Lafcadio Hearn - "Two Years in the French West Indies"

Archer B. Hulbert - "The Paths of Inland Commerce, A Chronicle of Trail, Road,"

Henry David Thoreau - "Wild Apples"

George W. Gough - "The Yeoman Adventurer"

Thyrza

G >> George Gissing >> Thyrza




'But is there no one who would undertake such work without hope of
recompense in money? We are not all mere tradespeople.'

'I have an idea for a beginning of such work, Miss Newthorpe,' said
Egremont, in a voice rather lower than hitherto. 'I came here
because I wanted to talk it over.'

Annabel met his look for a moment, expressing all the friendly
interest which she felt. Mr. Newthorpe, who had been pacing on the
grass, came to a seat. He placed himself next to Paula. She glanced
at him, and he said kindly:

'You are quite sure you don't feel cold?'

'I dare say I'd better go in,' she replied, checking a little sigh
as she closed her magazine.

'No, no, don't go, Paula!' urged her cousin, rising. 'You shall have
a shawl, dear; I'll get it.'

'It is very warm,' put in Egremont. 'There surely can't be any
danger in sitting till it grows dark.'

This little fuss about her soothed Paula for a while.

'Oh, I don't want to go,' she said. 'I feel I'm getting very serious
and wise, listening to such talk. Now we shall hear, I suppose, what
you mean by your "local preacher"?'

Annabel brought a shawl and placed it carefully about the girl's
shoulders. Then she said to her father:

'Let me sit next to Paula, please.'

The change of seats was effected. Annabel secretly took one of her
cousin's hands and held it. Paula seemed to regard a distant object
in the garden.

There was silence for a few moments. The evening was profoundly
calm. A spirit of solemn loveliness brooded upon the hills, glorious
with sunset. The gnats hummed, rising and falling in myriad crowds
about the motionless leaves. A spring which fell from a rock at the
foot of the garden babbled poetry of the twilight.

'I hope it is something very practicable,' Annabel resumed, looking
with expectancy at Egremont.

'I will have your opinion on that. I believe it to be practical
enough; at all events, it is a scheme of very modest dimensions.
That story of the child and her paper fixed certain thoughts that
had been floating about in my mind. You know that I have long enough
tried to find work, but I have been misled by the common tendency of
the time. Those who want to be of social usefulness for the most
part attack the lowest stratum. It seems like going to the heart of
the problem, of course, and any one who has means finds there the
hope of readiest result--material result. But I think that the
really practical task is the most neglected, just because it does
not appear so pressing. With the mud at the bottom of society we can
practically do nothing; only the vast changes to be wrought by time
will cleanse that foulness, by destroying the monstrous wrong which
produces it. What I should like to attempt would be the spiritual
education of the upper artisan and mechanic class. At present they
are all but wholly in the hands of men who can do them nothing but
harm--journalists, socialists, vulgar propagators of what is called
freethought. These all work against culture, yet here is the field
really waiting for the right tillage. I often have in mind one or
two of the men at our factory in Lambeth. They are well-conducted
and intelligent fellows, but, save for a vague curiosity, I should
say they live without conscious aim beyond that of keeping their
families in comfort. They have no religion, a matter of course; they
talk incessantly of politics, knowing nothing better; but they are
very far above the gross multitude. I believe such men as these have
a great part to play in social development--that, in fact, _they_
may become the great social reformers, working on those above them--
the froth of society--no less than on those below.'

He had laid down his half-finished cigar, and, having begun in a
scrupulously moderate tone, insensibly warmed to the idealist
fervour. His face became more mobile, his eyes gave forth all their
light, his voice was musically modulated as he proceeded in his
demonstration. He addressed himself to Annabel, perhaps unconscious
of doing so exclusively.

Mr. Newthorpe muttered something of assent. Paula was listening
intently, but as one who hears of strange, far-off things, very
difficult of realisation.

