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 T H Y E Z A 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 T H Y E Z A 
 
 A TALE 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE GISSING 
 
 AUTHOR OF ' DEMOS ' 
 ETC. 
 
 <i^fjL€^ 6e 3poTo\ oiSe' ^poTOVs ^poTol dei5co/xej. 
 
 IN THKEE VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1887 
 
 [-1// riy/its reset veii]
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/thyrzatale01giss
 
 ^ 
 
 >> 
 
 V. I 
 
 <^ 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 'I THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 CHAPTER PjlGK 
 
 I. Among the Hills 1 
 
 II. The Idealist IH 
 
 I III. A Corner of Lambeth 39 
 
 ^ IV. Thybza Sings .58 
 
 V. A Land of Twilight 79 
 
 VI. Disinherited 100 
 
 v" VII. The Work in Progees.s 127 
 
 ' "VIII. A Clasp of Hands 151 
 
 \ IX. A Golden Prospect K37 
 
 X. Tempting Fortune 196 
 
 v^ XI. A Man with a Future i>2l 
 
 XII. Lights and Shadows 24 fi 
 
 . XIII. Thtrza Sings Again 2.57 
 
 X XIV. Mists 272 
 
 4
 
 THYEZA. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AMONG THE HILLS. 
 
 There were three at the breakfast-table : Mr. New- 
 thorpe, his daughter Annabel, and their visitor, Anna- 
 bel's cousin. Miss Paula Tyrrell. It was a small, low, 
 soberly-furnished room, the walls covered with carelessly 
 hung etchings and water-colours, and with photographs 
 which were doubtless mementoes of travel ; dwarf book- 
 cases held overflowings from the library, volumes in 
 disorder, clearly more for use than ornament. Tlie 
 casements were open to let in the air of a July morn- 
 ing ; between the thickets of the garden the eye caught 
 glimpses of sun-smitten lake and sheer hillside. P'or 
 the house stood on the shore of Ullswater. 
 
 Of the three breakfasting, Miss Tyrrell was cer- 
 tainly the one whose presence wotdd least allow itself 
 to bu overlooked. Her appetite was hearty, but it 
 scarcely interfered with the free flow of her airy talk, 
 which was independent of remark or reply from Ikt 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 THYRZA 
 
 companions. Though it was not apparent in her de- 
 meanour, this young lady was suffering under a calamity ; 
 her second ' season ' had been ruined at its very culmin- 
 ation by a ludicrous contretem'ps in the shape of an 
 .ittack of measles. Just when she flattered herself that 
 she had never looked so lovely, an instrument of de- 
 stiny embraced her in the shape of an affectionate child, 
 and lo ! she was a fright. Her constitution had soon 
 thrown off the evil thing, but Mrs. Tyrrell decreed her 
 banishment for a time to the remote dwelling of her 
 literary uncle. Once more Paula was lovely, and yet 
 one could scarcely say that the worst was over, seeing 
 that she was constrained to pass summer days within 
 view of Helvellyn when she might have been in Picca- 
 dilly. 
 
 Mr. Newthorpe seldom interrupted his niece's 
 monologue, but his eye often rested upon her, seem- 
 ingly in good-natured speculation, and he bent his head 
 acquiescingly when she put in a quick ' Don't you think 
 so ? ' after a running series of comments on some matter 
 which smacked exceedingly of the town. He was not 
 more than five-and-forty, yet had thin grizzled hair, 
 and a sallow face with lines of trouble deeply scored 
 upon it ; his costume was very careless, indeed all but 
 slovenly, and his attitude in the chair showed, if not 
 weakness of body, at all events physical indolence. 
 
 Some word that fell from Paula prompted him to 
 ask : 
 
 * I wonder where Egremont is ? '
 
 AMOXG THE HILLS 3 
 
 Annabel, who had been sunk in thought, looked up 
 with a smile. She was about to say something, but 
 her cousin replied rapidly : 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Egremont 's in London — at least he was 
 a month ago.' 
 
 ' Xot much of a guarantee that he is there now,' 
 Mr. Xewthorpe rejoined. 
 
 * I'll drop him a line and see,' said Paula. ' I 
 meant to do so yesterday, but forgot. 1*11 write and 
 tell him to send me a full account of himself. Isn't it 
 too bad that people don't write to me I Everybody 
 forgets you when you're out of town in the season. 
 \ow you'll see I shan't have a sin^ile letter asfain this 
 morning ; it is the cruelest thing I ' 
 
 ' But you had a letter yesterday, Paula,' Annabel 
 remarked. 
 
