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Captain Wilbur Lawton - "The Boy Aviators in Africa"

Thyrza

G >> George Gissing >> Thyrza




'What's the other?' Grail inquired, returning the work on
electricity, which he had glanced through without show of much
interest.

'Oh, this belongs to Jo Bunce,' Ackroyd replied, laughing. 'He's
just lent it me.'

It was a collection of antitheistic discourses; the titles, which
were startling to the eye, sufficiently indicated the scope and
quality of the matter. Grail found even less satisfaction in this
than in the other volume.

'A man must have a good deal of time to spare,' he said, with a
smile, 'if he spends it on stuff of that kind.'

'Oh, I don't know about that. You don't need it, but there's plenty
of people that do.'

'And that's the kind of thing Bunce gives his children to read, eh?'

'Yes; he's bringing them up on it. He's made them learn a
secularist's creed, and hears them say it every night.'

'Well, I'm old-fashioned in such matters,' said Grail, not caring to
pursue the discussion. 'I'd a good deal rather hear children say the
ordinary prayer.'

Ackroyd laughed.

'Have you heard any talk,' he asked presently, 'about lectures by a
Mr. Egremont? He's a son of Bower's old governor.'

'No, what lectures?'

'Bower tells me he's a young fellow just come from Oxford or
Cambridge, and he's going to give some free lectures here in
Lambeth.'

'Political?'

'No. Something to do with literature.'

Ackroyd broke into another laugh--louder this time, and
contemptuous.

'Sops to the dog that's beginning to show his teeth!' he exclaimed.
'It shows you what's coming. The capitalists are beginning to look
about and ask what they can do to keep the people quiet. Lectures on
literature! Fools! As if that wasn't just the way to remind us of
what we've missed in the way of education. It's the best joke you
could hit on. Let him lecture away; he'll do more than he thinks.'

'Where does he give them?' Grail inquired.

'He hasn't begun yet. Bower seems to be going round to get men to
hear him. Do you think you'd like to go?'

'It depends what sort of a man he is.'

'A conceited young fool, I expect.'

Grail smiled.

In such conversation they passed the Archbishop's Palace; then, from
the foot of Lambeth Bridge, turned into a district of small houses
and multifarious workshops. Presently they entered Paradise Street.

The name is less descriptive than it might be. Poor dwellings, mean
and cheerless, are interspersed with factories and one or two small
shops; a public-house is prominent, and a railway arch breaks the
perspective of the thoroughfare midway. The street at that time--in
the year '80--began by the side of a graveyard, no longer used, and
associated in the minds of those who dwelt around it with numberless
burials in a dire season of cholera. The space has since been
converted into a flower-garden, open to the children of the
neighbourhood, and in summer time the bright flower-beds enhance the
ignoble baldness of the by-way.

When they had nearly reached the railway arch Ackroyd stopped.

'I'm just going in to Bower's shop,' he said; 'I've got a message
for poor old Boddy.'

'Boddy?'

'You know of him from the Trent girls, don't you?'

'Yes, yes,' Grail answered, nodding. He seemed about to add
something, but checked himself, and, with a 'good-bye,' went his
way.

Ackroyd turned his steps to a little shop close by. It was of the
kind known as the 'small general'; over the door stood the name of
the proprietor--'Bower'--and on the woodwork along the top of the
windows was painted in characters of faded red: 'The Little Shop
with the Large Heart.' Little it certainly was, and large of heart
if the term could be made to signify an abundant stock. The interior
was so packed with an indescribable variety of merchandise that
there was scarcely space for more than two customers between door
and counter. From an inner room came the sound of a violin, playing
a lively air.

