Victor Appleton - "TOM SWIFT AND HIS AERIAL WARSHIP"

Unknown - "King John"

Washington Irving - "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"

Dillon Wallace - "The Lure of the Labrador Wild"

Thyrza

G >> George Gissing >> Thyrza




'I don't know, Lyddy. It's so hot, I don't feel able to do
anything.'

'But you're always thinking and thinking. What is it that troubles
you?'

'I feel dull.'

'Why don't you like to go out with Mr. Ackroyd?' Lydia asked.

'Why do you so much want me to, Lyddy?'

'Because he thinks a great deal of you, and it would be nice if you
got to like him.'

'But I shan't, never;--I know I shan't.'

'Why not, dear?'

'I don't _dislike_ him, but he mustn't get to think it's any thing
else. I'll go out with him if you'll go as well,' she added, fixing
her eyes on Lydia's.

The latter bent to pick up a reel of cotton.

'We'll see when to-morrow comes,' she said.

Silence again fell between them, whilst Lydia's fingers worked
rapidly. The evening drew on. Thyrza took her chair to the window,
leaned upon the sill, and looked up at the reddening sky. The
windows of the other houses were all open; here and there women
talked from them with friends across the street. People were going
backwards and forwards with bags and baskets, on the business of
Saturday evening; in the distance sounded the noise of the market in
Lambeth Walk.

Shortly after eight o'clock Lydia said

'I'll just go round with my boots, and get something for dinner
to-morrow.'

'I'll come with you,' Thyrza said. 'I can't bear to sit here any
longer.'

They went forth, and were soon in the midst of the market. Lambeth
Walk is a long, narrow street, and at this hour was so thronged with
people that an occasional vehicle with difficulty made slow passage.
On the outer edges of the pavement, in front of the busy shops, were
rows of booths, stalls, and harrows, whereon meat, vegetables, fish,
and household requirements of indescribable variety were exposed for
sale. The vendors vied with one another in uproarious advertisement
of their goods. In vociferation the butchers doubtless excelled;
their 'Lovely, lovely, lovely!' and their reiterated 'Buy, buy,
buy!' rang clangorous above the hoarse roaring of costermongers and
the din of those who clattered pots and pans. Here and there meat
was being sold by Dutch auction, a brisk business. Umbrellas,
articles of clothing, quack medicines, were disposed of in the same
way, giving occasion for much coarse humour. The market-night is the
sole out-of-door amusement regularly at hand for London working
people, the only one, in truth, for which they show any real
capacity. Everywhere was laughter and interchange of
good-fellowship. Women sauntered the length of the street and back
again for the pleasure of picking out the best and cheapest bundle
of rhubarb, or lettuce, the biggest and hardest cabbage, the most
appetising rasher; they compared notes, and bantered each other on
purchases. The hot air reeked with odours. From stalls where whelks
were sold rose the pungency of vinegar; decaying vegetables trodden
under foot blended their putridness with the musty smell of
second-hand garments; the grocers' shops were aromatic; above all
was distinguishable the acrid exhalation from the shops where fried
fish and potatoes hissed in boiling grease. There Lambeth's supper
was preparing, to be eaten on the spot, or taken away wrapped in
newspaper. Stewed eels and baked meat pies were discoverable through
the steam of other windows, but the fried fish and potatoes appealed
irresistibly to the palate through the nostrils, and stood first in
popularity.

The people were of the very various classes which subdivide the
great proletarian order. Children of the gutter and sexless haunters
of the street corner elbowed comfortable artisans and their wives;
there were bareheaded hoidens from the obscurest courts, and
work-girls whose self-respect was proof against all the squalor and
vileness hourly surrounding them. Of the women, whatsoever their
appearance, the great majority carried babies. Wives, themselves
scarcely past childhood, balanced shawl-enveloped bantlings against
heavy market-baskets. Little girls of nine or ten were going from
stall to stall, making purchases with the confidence and acumen of
old housekeepers; slight fear that they would fail to get their
money's worth. Children, too, had the business of sale upon their
hands: ragged urchins went about with blocks of salt, importuning
the marketers, and dishevelled girls carried bundles of assorted
vegetables, crying, 'A penny all the lot! A penny the 'ole lot!'

