
forward into the nearest room. There was a disagreeable smile on
Mrs. Butterfield's thin lips.

'If you please, have you got a hammer?' Thyrza asked. 'Mr. Egremont
wants one.'

The old woman went apart, and returned with a hammer which was used
for breaking coals.

'Oh, could you just wipe it?' Thyrza said. 'The handle's so very
black.'

It was done, ungraciously enough, and Thyrza hastened back. Egremont
was standing as she had left him.

'Ah, now I can manage! Thank you.'

With absorbed interest Thyrza watched the process.

'I saw them bringing the last box in,' she said; 'that's why I came
to look.'

'That was a risk I foresaw--that someone would notice the cart. But
perhaps you are the only one.'

'I hope so--as you don't want any one to know.'

She paused, then added:

'I was going to meet Lyddy--my sister. I don't go to work myself
now, Mr. Egremont. Perhaps Gilbert has told you?'

'No, he hasn't mentioned it. But I am glad to hear it.'

'I don't much like my sister going alone, but she doesn't really
mind.'

'I hope I shall soon know your sister.'

He had suspended the work, and stood with one foot upon the case.
Thyrza reflected, then said:

'I hope you will like her, Mr. Egremont.'

'I am sure I shall. I know that you are very fond of your sister.'

'Yes.' Her voice faltered a little. 'I couldn't have gone to live
away from her.'

Egremont bent to his task again, and speedily raised the lid. There
was a covering of newspapers, and then the books were revealed.

'Now,' he said, 'it shall be your hand that puts the first on the
shelf.'

He took out the first volume of a copy of Gibbon, and walked with it
to the wall.

'This shall be its place, and there it shall always stay.'

'Will you tell me what the book is about, Mr. Egremont?' Thyrza
asked, timidly taking it from him. 'I should like to remember it.'

He told her, as well as he could. Thyrza stood in thought for a
moment, then just opened the pages. Egremont watched her.

'I wonder whether I shall ever be able to read that?' she said, in
an under-voice.

'Oh yes, I'm sure you will.'

'And I've to stand it here?'

'Just there. You shall put all the volumes in their place, one after
the other. There are eight of them.'

He brought them altogether, and one by one she took them from him.
Then they went back to the case again, and there was a short
silence.

'Gilbert's going to take me to a concert to-night, Mr. Egremont,'
Thyrza said, looking at him shyly.

'Is he? You'll enjoy that. What concert?'

'It's at a place called St. James's Hall.'

'Oh yes! You'll hear admirable music.'

'I've never been to a concert before. But when I was at Eastbourne I
heard a lady play the piano. I _did_ enjoy that!'

Egremont started.

'Was it Miss Newthorpe?' he asked, looking at her without a smile.

'Yes, that was her name.'

She met his look. Walter half turned away, then bent down to the
books again.

'I know her,' he said. 'She plays well.'

He took a couple of volumes, and went with them to the shelves,
where he placed them, without thought, next to the Gibbon. But in a
moment he noticed the title, and moved them to another place. He had
become absent. Thyrza, remaining by the case, followed his movements
with her eyes. As he came back, he asked:

'Did you like Mrs. Ormonde?'

'Yes. She was very kind to me.'

To him it seemed an inadequate reply, and strengthened his fear that
Mrs. Ormonde had not shown all the warmth he would have desired.
Yet, as it proved, she had asked Annabel to play for Thyrza. Thyrza,
too, felt that she ought to say more, but all at once she found a
difficulty in speaking. Her thoughts had strayed.

'I think I must go now,' she said, 'or I shall miss my sister.'

'In that case, I won't delay you. I shall open one or two more of
these boxes, then go somewhere for lunch. Good-bye!'

Thyrza said good-bye rather hurriedly, and without raising her face.

It happened that just then Mr. Bower was coming along Brook Street.
He did not usually leave the works at mid-day, but to-day an
exceptional occasion took him to Paradise Street in the dinner-hour.
Thyrza came forth from the library just as he neared the corner; she
did not see him, but Bower at once observed her. There was nothing
singular in her having been there; possibly the furnishing of the
house had begun. In passing the windows of the future library, Bower
looked up at them with curiosity. Egremont stood there, gazing into
the street. He recognised Bower, nodded, and drew back.