When the young man stepped through the doorway he was at once
encompassed with the strangest blend of odours; every article in the
shop--groceries of all kinds, pastry, cooked meat, bloaters,
newspapers, petty haberdashery, firewood, fruit, soap--seemed to
exhale its essence distressfully under the heat; impossible that
anything sold here should preserve its native savour. The air
swarmed with flies, spite of the dread example of thousands that lay
extinct on sheets of smeared newspaper. On the counter, among other
things, was a perspiring yellow mass, retailed under the name of
butter; its destiny hovered between avoirdupois and the measure of
capacity. A literature of advertisements hung around; ginger-beer,
blacking, blue, &c., with a certain 'Samaritan salve,' proclaimed
themselves in many-coloured letters. One descried, too, a scrubby
but significant little card, which bore the address of a loan
office.

The music issued from the parlour behind the shop; it ceased as
Ackroyd approached the counter, and at the sound of his footsteps
appeared Mrs. Bower. She was a stout woman of middle age, red of
face, much given to laughter, wholesomely vulgar. At four o'clock
every afternoon she laid aside her sober garments of the working day
and came forth in an evening costume which was the admiration and
envy of Paradise Street. Popular from a certain wordy good-humour
which she always had at command, she derived from this evening garb
a social superiority which friends and neighbours, whether they
would or no were constrained to recognise. She was deemed a
well-to-do woman, and as such--Paradise Street held it axiomatic--
might reasonably adorn herself for the respect of those to whom she
sold miscellaneous pennyworths. She did not depend upon the
business. Her husband, as we already know, was a foreman at Egremont
& Pollard's oilcloth manufactory; they were known to have money laid
by. You saw in her face that life had been smooth with her from the
beginning. She wore a purple dress with a yellow fichu, in which was
fixed a large silver brooch; on her head was a small lace cap. Her
hands were enormous, and very red. As she came into the shop, she
mopped her forehead with a handkerchief; perspiration streamed from
every pore.

'What a man you are for keepin' yourself cool, Mr. Hackroyd!' she
exclaimed; 'it's like a breath o' fresh air to look at you, I'm
sure. If this kind o' weather goes on there won't be much left o'
me. I'm a-goin' like the butter.'

'It's warmish, that's true,' said Luke, when she had finished her
laugh. 'I heard Mr. Boddy playing in there, and I've got a message
for him.'

'Come in and sit down. He's just practisin' a new piece for his club
to-night.'

Ackroyd advanced into the parlour. The table was spread for tea, and
at the tray sat Mrs. Bower's daughter, Mary. She was a girl of
nineteen, sparely made, and rather plain-featured, yet with a
thoughtful, interesting face. Her smile was brief, and always passed
into an expression of melancholy, which in its turn did not last
long; for the most part she seemed occupied with thoughts which lay
on the borderland between reflection and anxiety. Her dress was
remarkably plain, contrasting with her mother's, and her hair was
arranged in the simplest way.

In a round-backed chair at a distance from the table sat an old man
with a wooden leg, a fiddle on his knee. His face was parchmenty,
his cheeks sunken, his lips compressed into a long, straight line;
his small grey eyes had an anxious look, yet were ever ready to
twinkle into a smile. He wore a suit of black, preserved from sheer
decay by a needle too evidently unskilled. Wrapped about a scarcely
visible collar was a broad black neckcloth of the antique fashion;
his one shoe was cobbled into shapelessness. Mr. Boddy's spirit had
proved more durable than his garments. Often hard set to earn the
few shillings a week that sufficed to him, he kept up a
long-standing reputation for joviality, and, with the aid of his
fiddle, made himself welcome at many a festive gathering in Lambeth.

'Give Mr. Hackroyd a cup o' tea, Mary,' said Mrs. Bower. 'How you
pore men go about your work days like this is more than I can
understand. I haven't life enough in me to drive away a fly as
settles on my nose. It's all very well for you to laugh, Mr. Boddy.
There's good in everything, if we only see it, and you may thank the
trouble you've had as it's kep' your flesh down.'

Ackroyd addressed the old man.

'There's a friend of mine in Newport Street would be glad to have
you do a little job for him, Mr. Boddy. Two or three chairs, I
think.'

Mr. Boddy held forth his stumpy, wrinkled hand.

