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Thyrza

G >> George Gissing >> Thyrza




'I have heard of one or two who tried to, but didn't.'

'I do hope the poor girl will soon be well enough to come. I'll get
the room thoroughly in order to-night.'

They left the house together. Mrs. Emerson ran in the direction of
the omnibus she wished to catch; the other shortly found a vehicle,
and drove back again to Bank Street, Caledonian Road.

Thyrza still lay in the same condition. In a little more than half
an hour came the trained nurse of Dr. Lambe's sending, and forthwith
the sick-room was got into a more tolerable condition, Mrs. Ormonde
procuring whatever the nurse desired. Much private talk passed
downstairs between Mrs. Gandle and 'Lizabeth, who were greatly
astonished at the fuss made over the girl they had supposed
friendless.

'Now let this be a lesson to you, 'Lizabeth.' said the good woman,
several times. 'It ain't often as you'll lose by doin' a bit o'
kindness, and the chance always is as it'll be paid back to you more
than you'd never think. Any one can see as this Mrs. Ormonde's a
real lady, and when it comes to settlin' up, you'll see if she
doesn't know how to behave _like_ a lady.'

Mrs. Ormonde took a room at a private hotel near King's Cross,
whither her travelling bag was brought from Victoria. She avoided
the part of the town in which acquaintances might hear of her, for
her business had to be kept secret. A necessary letter despatched to
Mrs. Mapper at The Chestnuts, she went once more to Bank Street and
met her friend Dr. Lambe.

She told him, in general terms, all she knew of the circumstances
which might have led to Thyrza's illness. At first she had been in
doubt whether or not to go to Lambeth and see Lydia Trent, but on
the whole it seemed better to take no steps in that direction for
the present. Should the case be declared dangerous, Lydia of course
must be sent for, but that was a dark possibility from which her
thoughts willingly averted themselves. The sister could doubtless
throw some light on Thyrza's strange calamity. What did the child's
'You know you promised me' mean? But that would be no aid to the
physician, upon whom for the present most depended. Nor did Dr.
Lambe exhibit much curiosity. He seemed quickly to gather all it was
really necessary for him to know, and, though he admitted that the
disorder was likely to be troublesome, he gave an assurance that
there was no occasion for alarm.

'You are not associated in her mind with anything distressing?' he
asked of Mrs. Ormonde.

'I believe, the opposite.'

'Good. Then be by her side as often as you can, so that she may
recognise you as soon as possible.' He added with a smile: 'I
needn't inform Mrs. Ormonde how to behave when she _is_ recognised!'

They were at a little distance from the bed, and both looked at the
unconscious face.

'A very beautiful girl,' the doctor murmured.

'But you should see her in health.'

'No. I am a trifle susceptible. Well, well, we shall have her
through it, no doubt.'

We have to jest a little in the presence of suffering, or how should
we live our lives?

The recognition came late on the following afternoon. Thyrza had
lain for a time with eyes open, watching the movements of the nurse,
but seemingly with no desire to speak. Then Mrs. Ormonde came in.
The watchful look at once turned upon her; for a moment that former
fear showed itself, and Thyrza made an effort to rise from the
pillow. Her strength was too far wasted. But as Mrs. Ormonde drew
near, she was plainly known.

'Thyrza, you know me now?'

'Mrs. Ormonde,' was whispered, still with look of alarm and troubled
inability to comprehend.

'You have been ill, dear, and I have come to sit with you,' the
other went on, in a soothing voice. 'Shall I stay?'

There was no answer for a little, then Thyrza, with sudden revival
of memory like a light kindled in her eyes, said painfully:

'Lyddy?--does Lyddy know?'

'Not yet. Do you wish her to?

'No!--Don't tell Lyddy!--I shall be better--'

'No one shall know, Thyrza. Don't speak now. I am going to sit by
you.'

Much mental disturbance was evident on the pale face for some time
after this, but Thyrza did not speak again, and presently she
appeared to sleep. Mrs. Ormonde left the house at midnight and was
back again before nine the next morning. Thyrza had been perfectly
conscious since daybreak, and had several times asked for the absent
friend. She smiled when Mrs. Ormonde came at length and kissed her
forehead.

'Better this morning?'

'Much better, I think, Mrs. Ormonde. But I can't lift my arm--it's
so heavy.'

The doctor came late in the morning. He was agreeably surprised at
the course things were taking. But Thyrza was forbidden to speak,
and for much of the day she relapsed into an apathetic, scarcely
conscious state. Mrs. Ormonde had preferred not to leave her the
evening before, and had explained by telegram her failure to keep
her appointment with Mrs. Emerson. To-night she visited her friends
by Regent's Park. On looking in at the eating-house before going to
her hotel for the night, she found the patient feverish and excited.