'Now suppose one took a handful of such typical men,' Egremont went
on, 'and tried to inspire them with a moral ideal. At present they
have nothing of the kind, but they own the instincts of decency, and
that is much. I would make use of the tendency to association, which
is so strong among them. They have numberless benefit clubs; they
stand together resolutely to help each other in time of need and to
exact terms from their employers--the fair fight, as the worthy
Member for Vauxhall calls it. Well, why shouldn't they band for
moral and intellectual purposes? I would have a sort of freemasonry,
which had nothing to do with eating and drinking, or with the
dispensing of charity; it should be wholly concerned with spiritual
advancement. These men cannot become rich, and so are free from one
kind of danger; they are not likely to fall into privation; they
have a certain amount of leisure. If one could only stir a few of
them to enthusiasm for an ideal of life! Suppose one could teach
them to feel the purpose of such a book as "Sesame and Lilies,"
which you only moderately care for, Miss Newthorpe--'

'Not so!' Annabel broke in, involuntarily. 'I think it very
beautiful and very noble.'

'What book is that?' asked Paula with curiosity.

'I'll give it to you to read, Paula,' her cousin replied.

Egremont continued:

'The work of people who labour in the abominable quarters of the
town would be absurdly insignificant in comparison with what these
men might do. The vulgar influence of half-taught revolutionists,
social and religious, might be counteracted; an incalculable change
for good might be made on the borders of the social inferno, and
would spread. But it can only be done by personal influence. The man
must have an ideal himself before he can create it in others. I
don't know that I am strong enough for such an undertaking, but I
feel the desire to try, and I mean to try. What do you think of it?'

'Thinking it so clearly must be half doing it,' said Annabel.

Egremont replied to her with a clear regard.

'But the details,' Mr. Newthorpe remarked. 'Are you going to make
Lambeth your field?'

'Yes, Lambeth. I have a natural connection with the place and my
name may be of some service to me there; I don't think it is of evil
odour with the workmen. My project is to begin with lectures.
Reserve your judgment; I have no intention of standing forth as an
apostle; all I mean to do at first is to offer a free course of
lectures on a period of English literature. I shall not throw open
my doors to all and sundry, but specially invite a certain small
number of men, whom I shall be at some pains to choose. We have at
the works a foreman named Bower; I have known him, in a way, for
years, and I believe he is an intelligent man. Him I shall make use
of, telling him nothing of my wider aims, but simply getting him to
discover for me the dozen or so of men who would be likely to care
for my lectures. By-the-by, the man of whom I was speaking, the
father of Mrs. Ormonde's patient, lives in Lambeth; I shall
certainly make an effort to draw him into the net!'

'I shall be curious to hear more of him,' said Mr. Newthorpe. 'And
you use English literature to tune the minds of your hearers?'

'That is my thought. I have spent my month in Jersey in preparing a
couple of introductory lectures. It seems to me that if I can get
them to understand what is meant by love of literature, pure and
simple, without a thought of political or social purpose--
especially without a thought of cash profit, which is so
disastrously blended with what little knowledge they acquire--I
shall be on the way to founding my club of social reformers. I shall
be most careful not to alarm them with hints that I mean more than I
say. Here arc certain interesting English books; let us see what
they are about, who wrote them, and why they are deemed excellent.
That is our position. These men must get on a friendly footing with
me. Little by little I shall talk with them more familiarly, try to
understand each one. Success depends upon my personal influence. I
may find that it is inadequate, yet I have hope. Naturally, I have
points of contact with the working class which are lacking to most
educated men; a little chance, and I should myself have been a
mechanic or something of the kind. This may make itself felt; I
believe it will.'

Night was falling. The last hue of sunset had died from the swarth
hills, and in the east were pale points of starlight.

'I think you and I must go in, Paula,' said Annabel, when there had
been silence for a little.

Paula rose without speaking, but as she was about to enter the house
she turned back and said to Egremont:

'I get tired so soon, being so much in the open air. I'd better say
good-night.'

Her uncle, when he held her hand, stroked it affectionately. He
often laughed at the child's manifold follies, but her prettiness
and the _naivete_ which sweetened her inbred artificiality had won
his liking. Much as it would have astonished Paula had she known it,
his feeling was for the most part one of pity.

'I suppose you'll go out again?' Paula said to her cousin as they
entered the drawing-room.

'No; I shall read a little and then go to bed.' She added, with a
laugh, 'They will sit late in the study, no doubt, with their cigars
and steaming glasses.'

Paula moved restlessly about the room for a few minutes; then from
the door she gave a 'good-night,' and disappeared without further
ceremony.

The two men came in very shortly. Egremont entered the drawing-room
alone, and began to turn over books on the table. Then Annabel rose.

'It promises for another fine day to-morrow,' she said. 'I must get
father away for a ramble. Do you think he looks well?'

'Better than he did last autumn, I think.'