 'A letter? Oh, from mamma; that doesn't count. 
 A letter isn't a letter unless you feel anxious to see 
 what's in it. I know exactly all that mamma will say 
 from beginning to end before I open the envelope. Not 
 a scrap of news, and with her opportunities, too I But 
 I can count on Mr. Egremont for at least four sides — 
 well, three.' 
 
 'But surely he is not a source of news?' said her 
 uncle with surprise. 
 
 'Why not? He can be very jolly when he likjs 
 and I know he'll write a nice letter if I ask him to. 
 You can't think how much he's improved just lately 
 He was down at the Ditchleys' wlien we were there in 
 
 n 2
 
 4 THYRZA 
 
 February ; he and I had ever such a time one day when 
 the others were out hunting. Mamma won't let me 
 hunt; isn't it too bad of her? He didn't speak a 
 single serious word all the morning, and just think how 
 dry he used to be ! Of course he can be dry enough 
 still when he gets with people like Mrs. Adams and 
 Clara Carr, but I hope to break him of the habit en- 
 tirely.' 
 
 She glanced at Annabel, and laughed merrily before 
 raising her cup to her lips. Mr. Newthorpe just cast 
 a rapid eye over his daughter's face ; Annabel wore a 
 look of quiet amusement. 
 
 ' Has he been here since then ? ' Paula inquired, 
 tapping a second ^^g. ' We lost sight of him for two 
 or three months, and of course he always makes a 
 mystery of his wanderings.' 
 
 ' We saw him last in October,' her uncle answered, 
 ' when he had just returned from America.' 
 
 ' He said he was going to Australia next. By-the- 
 by, what's his address ? Something, Eussell Street. 
 Don't you know ? ' 
 
 'Xo idea,' he replied, smiling. 
 
 ' Never mind. I'll send the letter to Mrs. Ormonde; 
 she always knows where he is, and I believe she's the 
 only one that does.' 
 
 When the meal came to an end, Mr. Newthorpe 
 went, as usual, to his study. Miss Terrell, also as 
 usual, prepared for three hours of letter-writing. 
 Annabel, after a brief consultation with ]Mr<. Martin,
 
 AMONG THE HILLS 5 
 
 the housekeeper, would ordinarily have sat down to 
 study in the morning room. She laid open a book on 
 the table, but then lingered between that and the 
 windows. At length she took a volume of a lighter 
 kind — in both senses — and, finding her garden hat in 
 the hall, went forth. 
 
 She was sonaething less than twenty, and bore her- 
 self with grace which was perchance a little too sober 
 for her years ; her head was wont to droop thoughtfully, 
 and her step measured itself to the grave music of a 
 mind which knew the influence of mountain solitude. 
 But her health was complete ; she could row for long 
 stretches, and on occasion fatigued her father in rambles 
 over moor and fell. Face and figure were matched in 
 mature beauty ; she had dark hair, braided above the 
 forehead on each side, and large dark eyes which re- 
 garded you with a pure intelligence, disconcerting if 
 your word uttered less than sincerity. 
 
 She was sixteen when her mother died. Less than 
 three months after that event Mr. Xewthorpe left 
 London for this country house, which neither he nor his 
 daughter had since quitted. He had views of his own 
 on the subject of London life as it affects young ladies. 
 By nature a student, he had wedded a woman who 
 became something not far removed from a fashionable 
 beauty ; it was a passionate attachment — on both sides 
 at first — and to the end he loved his wife with the love 
 which can deny nothing. The consequence was that 
 the years of his prime were wasted — nay, not so, for
 