'She has been asking for you ever since you went away,' whispered
the nurse.

Thyrza inquired anxiously, as if the thought were newly come to her:

'How did you know where I was, Mrs. Ormonde?'

'Mrs. Gandle found my name and address in your pocket, and wrote to
me.'

'In my pocket? Why should she look in my pocket?'

'She was anxious to have a friend come to you, Thyrza.'

'Does any one else know? Lyddy doesn't--nor anybody?'

'Nobody.'

'Yes, it was in my pocket. I kept it from that time when I went to--
to--oh, I can't remember!'

'To Eastbourne, dear.'

'Yes--Eastbourne!'

The only way of quieting her was for Mrs. Ormonde to sit holding her
hand. It was nearly dawn when the fit of fever was allayed and sleep
came.

A week passed before it was possible to think of removing her from
these miserable quarters to the other room which awaited her. Mrs.
Ormonde's presence had doubtless been a great aid to the sufferer in
her struggle with intermittent fever and mental pain. As Thyrza
recovered her power of continuous thought, she showed less
disposition to talk; the trouble which still hung above her seemed
to impose silence. She was never quite still save when Mrs. Ormonde
sat by her, but at those times she generally kept her face averted,
closing her eyes if either of her nurses seemed to watch her. She
asked no questions. Mrs. Gandle came up occasionally, and to her
Thyrza spoke very gently and gratefully. She asked to see 'Lizabeth,
and that damsel made an elaborate toilette for the ceremony of
introduction to the transformed sickroom.

'I don't believe as she's a workin' girl at all,' 'Lizabeth remarked
mysteriously to her mother, afterwards. 'She's Mrs. Ormind's
daughter, as has runned away from her 'ome, an' that's the truth of
it.'

'Don't be silly, 'Lizabeth! Why, there ain't no more likeness than
in that there cabbage!'

'I don't care. That's what I think, an' think it I always shall,
choose what!'

'You always was obstinit!'

'Dessay I was, an' it's good as some people is. It wouldn't do for
us all to think the same way; it 'ud spoil our appetites.'

One day of the week Mrs. Ormonde spent at Eastbourne. During her
absence from home no letter had come from Egremont; she expected
daily to hear from Mrs. Mapper that he had called at The Chestnuts,
but nothing was seen of him. She preferred to keep silence, though
her anxiety was constant. Out of the disparaging rumours which had
found ready credence in the circle of the Tyrrells, and the facts
which she had under her own eyes, it was not difficult for her to
construct a story whereby this catastrophe could be explained
without attributing anything more than misfortune to either Egremont
or Thyrza. Her suppositions came very near to the truth. A natural,
inevitable, error was that she imagined a scene of mutual
declaration between the two. She could only conjecture that in some
way they had frequently met, with the result which, the characters
of both being understood, might have been foreseen. Possibly
Egremont had thrown aside every consideration and had asked Thyrza
to abandon Grail for his sake; in that case, it might be that Thyrza
had fled from what she regarded as dishonourable selfishness, unable
to keep her promise to Grail, alike unable to find her own happiness
at his expense.

This was supposing the best. But, as a woman who knew the world, she
could not altogether deny approach to fears which, in speaking with
Annabel, she would not glance at. It was unlike Egremont to pass
through a crisis such as this without having recourse to her
sympathy, which had so long been to him as that of a mother. Perhaps
he could not speak to her.

In any case, the immediate future was full of difficulties. It was a
simple matter to take Thyrza to the Emersons' lodgings and get her
restored to health, but what must then become of her? The best hope
was that even yet she might marry Grail. Between the latter and
Egremont doubtless everything was at an end; all the better, if
there remained a possibility of Thyrza's forgetting this trial and
some day fulfilling her promise. But in the meantime--a period,
perhaps, of years--what must be done? The sisters might of course
live together as hitherto and earn their living in the accustomed
way, but Mrs. Ormonde understood too well the dangers of an attempt
to patch together old and new. There was no foreseeing the effect of
her sufferings on Thyrza's character; in spite of idealisms,
suffering more often does harm than good.

In fact, she must become acquainted with the truth of the case
before she could reasonably advise or help. It had seemed wise as
yet to keep the discovery of Thyrza a secret, even though by
disclosing it she might have alleviated others' pain. When Lydia
should at length be told, perhaps difficulties would in one way or
another be lessened.