The public-houses were full. Through the gaping doors you saw a
tightly-packed crowd of men, women, and children, drinking at the
bar or waiting to have their jugs filled, tobacco smoke wreathing
above their heads. With few exceptions the frequenters of the Walk
turned into the public-house as a natural incident of the evening's
business. The women with the babies grew thirsty in the hot, foul
air of the street, and invited each other to refreshment of varying
strength, chatting the while of their most intimate affairs, the
eternal 'says I,' 'says he,' 'says she,' of vulgar converse. They
stood indifferently by the side of liquor-sodden creatures whose
look was pollution. Companies of girls, neatly dressed and as far
from depravity as possible, called for their glasses of small beer,
and came forth again with merriment in treble key.

When the sisters had done their business at the boot-maker's, and
were considering what their purchase should be for Sunday's dinner,
Thyrza caught sight of Totty Nancarrow entering a shop. At once she
said: 'I won't be late back, Lyddy. I'm just going to walk a little
way with Totty.'

Lydia's face showed annoyance.

'Where is she?' she asked, looking back.

'In the butcher's just there.'

'Don't go to-night, Thyrza. I'd rather you didn't.'

'I promise I won't be late. Only half an hour.'

She waved her hand and ran off, of a sudden changed to cheerfulness.
Totty received her in the shop with a friendly laugh. Mrs. Bower's
description of Miss Nancarrow as a lad in petticoats was not inapt,
yet she was by no means heavy or awkward. She had a lithe, shapely
figure, and her features much resembled those of a fairly
good-looking boy. Her attire showed little care for personal
adornment, but it suited her, because it suggested bodily activity.
She wore a plain, tight-fitting grey gown, a small straw hat of the
brimless kind, and a white linen collar about her neck. Totty was
nineteen; no girl in Lambeth relished life with so much
determination, yet to all appearance so harmlessly. Her independence
was complete; for five years she had been parentless and had lived
alone.

Thyrza was attracted to her by this air of freedom and joyousness
which distinguished Totty. It was a character wholly unlike her own,
and her imaginative thought discerned in it something of an ideal;
her own timidity and her tendency to languor found a refreshing
antidote in the other's breezy carelessness. Impurity of mind would
have repelled her, and there was no trace of it in Totty. Yet Lydia
took very ill this recently-grown companionship, holding her friend
Mary Bower's view of the girl's character. Her prejudice was
enhanced by the jealous care with which, from the time of her own
childhood, she had been accustomed to watch over her sister. Already
there had been trouble between Thyrza and her on this account. In
spite of the unalterable love which united them, their points of
unlikeness not seldom brought about debates which Lydia's quick
temper sometimes aggravated to a quarrel.

So Lydia finished her marketing and turned homewards with a
perturbed mind. But the other two walked, with gossip and laughter,
to Totty's lodgings, which were in Newport Street, an offshoot of
Paradise Street.

'I'm going with Annie West to a friendly lead,' Totty said; 'will
you come with us?'