 6 THYRZA 
 
 love is never waste ; but the intellectaal promise of his 
 youth found no fulfilment. Another year and Annabel 
 would have entered the social mill ; she had beauty 
 enough to achieve distinction, and the means of the 
 family were ample to enshrine her. But she never 
 ' came out.' Xo one would at first believe that Mr. 
 Newthorpe's retreat was final, no one save a close friend 
 or two who understood what his life had been, and how 
 he dreaded for his daughter the temptations which 
 had warped her mother's womanhood. ' In any case,' 
 wrote Mrs. Tyrrell, his sister-in-law, when a year and 
 a half had gone by, ' you will of course let me have 
 Annabel shortly. I pray you to remember that she is 
 turned seventeen. You surely won't deprive her of 
 every pleasure and every advantage ? ' And tlie recluse 
 made answer : ' If bolts and shackles were needful, I 
 would use them mercilessly rather than allow my girl 
 to enter your Middlesex pandemonium. Happily, the 
 fetters of her reason suffice. She is growing into a 
 woman, and by the blessing of the gods her soul shall 
 be blown through and through with the free air of 
 heaven, whilst yet the elements in her are blending to 
 their final shape.' An impracticable parent, this. Mrs. 
 Tyrrell raised her eyebrows, and shook her head, and 
 talked sadly of ' poor Annabel,' who was buried 
 alive. 
 
 She walked down to a familiar spot by the lake, 
 where a rustic bench \vas set under shadowing leafage ; 
 in front two skiffs were moored on the strand. The
 
 AMONG THE HILLS 7 
 
 sky was billowy with slow-travelling shapes of white- 
 ness ; a warm wind broke murmuring wavelets along 
 the pebbly margin. The opposite slopes glassed them- 
 selves in the deep dark water — Swarth Fell, Hallin 
 Fell, Place P'ell, one after the other ; above the 
 southern bend of the lake rose noble summits, softh- 
 touched with mist which the sun was fast dispelling. 
 The sweetness of summer was in the air ; so quiet was 
 it that every wing-rustle in the brake, every whisper of 
 leaf to leaf, made a distinct small voice ; a sheep-dog- 
 barking over at Howtown seemed close at hand. Anna- 
 bel loved to abandon herself to this mystery of calm ; 
 it was often a doubt with her whether time spent in 
 such seeming idleness was not in truth more gainful 
 than that wherein she bent over her books. 
 
 This morning she had certainly no inclination to 
 read, yet her face was not expressive of the calm re- 
 flection which was her habit. She opened the book 
 upon her lap and glanced down a page or two, but 
 without interest. At length external things were 
 wholly lost to her, and she gazed across the water with 
 continuance of solemn vision. Her face was almost 
 austere in this mood which had come upon her. 
 
 Someone was descending the path which led from 
 the high road ; it was a step too heavy for Paula's, too 
 rapid to be ^Ir. Xewthorpe's. Annabel turned her head, 
 and saw a young man, perhaps of seven-and-twenty, 
 dressed in a light walking-suit, with a small wallet 
 hanging from his shoulder and a stick in liis liand.
 
 8 THYRZA 
 
 At sight of her he took ofif his cap and approached her 
 bare-headed. 
 
 ' I saw from a quarter of a mile away,' he said, ' that 
 someone was sitting here, and came down on the chance 
 that it might be you.' 
 
 She rose with a very slight show of surprise, and 
 returned his greeting with calm friendliness. 
 
 ' We were speaking of you at breakfast. My cousin 
 couldn't tell us for certain whether you were in England, 
 though she knew you were in London a month ago.' 
 
 ' Miss Tyrrell is with you ? ' he asked, as if it were 
 very unexpected. 
 
 ' But didn't you know ? She has been ill, and they 
 sent her to us to recruit.' 
 
 ' Ab I I have been in Jersey for a month ; I have 
 heard nothing.' 
 
 ' You Avere able to tear yourself from London in 
 mid-season ? ' 
 
 ' But when was I a devotee of the Season, Miss 
 Xewthorpe ? ' 
 
 ' We hear you progress in civilisation.' 
 
 'Well, I hope so. I've had a month of steady 
 reading, and feel better for it. I took a big chest of 
 books to Jersey. But I hope Miss Tyrrell is better ? ' 
 
 ' Quite herself again. Shall we walk up to the 
 house ? ' 
 
 ' I have broken in upon your reading.' 
 
 She exhibited the volume ; it was Kuskin's ' Sesame 
 and Lilies.'
 
 AMONG THE HILLS 9 
 
 ' Ah ! you got it. And like it ? ' 
 
 ' On the whole.' 
 
 ' That is disappointing.' 
 
 Annabel was silent, then spoke of another matter 
 as they walked up from the lake. 
 