'I must go and say good-night to him. Will you come to the study?'

He followed in silence, and Annabel took her leave of both.

The morning broke clear. It was decided to spend the greater part of
the day on the hills. Paula rode; the others drove to a point whence
their ramble was to begin. Annabel enjoyed walking. Very soon her
being seemed to set itself to more spirited music; the veil of
reflection fell from her face, and she began to talk
light-heartedly.

Paula behaved with singularity. At breakfast she had been very
silent, a most unusual thing, and during the day she kept an air of
reserve, a sort of dignity which was amusing. Mr. Newthorpe walked
beside her pony, and adapted himself to her favourite conversation,
which was always of the town and Society.

Once Annabel came up with a spray of mountain saxifrage.

'Isn't it lovely, Paula?' she said. 'Do look at the petals.'

'Very nice,' was the reply, 'but it's too small to be of any use.'

There was no more talk of Egremont's projects. Books and friends and
the delights of the upland scenery gave matter enough for
conversation. Not long after noon the sky began to cloud, and almost
as soon as the party reached home again there was beginning of rain.
They spent the evening in the drawing-room. Paula was persuaded to
sing, which she did prettily, though still without her native
vivacity. Again she retired early.

After breakfast on the morrow it still rained, though not without
promise of clearing.

'You'll excuse me till lunch,' Paula said to Annabel and Egremont,
when they rose from the table. 'I have a great deal of
correspondence to see to.'

'Correspondence' was a new word. Usually she said, 'I have an awful
heap of letters to write.' Her dignity of the former day was still
preserved.

Having dismissed her household duties, Annabel went to the morning
room and sat down to her books. She was reading Virgil. For a
quarter of an hour it cost her a repetition of efforts to fix her
attention, but her resolve was at length successful. Then Egremont
came in.

'Do I disturb you?' he said, noticing her studious attitude.

'You can give me a little help, if you will. I can't make out that
line.'

She gave him one copy and herself opened another. It led to their
reading some fifty lines together.

'Oh, why have we girls to get our knowledge so late and with such
labour!' Annabel exclaimed at length. 'You learn Greek and Latin
when you are children; it ought to be the same with us. I am
impatient; I want to read straight on.'

'You very soon will,' he replied absently. Then, having glanced at
the windows, which were suddenly illumined with a broad slant of
sunlight, he asked: 'Will you come out? It will be delightful after
the rain.'

Annabel was humming over dactylics. She put her book aside with
reluctance.

'I'll go and ask my cousin.'

Egremont averted his face. Annabel went up to Paula's room, knocked,
and entered. From a bustling sound within, it appeared likely that
Miss Tyrrell's business-like attitude at the table had been suddenly
assumed.

'Will you come out, Paula? The rain is over and gone.'

'Not now.'

'Mr. Egremont wishes to go for a walk. Couldn't you come?'

'Please beg Mr. Egremont to excuse me. I am tired after yesterday,
dear.'

When her cousin had withdrawn Paula went to the window. In a few
minutes she saw Egremont and Annabel go forth and stroll from the
garden towards the lake. Then she reseated herself, and sat biting
her pen.

The two walked lingeringly by the water's edge. They spoke of
trifles. When they were some distance from the house, Egremont said:

'So you see I have at last found my work. If you thought of me at
all, I dare say my life seemed to you a very useless one, and little
likely to lead to anything.'

'No, I had not that thought, Mr. Egremont,' she answered simply. 'I
felt sure that you were preparing yourself for something worthy.'

'I hope that is the meaning of these years that have gone so
quickly. But it was not conscious preparation. It has often seemed
to me that in travelling and gaining experience I was doing all that
life demanded of me. Few men can be more disposed to idle dreaming
than I am. And even now I keep asking myself whether this, too, is
only a moment of idealism, which will go by and leave me with less
practical energy than ever. Every such project undertaken and
abandoned is a weight upon a man's will. If I fail in perseverance
my fate will be decided.'

'I feel assured that you will not fail. You. could not speak as you
did last night and yet allow yourself to falter in purpose when the
task was once begun. What success may await you we cannot say; the
work will certainly be very difficult. Will it not ask a lifetime?'

'No less, if it is to have any lasting result.'

'Be glad, then. What happier thing can befall one than to have one's
life consecrated to a worthy end!'

He walked on in silence, then regarded her.