Thyrza hesitated. The entertainment known as a 'friendly lead' is
always held at a public-house, and she knew that Lydia would
seriously disapprove of her going to such a place. Yet she had even
a physical need of change, of recreation. Whilst she discussed the
matter anxiously with herself they entered the house and went up to
Totty's room. The house was very small, and had a close, musty
smell, as if no fresh air ever got into it. Totty's chamber was a
poor, bare little retreat, with low, cracked, grimy ceiling, and one
scrap of carpet on the floor, just by the diminutive bed. On a table
lay the provisions she had that afternoon brought in from Mrs.
Bower's. On the mantel-piece was a small card, whereon was printed
an announcement of the friendly lead; at the bead stood the name of
a public-house, with that of its proprietor; then followed: 'A
meeting will take place at the above on Saturday evening, August 2,
for the benefit of Bill Mennie, the well-known barber of George
Street, who has been laid up through breaking of his leg, and is
quite unable to follow his employment at present. We the
undersigned, knowing him to be thoroughly respected and a good
supporter of these meetings, they trust you will come forward on
this occasion, and give him that support he so richly deserve, this
being his first appeal.--Chairman:--Count Bismark. Vice:--Dick
Perkins. Assisted by' (here was a long list, mostly of nicknames)
'Little Arthur, Flash Bob, Young Brummy, Lardy, Bumper, Old Tacks,
Jo at Thomson's, Short-pipe Tommy, Boy Dick, Chaffy Sam Coppock,'
and others equally suggestive.

Whilst Thyrza perused this, Totty was singing a merry song.

'I've had ten shillin's sent me to-day,' she said.

'Who by?'

'An old uncle of mine, 'cause it's my birthday to-morrow. He's a rum
old fellow. About two years ago he came and asked me if I'd go and
live with him and my aunt, and be made a lady of. Honest, he did! He
keeps a shop in Tottenham Court Road. He and father 'd quarrelled,
and he never come near when father died, and I had to look out for
myself. Now, he'd like to make a lady of me; he'll wait a long time
till he gets the chance!'

'But wouldn't it be nice, Totty?' Thyrza asked, doubtfully.

'I'd sooner live in my own way, thank you. Fancy me havin' to sit
proper at a table, afraid to eat an' drink! What's the use o'
livin', if you don't enjoy yourself?'

They were interrupted by a knock at the door, followed by the
appearance of Annie West, a less wholesome-looking girl than Totty,
but equally vivacious.

'Well, will you come to the "Prince Albert," Thyrza?' Totty asked.

'I can't stay long,' was the answer; 'but I'll go for a little
while.'

The house of entertainment was at no great distance. They passed
through the bar and up into a room on the first floor, where a
miscellaneous assembly was just gathering. Down the middle was a
long table, with benches beside it, and a round-backed chair at each
end; other seats were ranged along the walls. At the upper end of
the room an arrangement of dirty red hangings--in the form of a
canopy, surmounted by a lion and unicorn, of pasteboard--showed
that festive meetings were regularly held here. Round about were
pictures of hunting incidents, of racehorses, of politicians and
pugilists, interspersed with advertisements of beverages. A piano
occupied one corner.

The chairman was already in his place; on the table before him was a
soup-plate, into which each visitor threw a contribution on
arriving. Seated on the benches were a number of men, women, and
girls, all with pewters or glasses before them, and the air was
thickening with smoke of pipes. The beneficiary of the evening, a
portly person with a face of high satisfaction, sat near the
chairman, and by him were two girls of decent appearance, his
daughters. The president puffed at a churchwarden and exchanged
genial banter with those who came up to deposit offerings. Mr. Dick
Perkins, the Vice, was encouraging a spirit of conviviality at the
other end. A few minutes after Thyrza and her companions had
entered, a youth of the seediest appearance struck introductory
chords on the piano, and started off at high pressure with a
selection of popular melodies. The room by degrees grew full. Then
the chairman rose, and with jocular remarks announced the first
song.

Totty had several acquaintances present, male and female; her
laughter frequently sounded above the hubbub of voices. Thyrza, who
had declined to have anything to drink, shrank into as little space
as possible; she was nervous and self-reproachful, yet the singing
and the uproar gave her a certain pleasure. There was nothing in the
talk around her and the songs that were sung that made it a shame
for her to be present. Plebeian good-humour does not often
degenerate into brutality at meetings of this kind until a late hour
of the evening. The girls who sat with glasses of beer before them,
and carried on primitive flirtations with their neighbours, were
honest wage-earners of factory and workshop, well able to make
themselves respected. If they lacked refinement, natural or
acquired, it was not their fault; toil was behind them and before,
the hours of rest were few, suffering and lack of bread might at any
moment come upon them. They had all thrown their hard-earned pence
into the soup-plate gladly and kindly; now they enjoyed themselves.