Mrs. Ormonde at length spoke to the invalid of the plan for removing
her. Thyrza made no reply, but, when her friend went on to speak of
the people in whose care she would be, averted her eyes as if in
trouble. Mrs. Ormonde was silent for a while, then asked:

'Would you like your sister to come, when you are in the other
house?'

Thyrza shook her head. She would have spoken, but instead sobbed.

'But she must be in dreadful trouble, Thyrza.'

'Will you write to her, please, Mrs. Ormonde? Don't tell her where I
am, but say that I am well again. I can't see her yet--not till I
have begun to work again. Do you think I can soon go and find work?'

'Do you wish, then, to live by yourself?' Mrs. Ormonde asked, hoping
that the conversation might lead Thyrza to reveal her story.

'Yes, I must live by myself. I mustn't see any one for a long time.
I can earn as much as I need. If I can't find anything else, Mrs.
Gandle will let me stay with her.'

There was silence. Then she turned her face to Mrs. Ormonde, and,
with drooping eyelids, asked in a low voice:

'Do you know why I left home, Mrs. Ormonde?'

'No, I don't, Thyrza,' the other replied gently. 'I have not seen
any of your friends. I think very likely you are the only one that
could tell me the truth.'

'Lyddy knows,' was spoken presently, after the shedding of a few
quiet tears. 'I left a letter for her. Besides, she knew before--
knew that--'

The voice faltered and ceased.

'Can you tell me what it was, Thyrza?'

'I didn't do anything wrong, Mrs. Ormonde. But I was going to be
married--do you remember about Mr. Grail?'

'Yes, dear.'

'I couldn't marry him--I didn't love him.'

She turned her face upon the pillow. Mrs. Ormonde touched her with
kind hand, and, when she saw that the girl could tell no more, tried
to soothe her.

'I understand now, Thyrza. I know it must have been a great trouble
that drove you to this. I will do nothing that you don't wish. But
we must let Lyddy know that you are in safety. Suppose you write a
letter and tell her that you have been ill, but that you are quite
well again, and with friends. You needn't put any address on it, and
you had better not mention my name. It will be enough for the
present to relieve her mind.'

'Yes, I'll do that, Mrs. Ormonde, if I can write.'

'You will be able to, very soon. It would frighten Lyddy, if the
letter came to her written in a strange hand.'

Mrs. Ormonde made up her mind not to let it be known that she was in
communication with Thyrza. Much was still dubious, but clearly it
would be the wise course to avoid the possibility of Egremont's
discovering Thyrza's place of abode. For the sake of the long
future, a little more must be borne in the present. She had more
than Thyrza's interests to keep in mind. Egremont's happiness was
also at stake, and that, after all, was the first concern with her.
By prudent management, perhaps the lives of both could be saved from
this seeming wreck, and sped upon their several ways--ways surely
very diverse.

But Thyrza was troubled with desire to ask something. When tears had
heightened the relief of having told as much as she might, she asked
timidly:

'Do you know if Mr. Grail has gone to the library--Mr. Egremont's
library?'

'I have not heard. Could he go after this happening, Thyrza?'

'Yes,' she replied eagerly, 'he would go just the same. Why
shouldn't he? It wouldn't prevent that, just because I didn't marry
him. He would go and live there with Mrs. Grail, his mother. I said,
when I wrote to Lyddy, that he'd go to the library just the same.
There was no reason why he shouldn't, Mrs. Ormonde.'

She grew so agitated that Mrs. Ormonde, whilst asking herself what
further light this threw on the matter, endeavoured to remove her
trouble.

'Then no doubt he has gone, Thyrza. We shall hear all about it very
soon.'

'You think he really has? We were to have been away for a week, and
then have gone to live at the library. Haven't you heard anything
from--'

'From whom, dear?'

'Anything from Mr. Egremont? He was beginning to put the books on
the shelves--I was told about that. It was all ready for Gilbert to
go and begin. Haven't you heard about it, Mrs. Ormonde?'

'I've been away from home, you see. No doubt there are letters for
me.'

'I shall be so glad when I know, Mrs. Ormonde. You'll tell me, when
you've heard, won't you, please? I've been thinking about it a long
time--before I was ill, and again since I got my thoughts back. I
want to be sure of that, more than anything. I'm sure he must have
gone. Mr. Egremont was going away somewhere, and when he came back
of course he would be told about--about me, and he wouldn't let
that make any difference to Gilbert. And then I told Lyddy in the
letter that I should come back some day. I'm quite sure it wouldn't
keep him from going to the library.'