'Give us a friendly grip, Mr. Ackroyd! There's never a friend in
this world but the man as finds you work; that's the philosophy as
has come o' my three-score-and-nine years. What's the name and
address? I'll be round the first thing on Monday morning.'

The information was given.

'You just make a note o' that in your head, Mary, my dear,' the old
mam continued. ''Taint very likely I'll forget, but my memory do
play me a trick now and then. Ask me about things as happened fifty
years ago, and I'll serve you as well as the almanac. It's the same
with my eyes. I used to be near-sighted, and now I'll read you the
sign-board across the street easier than that big bill on the wall.'

He raised his violin, and struck out with spirit 'The March of the
Men of Harlech.'

'That's the teen as always goes with me on my way to work,' he said,
with a laugh. 'It keeps up my courage; this old timber o' mine
stumps time on the pavement, and I feel I'm good for something yet.
If only the hand'll keep steady! Firm enough yet, eh, Mr. Ackroyd?'

He swept the bow through a few ringing chords.

'Firm enough,' said Luke, 'and a fine tone, too. I suppose the older
the fiddle is the better it gets?'

'Ah, 'taint like these fingers. Old Jo Racket played this instrument
more than sixty years ago; so far back I can answer for it. You
remember Jo, Mrs. Bower, ma'am? Yes, yes, you can just remember him;
you was a little 'un when he'd use to crawl round from the work'us
of a Sunday to the "Green Man." When he went into the 'Ouse he give
the fiddle to Mat Trent, Lyddy and Thyrza's father, Mr. Ackroyd. Ah,
talk of a player! You should a' heard what Mat could do with this
'ere instrument. What do _you_ say, Mrs. Bower, ma'am?'

'He was a good player, was Mr. Trent; but not better than somebody
else we know of, eh, Mr. Hackroyd?'

'Now don't you go pervertin' my judgment with flattery, ma'am,' said
the old man, looking pleased for all that. 'Matthew Trent was
Matthew Trent, an' Lambeth 'll never know another like him. He was
made o' music! When did you hear any man with a tenor voice like
his? He made songs, too, Mr. Ackroyd--words, music, an' all. Why,
Thyrza sings one of 'em still.'

'But how does she remember it?' Ackroyd asked with much interest.
'He died when she was a baby.'

'Yes, yes, she don't remember it of her father. It was me as taught
her it, to be sure, as I did most o' the other songs she knows.'

'But she wasn't a baby either,' put in Mrs. Bower. 'She was four
years; an' Lydia was four years older.'

'Four years an' two months,' said Mr. Boddy, nodding with a laugh.
'Let's be ac'rate, Mrs. Bower, ma'am. Thirteen year ago next
fourteenth o' December, Mr. Ackroyd. There's a deal happened since
then. On that day I had my shop in the Cut, and I had two legs like
other mortals. Things wasn't doing so bad with me. Why, it's like
yesterday to remember. My wife she come a-runnin' into the shop just
before dinner-time. "There's a boiler busted at Walton's," she says,
"an' they say as Mr. Trent's killed." It was Walton's, the
pump-maker's, in Ground Street.'

'It's Simpson & Thomas's now,' remarked Mrs. Bower. 'Why, where Jim
Candle works, you know, Mr. Hackroyd.'

Luke nodded, knowing the circumstance. The whole story was familiar
to him, indeed; but Mr. Boddy talked on in an old man's way for
pleasure in the past.

'So it is, so it is. Me an' my wife took the little 'uns to the
'Orspital. He knew 'em, did poor Mat, but he couldn't speak. What a
face he had! Thyrza was frighted and cried; Lyddy just held on hard
to my hand, but she didn't cry. I don't remember to a' seen Lyddy
cry more than two or three times in my life; she always hid away for
that, when she couldn't help herself. bless her!'

'Lydia grows more an' more like her father,' said Mrs. Bower.