'Such words in such a voice would make any man strong. Yet I would
ask more from you. There is one thing I need to feel full confidence
in myself, and that is a woman's love. I have known for a long time
whose love it was that I must try to win. Can you give me what I
ask?'

The smile which touched his lips so seldom was on them now. He
showed no agitation, but the light of his eyes was very vivid as
they read her expression. Annabel had stayed her steps; for a moment
she looked troubled. His words were not unanticipated, but the
answer with which she was prepared was more difficult to utter than
she had thought it would be. It was the first time that a man had
spoken to her thus, and though in theory such a situation had always
seemed to her very simple, she could not now preserve her calm as
she wished. She felt the warmth of her blood, and could not at once
command her wonted voice. But when at length she succeeded in
meeting his look steadily her thought grew clear again.

'I cannot give you that, Mr. Egremont.'

As his eyes fell, she hastened to add:

'I think of you often. I feel glad to know you, and to share in your
interest. But this is no more than the friendship which many people
have for you--quite different from the feeling which you say would
aid you. I have never known that.'

He was gazing across the lake. The melancholy always lurking in the
thoughtfulness of his face had become predominant. Yet he turned to
her with the smile once more.

'Those last words must be my hope. To have your friendship is much.
Perhaps some day I may win more.'

'I think,' she said, with a sincerity which proved how far she was
from emotion, 'that you will meet another woman whose sympathy will
be far more to you than mine.'

'Then I must have slight knowledge of myself. I have known you for
seven years, and, though you were a child when we first spoke to
each other, I foresaw then what I tell you now. Every woman that I
meet I compare with you; and if I imagine the ideal woman she has
your face and your mind. I should have spoken when I was here last
autumn, but I felt that I had no right to ask you to share my life
as long as it remained so valueless. You see'--he smiled--'how I
have grown in my own esteem. I suppose that is always the first
effect of a purpose strongly conceived. Or should it be just the
opposite, and have I only given you a proof that I snatch at rewards
before doing the least thing to merit them?'

Something in these last sentences jarred upon her, and gave her
courage to speak a thought which had often come to her in connection
with Egremont.

'I think that a woman does not reason in that way if her deepest
feelings are pledged. If I were able to go with you and share your
life I shouldn't think I was rewarding you, but that you were
offering me a great happiness. It is my loss that I can only watch
you from a distance.'

The words moved him. It was not with conscious insincerity that he
spoke of his love and his intellectual aims as interdependent, yet
he knew that Annabel revealed the truer mind.

'And my desire is for the happiness of your love!' he exclaimed.
'Forget that pedantry--always my fault. I cannot feel sure that my
other motives will keep their force, but I know that this desire
will be only stronger in me as time goes on.'

Yet when she kept silence the habit of his thought again uttered
itself.

'I shall pursue this work that I have undertaken, because, loving
you, I dare not fall below the highest life of which I am capable. I
know that you can see into my nature with those clear eyes of yours.
I could not love you if I did not feel that you were far above me. I
shall never be worthy of you, but I shall never cease in my striving
to become so.'

The quickening of her blood, which at first troubled her, had long
since subsided. She could now listen to him, and think of her reply
almost with coldness. There was an unreality in the situation which
made her anxious to bring the dialogue to an end.

'I have all faith in you,' she said. 'I hope--I feel assured--that
something will come of your work; but it will only be so if you
pursue it for its own sake.'

The simple truth of this caused him to droop his eyes again with a
sense of shame. He grew impatient with himself. Had he no plain,
touching words in which to express his very real love--words such
as every man can summon when he pleads for this greatest boon? Yet
his shame heightened the reverence in which he held her; passion of
the intellect breathed in his next words.

'If you cannot love me with your heart, in your mind you can be one
with me. You feel the great and the beautiful things of life. There
is no littleness in your nature. In reading with you just now I saw
that your delight in poetry was as spirit-deep as my own; your voice
had the true music, and your cheeks warmed with sympathy. You do not
deny me the right to claim so much kinship with you. I, too, love
all that is rare and noble, however in myself I fall below such
ideals. Say that you admit me as something more than the friend of
the everyday world! Look for once straight into my eyes and know
me!'

There was no doubtful ring in this; Annabel felt the chords of her
being smitten to music. She held her hand to him.

'You are my very near friend, and my life is richer for your
influence.'

'I may come and see you again before very long, when I have
something to tell you?'