The chairman excited enthusiasm by announcement of a song by Mr. Sam
Coppock--known to the company as 'Chaffy Sem.' Sam was a young man
who clearly had no small opinion of himself; he wore a bright-blue
necktie, and had a geranium flower in his button-hole; his hair was
cut as short as scissors could make it, and as he stood regarding
the assembly he twisted the ends of a scarcely visible moustache.
When he fixed a round glass in one eye and perked his head with a
burlesque of aristocratic bearing, the laughter and applause were
deafening.

'He's a warm 'un, is Sem!' was the delighted comment on all hands.

The pianist made discursive prelude, then Mr. Coppock gave forth a
ditty of the most sentimental character, telling of the
disappearance of a young lady to whom he was devoted. The burden, in
which all bore a part, ran thus:

We trecked 'er little footprints in the snayoo,
We trecked 'er little footprints in the snayoo,
I shall ne'er forget the d'y
When Jenny lost her w'y,
And we trecked 'er little footprints in the snayoo!

It was known that the singer had thoughts of cultivating his talent
and of appearing on the music-hall stage; it was not unlikely that
he might some day become 'the great Sam.' A second song was called
for and granted; a third--but Mr. Coppock intimated that it did not
become him to keep other talent in the background. The chairman made
a humorous speech, informing the company that their friend would
stand forth again later in the evening. Mr. Dick Perkins was at
present about to oblige.

The Vice was a frisky little man. He began with what is known as
'patter,' then gave melodious account of a romantic meeting with a
damsel whom he had seen only once to lose sight of for ever. And the
refrain was:

She wore a lov-e-lie bonnet
With fruit end flowers upon it,
End she dwelt in the henvirons of 'Ol-lo-w'y!

As yet only men had sung; solicitation had failed with such of the
girls as were known to be musically given. Yet an earnest prayer
from the chairman succeeded at length in overcoming the diffidence
of one. She was a pale, unhealthy thing, and wore an ugly-shaped hat
with a gruesome green feather; she sang with her eyes down, and in a
voice which did not lack a certain sweetness. The ballad was of
springitime and the country and love.

Underneath the May-tree blossoms
Oft we've wandered, you and I,
Listening to the mill-stream's whisper,
Like a stream soft-gliding by.

The girl had a drunken mother, and spent a month or two of every
year in the hospital, for her day's work overtaxed her strength. She
was one of those fated toilers, to struggle on as long as any one
would employ her, then to fall among the forgotten wretched. And she
sang of May-bloom and love; of love that had never come near her and
that she would never know; sang, with her eyes upon the beer-stained
table, in a public-house amid the backways of Lambeth.

Totty Nancarrow was whispering to Thyrza:

'Sing something, old girl! Why shouldn't you?'

Annie West was also at hand, urging the same.

'Let 'em hear some real singing, Thyrza. There's a dear.'

Thyrza was in sore trouble. Music, if it were but a street organ,
always stirred her heart and made her eager for the joy of song. She
had never known what it was to sing before a number of people; the
prospect of applause tempted her. Yet she had scarcely the courage,
and the thought of Lydia's grief and anger--for Lydia would surely
hear of it--was keenly present.

'It's getting late,' she replied nervously. 'I can't stay; I can't
sing to-night.'

Only one or two people in the room knew her by sight, but Totty had
led to its being passed from one to another that she was a good
singer. The landlord of the house happened to be in the room; he
came and spoke to her.