'She does, ma'am, she does. I used to say as she was like him, when
she sat in my shop of a night and watched the people in and out. Her
eyes was so bright-looking, just like Mat's. Eh, there wasn't much
as the little 'un didn't see. One day--how my wife did laugh!--she
looks at me for a long time, an' then she says: "How is it, Mr.
Boddy," she says, "as you've got one eyelid lower than the other?"
It's true as I have a bit of a droop in the right eye, but it's not
so much as any one 'ud notice it at once. I can hear her say that as
if it was in this room. An' she stood before me, a little thing that
high. I didn't think she'd be so tall. She growed wonderful from
twelve to sixteen. It's me has to look up to her now.'

A customer entered the shop, and Mrs. Bower went out.

'I don't think Thyrza's as much a favourite with any one as her
sister,' said Ackroyd, looking at Mary Bower, who had been silent
all this time.

'Oh, I like her very much,' was the reply. 'But there's something--
I don't think she's as easy to understand as Lydia. Still, I
shouldn't wonder if she pleases some people more.'

Mary dropped her eyes as she spoke, and smiled gently. Ackroyd
tapped with his foot.

'That's Totty Nancarrow,' said Mrs. Bower, reappearing from the
shop. 'What a girl that is, to be sure! She's for all the world like
a lad put into petticoats. I should think there's a-goin' to be a
feast over in Newport Street. A tin o' sardines, four bottles o'
ginger-beer, two pound o' seed cake, an' two pots o' raspberry! Eh,
she's a queer 'un! I can't think where she gets her money from
either.'

'It's a pity to see Thyrza going about with her so much,' said Mary,
gravely.

'Why, I can't say as I know any real harm of her,' said her mother,
'unless it is as she's a Catholic.'

'Totty Nancarrow a Catholic!' exclaimed Ackroyd. 'Why, I never knew
that.'

'Her mother was Irish, you see, an' I don't suppose as her father
thought much about religion. I dessay there's some good people
Catholics, but I can't say as I take much to them I know.'

Mary's face was expressing lively feeling.

'How can they be really good, mother, when their religion lets them
do wrong, if only they'll go and confess it to the priest? I
wouldn't trust anybody as was a Catholic. I don't think the religion
ought to be allowed.'

Here was evidently a subject which had power to draw Mary from her
wonted reticence. Her quiet eyes gleamed all at once with
indignation.

Ackroyd laughed with good-natured ridicule.

'Nay,' he said, 'the time's gone by for that kind of thing, Miss
Bower. You wouldn't have us begin religious persecution again?'

'I don't want to persecute anybody,' the girl answered; 'but I
wouldn't let them be misled by a bad and false religion.'

On any other subject Mary would have expressed her opinion with
diffidence; not on this.

'I don't want to be rude, Miss Mary,' Luke rejoined, 'but what right
have you to say that their religion's any worse or falser than your
own?'

'Everybody knows that it is--that cares about religion at all,'
Mary replied with coldness and, in the last words, a significant
severity.

'It's the faith, Mary, my dear,' interposed Mr. Boddy, 'the faith's
the great thing. I don't suppose as form matters so much.'

The girl gave the old man a brief, offended glance, and drew into
herself.

'Well,' said Mrs. Bower, 'that's one way o' lookin' at it but I
can't see neither as there's much good in believin' what isn't
true.'

'That's to the point, Mrs. Bower,' said Ackroyd with a smile.

There was a footstep in the shop--firm, yet light and quick--then
a girl's face showed itself at the parlour door. It was a face which
atoned for lack of regular features by the bright intelligence and
the warmth of heart that shone in its smile of greeting. A fair
broad forehead lay above well-arched brows; the eyes below were
large and shrewdly observant, with laughter and kindness blent in
their dark depths. The cheeks were warm with health; the lips and
chin were strong, yet marked with refinement; they told of
independence, of fervid instincts; perhaps of a temper a little apt
to be impatient. It was not an imaginative countenance, yet alive
with thought and feeling--all, one felt, ready at the moment's need
--the kind of face which becomes the light and joy of home, the
bliss of children, the unfailing support of a man's courage. Her
hair was cut short and crisped itself above her neck; her hat of
black straw and dark dress were those of a work-girl--poor, yet, in
their lack of adornment, suiting well with the active, helpful
impression which her look produced.