 This Mr. Egremont had not the look of a man wlio 
 finds his joy in the life of Society. His clean-shaven 
 face was rather bony, and its lines expressed indepen- 
 dence of character ; his forehead was broad, his eyes 
 glanced quickly and searchingly, or widened them- 
 selves in an absent gazing which revealed the imagina- 
 tive temperament. His habitual <3ast of countenance 
 was meditative, with a tendency to sadness. In talk 
 he readily became vivacious; his short sentences, de- 
 livered with a very clear and conciliating enunciation, 
 seemed to indicate energy. It was a peculiarity that 
 he very rarely smiled, or perhaps I should say that he 
 had the faculty of smiling only with his eyes ; at such 
 moments his look was very winning, very frank in its 
 appeal to sympathy, and compelled one to like him. 
 Yet at another time his aspect could be shrewdly 
 critical ; it was so when Annabel fell short of enthu- 
 siasm in speaking of the book he had recommended 
 to her when at Ullswater last. Probably he was not 
 without his share of scepticism. For all that, it was 
 the visage of an idealist. 
 
 Annabel led him into the house and to the study 
 door, at which she knocked ; then she stood aside for 
 him to enter before her. 3Ir. Newthorpe was writing ;
 
 lo THYRZA 
 
 he looked up absently, but liglit gathered in his eyes 
 as he recognised the visitor. 
 
 ' So here you are ! We talked of you this morning. 
 How have you come ? ' 
 
 ' On foot from Pooley Bridge.' 
 
 They clasped hands, then Egremont looked behind 
 him, but Annabel had closed the door and was gone. 
 
 She went up to the room in which Paula sat 
 scribbling letters. 
 
 ' Ten minutes more ! ' exclaimed that young lady. 
 ' I'm just finishing a note to mamma — so dutiful ! ' 
 
 ' Have you written to Mr. Egremont ? ' 
 
 Paula nodded and laughed. 
 
 ' He is downstairs.' 
 
 Paula started, looking incredulous. 
 
 ' Really, Bell ? ' 
 
 'He has just walked over from Pooley Bridge.' 
 
 ' Bell, do tell me ! Have those horrid measles 
 left any trace ? I really can't discover any, but of 
 course one hasn't good eyes for one's own little speckles. 
 Well, at all events, everybody hasn't forgotten me. 
 But do look at me. Bell.' 
 
 Her cousin regarded her with conscientious gravity. 
 
 ' I see no trace whatever. Indeed, I should say you 
 are looking better than you ever did.' 
 
 ' Now that's awfully kind of you ! And you don't 
 pay compliments, either. Shall I go down ? Did you 
 tell him where I was ? ' 
 
 Had Annabel been disposed to dainty feminine
 
 AMOXG THE HILLS ii 
 
 malice, here was an opportunity indeed. But she 
 looked at Paula with simple curiosity, seeming for a 
 moment to lose herself. The other had to repeat her 
 question. 
 
 ' I mentioned that you were in the house,' she 
 replied. ' He is talking with father.' 
 
 Paula moved to the door, but suddenly paused and 
 turned. 
 
 ' Now I wonder what thought you have in your seri- 
 ous head ? ' she said, merrily. ' It's only my fun, you 
 know.' 
 
 Annabel nodded, smiling. 
 
 ' But it is only my fun I Say you believe me. I 
 shall be cross with you if you put on that look.' 
 
 ' Of course, I know you are full of fun.' 
 
 ' Of folly, you would like to say, wouldn't you now ? 
 But it's my nature, Bell : I couldn't be wise like you, 
 if I tried ever so. Xow let's go down arm-in-arm, 
 and help me to be very proper. I mustn't scandalise 
 uncle.' 
 
 Thev went into the morning room. Annabel stood 
 at the window; her companion flitted about, catching 
 glimpses of herself in reflecting surfaces. In five 
 minutes the study door opened, and men's voices drew 
 near. 
 
 Egremont met ]Miss Tyrrell with the manner of an 
 old acquaintance, but unsmiling. 
 
 ' I am fortunate enough to see you well again with- 
 out having known of your illness,' he said.
 
 12 THYRZA 
 
 ' You didn't know that I was ill ? ' 
 
 Paula looked at him dubiously. He explained, and 
 in doing so quite dispelled the girl's illusion that he 
 was come on her account. When she remained silent, 
 he said : 
 
 ' You must pity the poor people in London.' 
 
 ' Certainly I do. I'm learning to keep my temper 
 and to talk wisely. I know nobody in London who 
 could teach me to do either the one or the other.' 
 
 ' Well, I suppose you'll go out till luncheon-time,' 
 said Mr. Newthorpe. ' Egremont wants to have a pull. 
 You'll excuse an old man.' 
 