Mrs. Ormonde was herself very desirous of knowing what turn things
had taken in Lambeth. She had no ready means of inquiry. But
doubtless Mr. Newthorpe would have intelligence; it was only too
certain that the affair was being discussed to its minutest details
among the people who knew Egremont. She determined to see Mr.
Newthorpe as soon as Thyrza was transported to the house by Regent's
Park.

This took place on the following day, with care which could not have
been exceeded had the invalid been a person as important and
precious as even the late Miss Paula Tyrrell. Mrs. Gandle was
adequately recompensed; her conviction that Mrs. Ormonde was a real
lady suffered no shock under this most delicate of tests. Mrs.
Ormonde bade farewell to Bank Street and Caledonian Road with a
great hope that duty or necessity might never lead her thither
again.

Thyrza still, of course, needed the nurse's attendance, and
accommodation was found for that person under the same roof. When
the party arrived, at mid-day, Mrs. Emerson was at home by
appointment. She assisted in carrying the invalid upstairs, where a
bright warm room was in readiness--as pleasant a change after the
garret in Bank Street as any one could have desired.





CHAPTER XXVIII

HOPE SURPRISED




Mrs. Tyrrell and Annabel were lunching with friends somewhere: Mr.
Newthorpe had just taken a solitary meal in the room which he used
for a study. Thither Mrs. Ormonde was conducted.

She noticed that he looked by no means so well as he had done before
leaving Eastbourne. His greeting was nervous. He would not sit down,
preferring to move restlessly from one position to another.

'I was about to write to you,' he said. 'What news do you bring?'

'I have come to you for news.'

'But you have seen Egremont?'

'Neither seen nor heard from him.'

'Then I suppose that settles the matter. I went to his place once,
but could hear nothing of him, and since then I have just waited
till the muddy water should strain itself clear again.'

'But I am in ignorance yet of the state of things in Lambeth,' said
Mrs. Ormonde. 'Do you know anything about the library?'

'Dalmaine keeps our world supplied with the latest information,' Mr.
Newthorpe replied, with cold sarcasm. 'The library scheme, I
suppose, is at an end. The man Grail, we are told, pursues his old
occupation.'

Mrs. Ormonde kept silence. The other continued, assuming a tone of
cheerful impartiality:

'Really it is very instructive, an affair of this kind. One knows
very well, theoretically, how average humanity fears and hates a
nature superior to itself; but one has not often an opportunity of
seeing it so well illustrated in practice. Tyrrell's attitude has
especially amused me; his lungs begin to crow like chanticleer as
often as the story comes up for discussion. He has a good deal of
personal liking for Egremont, but to see 'the idealist' in the mud
he finds altogether too delicious. His wife feels exactly in the
same way, though she expresses her feeling differently. And Dalmaine
--if I were an able-bodied man I rather think I should have kicked
Dalmaine downstairs before this. 'Lo you, what comes of lofty
priggishness!'--that is his text, and he enlarges on it in a manner
worthy of himself. And the amazing thing is that it never occurs to
these people to explain what has happened on any but the least
charitable hypothesis.'

'What of Annabel?' Mrs. Ormonde asked.

'She seems to have no interest in the matter. So far so good,
perhaps.' He added, with a smile, 'She is revenging herself for her
years of retirement.'

'I supposed so. And really seems to be enjoying herself?'

'Astonishingly. I don't see much of her. She came in the other night
to tell me that a Captain Somebody had proposed to her after six
minutes of acquaintance, and laughed more gaily over it than I ever
saw her. It's part of her education, of course; probably it was wise
to postpone it no longer. I wait with curiosity to hear her opinion
of this world at the end of July.'

Mrs. Ormonde mused. Mr. Newthorpe walked about a little, then asked:

'What do you prophesy of their future?

'Of whose future?'

'Egremont's and his wife.'

'You are premature. He is not married.'

'Oh, then you are not altogether without news?'

'I shall take you into my confidence. I find the responsibility a
little too burdensome. The fact is, this girl, Thyrza Trent, is at
present in my care.'

She gave a succinct account of the recent events, and explained them
as far as her information allowed. The all-important point still
remained obscure, but she showed her reasons for believing that
something had passed between Egremont and Thyrza which could lead to
but one result if they met again, now that the old objections were
at an end.

'My desire is,' she pursued, 'to prevent that meeting. I have racked
my brains over the matter, with no better result than Mrs. Grundy
would at once have arrived at by noble intuition. It would he a
grave mistake for Walter to marry this girl.'