'Here's Mary an' Mr. Hackroyd fallin' out again, Lydia,' said Mrs.
Bower.

'What about now?' Lydia asked, coming in and seating herself. Her
eyes passed quickly over Ackroyd's face and rested on that of the
old man with much kindness.

'Oh, the hold talk--about religion.'

'I think it 'ud be better if they left that alone,' she replied,
glancing at Mary.

'You're right, Miss Trent,' said Luke. 'It's about the most
unprofitable thing anyone can argue about.'

'Have you had your tea?' Mrs. Bower asked of Lydia.

'No; but I mustn't stop to have any, thank you, Mrs. Bower. Thyrza
'll think I'm never coming home. I only looked in just to ask Mary
to come and have tea with us tomorrow.'

Ackroyd rose to depart.

'If I see Holmes I'll tell him you'll look in on Monday, Mr. Boddy.'

'Thank you, Mr. Ackroyd, thank you; no fear but I'll be there, sir.'

He nodded a leave-taking and went.

'Some work, grandad?' Lydia asked, moving to sit by Mr. Boddy.

'Yes, my dear; the thing as keeps the world a-goin'. How's the
little 'un?'

'Why, I don't think she seems very well. I didn't want her to go to
work this morning, but she couldn't make up her mind to stay at
home. The hot weather makes her restless.'

'It's dreadful tryin'!' sighed Mrs. Bower.

'But I really mustn't stay, and that's the truth.' She rose from her
chair. 'Where do you think I've been, Mary? Mrs. Isaacs sent round
this morning to ask if I could give her a bit of help. She's going
to Margate on Monday, and there we've been all the afternoon
trimming new hats for herself and the girls. She's given me a
shilling, and I'm sure it wasn't worth half that, all I did. You'll
come tomorrow, Mary?'

'I will if--you know what?'

'Now did you ever know such a girl!' Lydia exclaimed, looking round
at the others. 'You understand what she means, Mrs. Bower?'

'I dare say I do, my dear.'

'But I can't promise, Mary. I don't like to leave Thyrza always.'

'I don't see why she shouldn't come too,' said Mary. Lydia shook her
head.

'Well, you come at four o'clock, at all events, and we'll see all
about it. Good-bye, grandad.'

She hurried away, throwing back a bright look as she passed into the
shop.

Paradise Street runs at right angles into Lambeth Walk. As Lydia
approached this point, she saw that Ackroyd stood there, apparently
waiting for her. He was turning over the leaves of one of his books,
but kept glancing towards her as she drew near. He wished to speak,
and she stopped.

'Do you think,' he said, with diffidence, 'that your sister would
come out to-morrow after tea?'

Lydia kept her eyes down.

'I don't know, Mr. Ackroyd,' she answered. 'I'll ask her; I don t
think she's going anywhere.'

'It won't be like last Sunday?'

'She really didn't feel well. And I can't promise, you know Mr.
Ackroyd.'

She met his eyes for an instant, then looked along the street There
was a faint smile on her lips, with just a suspicion of some
trouble.

'But you _will_ ask her?'

'Yes, I will.'

She added in a lower voice, and with constraint:

'I'm afraid she won't go by herself.'

'Then come with her. Do! Will you?'

'If she asks me to, I will.'

Lydia moved as if to leave him, but he followed.

'Miss Trent, you'll say a word for me sometimes?'

She raised her eyes again and replied quickly:

'I never say nothing against you, Mr. Ackroyd.'

'Thank you. Then I'll be at the end of the Walk at six o'clock,
shall I?'

She nodded, and walked quickly on. Ackroyd turned back into Paradise
Street. His cheeks were a trifle flushed, and he kept making nervous
movements with his head. So busy were his thoughts that he
unconsciously passed the door of the house in which he lived, and
had to turn when the roar of a train passing over the archway
reminded him where he was.