Bower did not care to overtake Thyrza. He avoided her by crossing
the street. She in the meantime was not going straight to meet her
sister; after walking slowly for a little distance, she turned in a
direction the opposite of that she ought to have taken. Then she
stopped to look into a shop-window.

A clock showed her that by this time Lydia would be at home. Yet
still she walked away from her own street. She said to herself that
five-and-twenty minutes must pass before Gilbert would leave the
house to return to his work. The way in which she now was would
bring her by a long compass into Kennington Road. Rain threatened,
and she had no umbrella; none the less, she went on.

At home they awaited her in surprise at her unpunctuality. Mrs.
Grail could not say when she had left the house. All the morning
Thyrza had sat upstairs by herself. Just when Gilbert was on the
point of departure, the missing one appeared.

'Where _have_ you been, child?' cried Lydia. 'Why, it's begun to
rain; you're all wet!'

'I went further than I meant to,' Thyrza replied, throwing off her
hat, and at once taking a seat at the table. 'I hope you didn't wait
for me. I forgot the time.'

'That was with thinking of the concert to-night,' said Gilbert,
laughing.

'I shouldn't wonder,' assented Lydia.

Thyrza smiled, but offered no further excuse. Gilbert and Lydia left
the room and the house together. Their directions were opposite, but
Gilbert went a few steps Lydia's way.

'I want you to alter your mind and go with us to-night,' he said.

'No, really! It isn't worth the expense, Gilbert. I don't care so
much for music.'

'The expense is only a shilling. And Thyrza won't be quite happy
without you. I want her to enjoy herself without _any_ reserve.
You'll come?'

'Well. But--'

'All right. Be ready both of you by half-past six.'

They nodded a good-bye to each other.

Thyrza was making believe to eat her dinner. Mrs. Grail saw what a
pretence it was.

'Was there ever such an excitable child!' she said, affectionately.
'Now do eat something more, dear! I shall tell Gilbert he must never
let you know beforehand when he's going to take you anywhere.'

But Thyrza had no appetite. She helped the old lady to clear the
table, then ran upstairs.

It was an unspeakable relief to be alone. She had never known such a
painful feeling of guilt as whilst she sat with Gilbert and Lydia
regarding her. Yet why? Her secret, she tried to assure herself, was
quite innocent, trivial indeed. But why had she been unable to come
straight home? What had held her away, as forcibly as if a hand had
lain upon her?

She moved aimlessly about the room. It was true that these last two
days she had agitated herself with anticipation of the concert, but
it was something quite different which now put confusion into her
thought, and every now and then actually caught her breath. She did
not feel well. She wished Liddy could have remained at home with her
this afternoon, for she had a need of companionship, of a sort of
help. There was Mrs. Grail; but no, she had rather not be with Mrs.
Grail just now.

On the table were a few articles of clothing which Lydia and she had
made during the last fortnight, things she was going to take away
with her. This morning she had given them a few finishing touches of
needlework, now they could be put away. She went to the chest of
drawers. Of the two small drawers at the top, one was hers, one was
Lydia's; the two long ones below were divided in the same way. She
drew one out and turned over the linen. How some young lady about to
be married--Miss Paula Tyrrell, suppose--would have viewed with
pitying astonishment the outfit with which Thyrza was more than
content. But Thyrza had never viewed marriage as an opportunity of
enriching her wardrobe.

Having put her things away, she opened another drawer, and looked
over some of Lydia's belongings. She stroked them lightly, and
returned each carefully to its place, saying to herself, 'Lyddy
wants such and such a thing. She'll have more money to spend on
herself soon. And she shall have a really nice present on her next
birthday. Gilbert 'll give me money to buy it.'

Then she went to the mantel-piece, and played idly with a little
ornament that stood there. The trouble had been lighter for a few
minutes, now it weighed again. Her heart beat irregularly. She
leaned her elbows on the mantel-piece, and covered her face with her
hands. There was a strange heat in her blood, her breath was hot.