 They left the house, and for an hour drank the 
 breath of the hillsides. Paula was at first almost 
 taciturn, very unlike herself; she dabbled her fingers 
 over the boat-side, and any light remark that she made 
 was addressed to her cousin. Annabel exerted herself 
 to converse, chiefly telling of the excursions that had 
 been made with Paula during the past week. 
 
 ' What have you been doing in Jersey ? ' Paula 
 asked of Egremont presently. Her tone was indifferent, 
 a little condescending. 
 
 ' Eeading.' 
 
 ' Xovels ? ' 
 
 ' No.' 
 
 ' And where are you going next ? ' 
 
 ' I shall live in London. My travels are over, I 
 think.' 
 
 ' We have heard that too often,' said Annabel.
 
 AMONG THE HILLS 13 
 
 ' Did you ever calculate how many miles you have 
 travelled since you left Oxford ? ' 
 
 ^ I have been a restless fellow,' he admitted, regard- 
 ing her with quiet scrutiny, ' but I dare say some profit 
 has come of my wanderings. However, it's time to set 
 to work.' 
 
 ' Work ! ' asked Paula in surprise. ' What sort of 
 work ? ' 
 
 * Local preacher's.' 
 
 Paula moved her lips discontentedly. 
 
 ' That is your way of telling me to mind my own 
 business. Don't you find the sun dreadfully hot, 
 Annabel ? Do please row into a shady place, ]Mr. 
 Egremont.' 
 
 His way of handling the oars showed that he was 
 no stranger to exercise of this kind ; his frame, though 
 a trifle meagre, was well set. By degrees, a preoccu- 
 pation which had been manifest in him gave way under 
 the influence of the sky, and when it was time to 
 approach the landing-place he had fallen into a mood 
 of cheerful talk, light with Paula, with Annabel more 
 earnest. His eyes often passed from one to the oth»-r 
 of the faces opposite him, with unmarked observation ; 
 frequently he fixed his gaze on the remoter hills in 
 brief musing. 
 
 Mr. Newthorpe had come down to the water to 
 meet them ; he had a newspaper in his hand. 
 
 'Your friend Dalmaine is eloquent on education,' 
 he said, with a humorous twitching of the eyebrows.
 
 14 THYRZA 
 
 'Yes, he knows his House,' Egremont replied. 
 * You observe the construction of his speech. After 
 well-sounding periods on the elevation of the working- 
 classes, he casually throws out the hints that em- 
 ployers of labour will do wisely to increase the 
 intelligence of their hands, in view of foreign com- 
 petition. Of course that is the root of the matter, 
 but Dalmaine knows better than to begin with crude 
 truths.' 
 
 In the meanwhile the boat was drawn up and the 
 chain locked. The girls walked on in advance ; Egre- 
 mont continued to speak of Mr. Dalmaine, a rising 
 politician, whose acquaintance he had made on the 
 voyage home from Xew York. 
 
 ' One of the few sincere things I ever heard from 
 his lips was a remark he made on trade-unions. " Let 
 them combine by all means," he said ; " it's a fair 
 fight." There you have the man ; it seems to him 
 mere common sense to regard his factory hands as his 
 enemies. A fair fight! What a politico-economical 
 idea of fairness ! ' 
 
 He spoke with extreme scorn, his eyes flashing and 
 his nostrils trembling. Mr. Xewthorpe kept a quiet 
 smile, sympathetic yet critical. 
 
 Annabel sought her father for a word apart before 
 lunch. 
 
 'How long will Mr. Egremont stay?' she asked, 
 apparently speaking in her quality of house-mistress. 
 
 'A day or two,' was the reply. 'We'll drive over
 
 AAfONG THE HILLS 15 
 
 to Pooley Bridge for his bag this afternoon ; lie left it 
 at the hotel.' 
 
 ' What has he on his mind ? ' she continued, 
 smiling. 
 
 ' Some idealistic project. He has only given me a 
 hint. I dare sav we shall hear all about it to-ni-^ht.'
 
 1 6 THYRZA 
 
 CHAPTER ir. 
 
 THE IDEALIST. 
 