'You know that our house always welcomes you.'

He released her hand, and they walked homewards. The sky was again
overcast. A fresh gust came from the fell-side and bore with it
drops of rain.

'We must hasten,' Annabel said, in a changed voice. 'Look at that
magnificent cloud by the sun!'

'Isn't the rain sweet here?' she continued, anxious to re-establish
the quiet, natural tone between them. 'I like the perfume and the
taste of it. I remember how mournful the rain used to be in London
streets.'

They regained the house. Annabel passed quickly upstairs. Egremont
remained standing in the porch, looking forth upon the garden. His
reverie was broken by a voice.

'How gloomy the rain is here! One doesn't mind it in London; there's
always something to do and somewhere to go.'

It was Paula. Egremont could not help showing amusement.

'Do you stay much longer?' he asked.

'I don't know.'

She spoke with indifference, keeping her eyes averted.

'I must catch the mail at Penrith this evening,' he said. 'I'm
afraid it will be a wet drive.'

'You're going, are you? Not to Jersey again, I hope?

'Why not?'

'It seems to make people very dull. I shall warn all my friends
against it.'

She hummed an air and left him.

Late in the afternoon Egremont took leave of his friends. Mr.
Newthorpe went out into the rain, and at the last moment shook hands
with him heartily. Annabel stood at the window and smiled farewell.

The wheels splashed along the road; rain fell in torrents. Egremont
presently looked back from the carriage window. The house was
already out of view, and the summits of the circling hills were
wreathed with cloud.





CHAPTER III

A CORNER OF LAMBETH




A working man, one Gilbert Grail, was spending an hour of his
Saturday afternoon in Westminster Abbey. At five o'clock the sky
still pulsed with heat; black shadows were sharp edged upon the
yellow pavement. Between the bridges of Westminster and Lambeth the
river was a colourless gleam; but in the Sanctuary evening had
fallen. Above the cool twilight of the aisles floated a golden mist;
and the echo of a footfall hushed itself among the tombs.

He was a man past youth, but of less than middle age, with meagre
limbs and shoulders, a little bent. His clothing was rough but
decent; his small and white hands gave evidence of occupation which
was not rudely laborious. He had a large head, thickly covered with
dark hair, which, with his moustache and beard, heightened the
wanness of his complexion. A massive forehead, deep-set eyes, thin,
straight nose, large lips constantly drawn inwards, made a
physiognomy impressive rather than pleasing. The cast of thought was
upon it; of thought eager and self-tormenting; the mark of a spirit
ever straining after something unattainable. At moments when he
found satisfaction in reading the legend on some monument his eyes
grew placid and his beetling brows smoothed themselves; but the
haunter within would not be forgotten, and, as if at a sudden
recollection, he dropped his eyes in a troubled way, and moved
onwards brooding. In those brief intervals of peace his countenance
expressed an absorbing reverence, a profound humility. The same was
evident in his bearing; he walked as softly as possible and avoided
treading upon a sculptured name.

When he passed out into the sunny street, he stood for an instant
with a hand veiling his eyes, as if the sudden light were too
strong. Then he looked hither and thither with absent gaze, and at
length bent his steps in the direction of Westminster Bridge. On the
south side of the river he descended the stairs to the Albert
Embankment and walked along by St. Thomas's Hospital.

Presently he overtook a man who was reading as he walked, a second
book being held under his arm. It was a young workman of three- or
four-and-twenty, tall, of wiry frame, square-shouldered, upright.
Grail grasped his shoulder in a friendly way, asking:

'What now?'

'Well, it's tempted eighteenpence out of my pocket,' was the other's
reply, as he gave the volume to be examined. 'I've wanted a book on
electricity for some time.'

He spoke with a slight North of England accent. His name was Luke
Ackroyd; he had come to London as a lad, and was now a work-fellow
of Grail's. There was rough comeliness in his face and plenty of
intelligence, something at the same time not quite satisfactory if
one looked for strength of character; he smiled readily and had eyes
which told of quick but unsteady thought; a mouth, too, which
expressed a good deal of self-will and probably a strain of
sensuality. His manner was hearty, his look frank to a fault and
full of sensibility.

'I found it at the shop by Westminster Bridge,' he continued. 'You
ought to go and have a look there to-night. I saw one or two things
pretty cheap that I thought were in your way.'

Copyright (c) 2007. topbookz.net. All rights reserved.