'You don't remember me, Miss Trent, but I knew your father well
enough, and I knew you when you was a little 'un. In those days I
had the "Green Man" in the Cut; your father often enough gave us a
toon on his fiddle. A rare good fiddler he was, too! Give us a song
now, for old times' sake.'

Thyrza found herself preparing, in spite of herself. She trembled
violently, and her heart beat with a strange pain. She heard the
chairman shout her name; the sound made her face burn.

'Oh, what shall I sing?' she whispered distractedly to Totty, whilst
all eyes were turned to regard her.

'Sing "A Penny for your thoughts."'

It was the one song she knew of her father's making, a
half-mirthful, half-pathetic little piece in the form of a dialogue
between husband and wife, a true expression of the life of working
folk, which only a man who was more than half a poet could have
shaped.

The seedy youth at the piano was equal to any demand for
accompaniment; Totty hummed the air to him, and he had his chords
ready without delay.

Thyrza raised her face and began to sing. Yes, it was different
enough from anything that had come before; her pure sweet tones
touched the hearers profoundly; not a foot stirred. At the second
verse she had grown in confidence, and rose more boldly to the upper
notes. At the end she was singing her best--better than she had
ever sung at home, better than she thought she could sing. The
applause that followed was tumultuous. By this time much beer had
been consumed; the audience was in a mood for enjoying good things.

'That's something like, old girl!' cried Totty, clapping her on the
back. 'Have a drink out of my glass. It's only ginger-beer; it can't
hurt you. This is jolly! Ain't it a lark to be alive?'

The pale-faced girl who had sung of May-blossoms looked across the
table with eyes in which jealousy strove against admiration. There
were remarks aside between the men with regard to Thyrza's personal
appearance.

She must sing again. They were not going to be left with hungry ears
after a song like that. Thyrza still suffered from the sense that
she was doing wrong, but the praise was so sweet to her; sweeter,
she thought, than anything she had ever known. She longed to repeat
her triumph.

Totty named another song; the faint resistance was overcome, and
again the room hushed itself, every hearer spellbound. It was a
voice well worthy of cultivation, excellent in compass, with rare
sweet power. Again the rapturous applause, and again the demand for
more. Another! she should not refuse them. Only one more and they
would be content. And a third time she sang; a third time was borne
upwards on clamour.

'Totty, I _must_ go,' she whispered. 'What's the time?'

'It's only just after ten,' was the reply. 'You'll soon run home.'

'After ten? Oh, I must go at once!'

She left her place, and as quickly as possible made her way through
the crowd. Just at the door she saw a face that she recognised, but
a feeling of faintness was creeping upon her, and she could think of
nothing but the desire to breathe fresh air. Already she was on the
stairs, but her strength suddenly failed; she felt herself falling,
felt herself strongly seized, then lost consciousness.

She came to herself in a few minutes in the bar-parlour; the
landlady was attending to her, and the door had been shut against
intruders. Her first recognition was of Luke Ackroyd.

'Don't say anything,' she murmured, looking at him imploringly.
'Don't tell Lyddy.'

'Not I,' replied Ackroyd. 'Just drink a drop and you'll be all
right. I'll see you home. You feel better, don't you?'

Yes, she felt better, though her head ached miserably. Soon she was
able to walk, and longed to hasten away. The landlady let her out by
the private door, and Ackroyd went with her.

'Will you take my arm?' he said, speaking very gently, and looking
into her face with eloquent eyes. 'I'm rare and glad I happened to
be there. I heard you singing from downstairs, and I asked, Who in
the world's that? I know now what Mr. Boddy means when he talks so
about your voice. Won't you take my arm, Miss Trent?'

'I feel quite well again, thank you,' she replied. 'I'd no business
to be there, Mr. Ackroyd. Lyddy 'll be very angry; she can't help
hearing.'

'No, no! she won't be angry. You tell her at once. You were with
Totty Nancarrow, I suppose? Oh, it'll be all right. But of course it
isn't the kind of place for you, Miss Trent.'