Was it raining still? No, the pavement had dried, and there was no
very dark cloud in the sky. She could not sit here all through the
afternoon. A short walk would perhaps remove the headache which had
begun to trouble her.

She descended the stairs very lightly, and hastened almost on
tip-toe along the passage; the front door she closed as softly as
possible behind her, and went in the direction away from Mrs.
Grail's parlour window. To be sure she was free to leave the house
as often as she pleased, but for some vague reason she wished just
now not to be observed. Perhaps Gilbert would think that she went
about too much; but she could not, she could not, sit in the room.

Without express purpose, she again walked towards Brook Street. No,
she was not going to the library again; Mr. Egremont might still be
there, and it would seem so strange of her. But she went to a point
whence she could see the building, and for some minutes stood
looking at it. Was he still within--Mr. Egremont? Those books would
take him a long time to put on the shelves. As she looked someone
came out from the door; Mr. Egremont himself. She turned and almost
ran in her desire to escape his notice.

He was going home. Even whilst hurrying, she tried to imagine how he
was going to spend his evening. From Gilbert's description she had
made a picture of his room in Great Russell Street. Did he sit there
all the evening among his books, reading, writing? Not always, of
course. He was a gentleman, he had friends to go and see, people who
lived in large houses, very grand people. He talked with ladies,
with such as Miss Newthorpe. (Thyrza did not trouble to notice where
she was. Her feet hurried her on, her head throbbed. She was
thinking, thinking.)

Such as Miss Newthorpe. Yes, he knew that lady; knew her very well,
as was evident from the way in which he spoke of her. Of what did
they talk, when they met? No doubt she had often played to him, and
when she played he would look at her, and she was very beautiful.

She would not think of Miss Newthorpe. Somehow she did not feel to
her in the same way as hitherto.

When she was married, she would of course see him very often--Mr.
Egremont. He would be at the library constantly, no doubt. Perhaps
he would come sometimes and sit in their room. And when he began his
lectures in the room upstairs, would it not be possible for her to
hear him? She would so like to, just once. She could at all events
creep softly up and listen at the door. How beautiful his lectures
must be! Gilbert could never speak strongly enough in praise of
them. They would be a little hard to understand, perhaps; but then
she was going to read books more than ever, and get knowledge.

She was in the part of Lambeth Walk farthest from her own street,
having come there by chance, for she had observed nothing on the
way. She did not wish to go home yet. One end of Paradise Street
joins the Walk, and into that she turned. If only there were a
chance of Totty Nancarrow's being at home! But Totty was very
regular at work. Still, an inquiry at the door would be no harm.

Little Jack Bunce was standing in the open doorway; he had a rueful
countenance, marked with recent tears.

'Do you know whether Miss Nancarrow's in?' Thyrza asked of the
little fellow.

He regarded her, and nodded silently.

'Really? She's really in?'

'Yes, she's up in her room,' was the grave answer.

Thyrza ran upstairs. A tap at the door, and Totty's voice--
unmistakable--gave admission. The girl sat sewing; on the bed lay a
child, asleep.

Totty, looking delighted at Thyrza's coming, held up her finger to
impose quietness. Thyrza took the only other chair there was, and
drew it near to her friend.

'That's Nelly Bunce,' Totty said in a low voice, nodding to the bed.
'Just when I was going back to work, what did the child do but
tumble head over heels half down stairs, running after me. It's a
wonder she don't kill herself. I don't think there's no more harm
done except a big bump on the back of the head, but Mrs. Ladds
wasn't in, and I didn't like to go and leave the little thing; she
cried herself to sleep. So there's half a day lost!

Thyrza kept silence. She had felt that she would like to talk with
Totty, yet now she could find nothing to say.

'How's things going on?' Totty asked, smiling.

'Very well, I think.'

'So the day's coming, Thyrza.'

Thyrza played with the ends of a small boa which was about her neck.
She had no reply. Her tongue refused to utter a sound.

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