CHAPTER IV

THYRZA SINGS




Lydis, too, betrayed some disturbance of thought as she pursued her
way. Her face was graver than before: once or twice her lips moved
as if she were speaking to herself.

After going a short distance along Lambeth Walk, she turned off into
a street which began unpromisingly between low-built and
poverty-stained houses, but soon bettered in appearance. Its name is
Walnut Tree Walk. For the most part it consists of old dwellings,
which probably were the houses of people above the working class in
days when Lambeth's squalor was confined within narrower limits. The
doors are framed with dark wood, and have hanging porches. At the
end of the street is a glimpse of trees growing in Kennington Road.

To one of these houses Lydia admitted herself with a latch-key; she
ascended to the top floor and entered a room in the front. It was
sparely furnished, but with a certain cleanly comfort. A bed stood
in one corner; in another, a small washhand-stand; between them a
low chest of drawers with a looking-glass upon it. The rest was
arranged for day use; a cupboard kept out of sight household
utensils and food. Being immediately under the roof, the room was
much heated after long hours of sunshine. From the open window came
a heavy scent of mignonette.

Thyrza had laid the table for tea, and was sitting idly. It was not
easy to recognise her as Lydia's sister; if you searched her
features the sisterhood was there, but the type of countenance was
so subtly modified, so refined, as to become beauty of rare
suggestiveness. She was of pale complexion, and had golden hair; it
was plaited in one braid, which fell to her waist. Like Lydia's, her
eyes were large and full of light; every line of the face was
delicate, harmonious, sweet; each thought that passed through her
mind reflected itself in a change of expression, produced one knew
not how, one phase melting into another like flitting lights upon a
stream in woodland. It was a subtly morbid physiognomy, and
impressed one with a sense of vague trouble. There was none of the
spontaneous pleasure in life which gave Lydia's face such wholesome
brightness; no impulse of activity, no resolve; all tended to
preoccupation, to emotional reverie. She had not yet completed her
seventeenth year. and there was still something of childhood in her
movements. Her form was slight, graceful, and of lower stature than
her sister's. She wore a dress of small-patterned print, with a
broad collar of cheap lace.

'It was too hot to light a fire,' she said, rising as Lydia entered.
'Mrs. Jarmey says she'll give us water for the tea.'

'I hoped you'd be having yours,' Lydia replied. 'It's nearly six
o'clock. I'll take the tea-pot down, dear.'

When they were seated at the table, Lydia drew from her pocket a
shilling and held it up laughingly.

'That from Mrs. Isaacs?' her sister asked.

'Yes. Not bad for Saturday afternoon, is it? Now I must take my
boots to be done. If it began to rain I should be in a nice fix; I
haven't a sole to walk on.'

'I just looked in at Mrs. Bower's as I passed,' she continued
presently. 'Mr. Ackroyd was there. He'd come to tell grandad of some
work. That was kind of him, wasn't it?'

Thyrza assented absently.

'Is Mary coming to tea to-morrow?' she asked.

'Yes. At least she said she would if I'd go to chapel with her
afterwards. She won't be satisfied till she gets me there every
Sunday.'

'How tiresome, Lyddy!'

'But there's somebody wants you to go out as well. You know who.'

'You mean Mr. Ackroyd?'

'Yes. He met me when I came out of Mrs. Bower's, and asked me if I
thought you would.'

Thyrza was silent for a little. then she said:

'I can't go with him alone, Lyddy. I don't mind if you go too.'

'But that's just what he doesn't want,' said her sister, with a
smile which was not quite natural.

Thyrza averted her eyes, and began to speak of something else. The
meal was quickly over, then Lydia took up some sewing. Thyrza went
to the window and stood for a while looking at the people that
passed, but presently she seated herself, and fell into the brooding
which her sister's entrance had interrupted. Lydia also was quieter
than usual; her eyes often wandered from her work to Thyrza. At last
she leaned forward and said:

'What are you thinking of, Blue-eyes?'

Thyrza drew a deep sigh.

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