'On general grounds, or from your special knowledge of her
character?'

'Both. A third reason is--that I have long ago made up my mind whom
he is to marry.'

'Yes,' said Mr. Newthorpe, gravely, the worry he no longer cared to
conceal making him look old and feeble, 'yes, but that project has
hardly become more hopeful during the last few weeks.'

'We have to think of a lifetime. I have by no means lost hope. I
fear the atmosphere in which you are living has some effect upon
you. The case stands thus: Walter has done nothing in the least
dishonourable, but he has been carried away, as any imaginative
young fellow would probably have been under the circumstances. The
girl is very beautiful, wonderfully sweet and lovable; if a man
ruined himself to obtain her I dare say it would be a long time
before he repented.'

'At least six months.'

'No, I can't joke about Thyrza. I love her myself, and if I can by
any means guide her life into a smooth channel it will make me very
happy. But she must not marry Walter; that would assuredly _not_ be
for her happiness. The prospect before her was ideal, too good, of
course, to be realised. We must devise some other future for her.'

'You think of taking her definitively from her former sphere?'

'There is no choice. She can't go and work for her living in the old
way; I foresee too well what the end of _that_ would be. She must
either be raised or fall into the black gulfs--so beautifully is
our society constructed. For the present she has to recover her
health; the doctor tells me her constitution is very delicate. She
must come to the sea-side as soon as she is well enough. I mustn't
have her in my house, because Walter may come any day; but it will
have to be Eastbourne, I fancy, as I don't know how to make plans
for her elsewhere. And in the meantime we must think.'

'A question occurs to me. Is it quite certain that she won't of her
own motion communicate with Egremont?'

'It is a question, of course. But I can't do more than take all
reasonable precautions. I have a hope, though, that before long she
will confide in me completely. The poor child knows nothing of this
scandal; she even believes that Mr. Grail will take the
librarianship as if nothing had happened. I can't with certainty
foresee what effect it will have upon her when she hears the truth.
Of course she must see her sister before very long. In the meantime,
I have to tell her that things are going on quite smoothly; it is
the only way to keep her calm.'

'What of the sister? Is she a person to be trusted?'

'I don't know her; but from the way in which Thyrza always speaks of
her, I should think she is very trustworthy. She is some years
older.'

After some further conversation, Mr. Newthorpe asked:

'What is Egremont doing, then, do you suppose?'

'I can form no idea.'

'Won't you write to him?'

'I think not. The poor fellow is, no doubt, going through his
'everlasting Nay,' as he used to say a few years ago; I fear it has
come in earnest this time. He will come to me when I can really be
of use to him. If I see him just now I shall have to act too much--
I am bad at that.'

'Had I better try to find him?'

'Write, if you like, and see what answer you get.'

'A gloomy business for that poor fellow in Lambeth.'

'Yes, it's hard that one can give so little thought to him. If I
speak the very truth, I still have a secret hope that she may marry
him. But all in good time. What a blessed thing Time is! It makes
everything easy.'

'It does. Most of all, when it destroys itself.'

He said it with a sad smile. Mrs. Ormonde turned again to the
subject of Annabel. They decided that it was better to say nothing
to her as yet.

In a fortnight Thyrza went to Eastbourne. She had written a letter
to Lydia a few days after her establishment with Mrs. Emerson--a
letter without any address at the head of it. Mrs. Emerson posted it
in a remote district, that the office stamp might give no clue. Mrs.
Ormonde provided her with lodgings at the side of Eastbourne
farthest from The Chestnuts, in the house of a decent woman who did
sewing for the Home. That her days might not become wearisome for
lack of occupation, it was arranged that Thyrza should give her
landlady occasional help with the needle.

Her main task, however, was to recover health and strength. The sea
air helped her a little, but the heaviness of her heart kept her
frame languid. At first she could walk only the shortest distances;
as soon as she reached the sands, she would sit down wearily and fix
her eyes seawards, gazing with what other thoughts than when that
horizon met her vision for the first time! She had great need of
uttering all her sorrow, but could not do so to Mrs. Ormonde; it
seemed to her that it would be an unpardonable presumption to speak
of Mr. Egremont as she thought of him, and perhaps she could not
have brought herself to tell such a secret, whoever had been
involved in it, to one who, kind as she was, remained in many senses
a stranger. To Lyddy, and to her alone, she could have poured out
all her heart. The longing for her sister was now ceaseless. She
grieved that she had left London without seeing her. In the night
she sometimes cried for hours because Lyddy was so far from her.

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