She kept silence. They were walking through a quiet street where the
only light came from the gas-lamps. Ackroyd presently looked again
into her face.

'Will you come out to-morrow?' he asked, softly.

'Not to-morrow, Mr. Ackroyd.' She added: 'If I did I couldn't come
alone. It is better to tell you at once, isn't it? I don't mind with
my sister, because then we just go like friends; but I don't want to
have people think anything else.'

'Then come with your sister. We _are_ friends. aren't we? I can wait
for something else.'

'But you mustn't, Mr. Ackroyd. It'll never come. I mean it; I shall
never alter my mind. I have a reason.'

'What reason?' he asked, standing still.

She looked away.

'I mean that--that I couldn't never marry you.'

'Don't say that! You don't knew what I felt when I heard you
singing. Have you heard any harm against me. Thyrza? I haven't
always been as steady a fellow as I ought to be, but that was before
I came to know you. It's no good, whatever you say--I can't give up
hope. Why, a man 'ud do anything for half a kind word from you.
Thyrza (he lowered his voice), there isn't anyone else, is there?'

She was silent.

'You don't mean that? Good God! I don't know what'll become of me if
I think of that. The only thing I care to live for is the hope of
having you for my wife.'

'But you mustn't hope, Mr. Ackroyd. You'll find someone much better
for you than me. But I can't stop. It's so late, and my head aches
so. Do let me go, please.'

He made an effort over himself. The nearest lamp showed him that she
was very pale.

'Only one word, Thyrza. Is there really any one else?'

'No; but that doesn't alter it.'

She walked quickly on. Ackroyd, with a great sigh of relief, went on
by her side. They came out into Lambeth Walk, where the market was
as noisy as ever; the shops lit up, the stalls flaring with naphtha
lamps, the odour of fried fish everywhere predominant. He led her
through the crowd and a short distance into her own street. Then she
gave him her hand and said: 'Good-night, Mr. Ackroyd. Thank you for
bringing me back. You'll be friends with me and Lyddy?'

'You'll come out with her to-morrow?'

'I can't promise. Good-night!'





CHAPTER V

A LAND OF TWILIGHT




It happened that Mrs. Jarmey, the landlady of the house in which the
sisters lived, had business in the neighbourhood of the 'Prince
Albert,' and chanced to exchange a word with an acquaintance who had
just come away after hearing Thyrza sing. Returning home, she found
Lydia at the door, anxiously and impatiently waiting for Thyrza's
appearance. The news, of course, was at once communicated, with
moral reflections, wherein Mrs. Jarmey excelled. Not five minutes
later, and whilst the two were still talking in the passage, the
front door opened, and Thyrza came in. Lydia turned and went
upstairs.

Thyrza, entering the room, sought her sister's face; it had an angry
look. For a moment Lydia did not speak; the other, laying aside her
hat, said: 'I'm sorry I'm so late, Lyddy.'

'Where have you been?' her sister asked, in a voice which strove to
command itself.

Thyrza could not tell the whole truth at once, though she knew it
would have to be confessed eventually; indeed, whether or no
discovery came from other sources, all would eventually be told of
her own free will. She might fear at the moment, but in the end kept
no secret from Lydia.

'I've been about with Totty,' she said, averting her face as she
drew off her cotton gloves.

'Yes, you have! You've been singing at a public-house.'

Lydia was too upset to note the paleness of Thyrza's face, which at
another moment would have elicited anxious question. She was deeply
hurt that Thyrza made so little account of her wishes; jealous of
the influence of Totty Nancarrow; stirred with apprehensions as
powerful as a mother's. On the other hand, it was Thyrza's nature to
shrink into coldness before angry words. She suffered intensely when
the voice which was of wont so affectionate turned to severity, but
she could not excuse herself till the storm was over. And it was
most often from the elder girl that the first words of reconcilement
came.

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