 When Egremont began his acquaintance with tlie 
 Newthorpes he was an Oxford undergraduate. A close 
 friendship had sprung up between him and a young 
 man named Ormonde, and at the latter's home he met, 
 Mr. Newthorpe, who, from the first, regarded him with 
 interest. A year after Mrs. Xewthorpe's death, Egre- 
 mont was invited to visit the house at Ullswater ; since 
 then he had twice spent a week there. This personal 
 intercom'se was slight to have resulted in so much in- 
 timacy, but he had kept up a frequent correspondence 
 with Mr. Newthorpe from various parts of the world, 
 and common friends aided the stability of the relation. 
 He was the only son of a man who had made a for- 
 tune by the manufacture of oil-cloth. His father began 
 life as a house-painter, then became an oil merchant 
 in a small way, and at length married a tradesman's 
 daughter, who brought him a moderate capital just 
 when he needed it for an enterprise promising greatly. 
 In a short time he had established the firm of Egremont 
 & Pollard, with extensive works in Lambeth. His 
 wife died before him ; his son received a liberal educa-
 
 THE IDEALIST 17 
 
 tion, and in early manhood found himself, as far as he 
 knew, without a living relative, but with ample means 
 of independence. Young Walter Egremont retained an 
 interest in the business, but had no intention of de- 
 voting himself to a commercial life. At the Univer- 
 sity he had made alliances with men of standing, in 
 the academical sense, and likewise with some whose 
 place in the world relieved them from the necessity of 
 establishing a claim to intellect. In 'this way society 
 was opened to him, and his personal qualities won for 
 him a great measure of regard from those whom he 
 most desired to please. 
 
 Somebody had called him 'the Idealist,' and the 
 name adhered to him. At two-and-twenty he published 
 a volume of poems, obviously derived from study of 
 Shelley, but marked with a certain freshness of im- 
 personal aspiration which was pleasant enough : they 
 had the note of sincerity rather than the true poetical 
 promise. The book had no successor ; having found 
 this utterance for his fervour, Egremont began a series 
 of ramblings over sea, in search, he said, of himself. 
 The object seemed to evade him ; he returned to Eng- 
 land from time to time, always in appearance more 
 restless, but always overflowing with ideas, for which he 
 had the readiest store of enthusiastic words. He was 
 ahle to talk of himself without conveyiDg the least im- 
 pression of egotism to those who were in sympathy with 
 his intellectual point of view : he was accused of con- 
 ceit only ])y a few who were jealous of hiui or were too 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 1 8 THYRZA 
 
 conventional to appreciate his character. With women 
 he was a favourite, and their society was his greatest 
 pleasm-e ; yet, in spite of his fervid temperament — in 
 appearance fervid, at all events — he never seemed to fall 
 in love. There were who said that the self he went so 
 far to discover would prove to have a female form. 
 Perhaps there was truth in this ; perhaps he sought, 
 whether consciously or no, the ideal woman. None of 
 those with whom' he companioned had a charge of light 
 wooing to bring against him, though one or two would 
 not have held it a misfortune if they had tempted him to 
 forget his speculations and declare that he had reached his 
 goal. But his striving ahvays seemed to be for some- 
 thing remote from the world about him. His capacity 
 for warm feeling, itself undeniable, was never dissociated 
 from that impersonal zeal which was the characteristic 
 of his expressions in verse. In fact, he had written no 
 love-poem. 
 
 Annabel and her father observed a change in him 
 since his last visit. This was the first time that he 
 had come without an express invitation, and they 
 gathered from his speech that he had at length found 
 some definite olDJect for his energies. His friends had 
 for a long time been asking what he mennt to do with 
 his life. It did not appear that he purposed literary 
 effort, though it seemed the natural outlet for his eager 
 thought, and of the career of politics he at all times 
 spoke with contempt. Was he one of the men, never 
 so common as nowadays, who spend their existence in
 
 THE IDEALIST ^ ,9 
 
 canvassing the possibilities that lie before them and delay 
 action till they find that the will is paralysed ? One 
 did not readily set Egremont in that class, principally, 
 no doubt, because he was so free from the offensive forms 
 of self-consciousness which are wont to stamp such men. 
 The pity of it, too, if talents like his were suffered 
 to rust unused ; the very genuineness of his idealism 
 made one believe in him and look with confidence to 
 his future. Mr. Newthorpe sometimes said that he 
 wished some catastrophe would leave the young man 
 penniless, and so supply the immediate motive for 
 exertion ; yet he could not bring himself to accept the 
 view of the case which his experience pressed upon him : 
 he had special reasons for desiring that common sense 
 should for once fail in its prophecies. 
 
 Having dined, all went forth to enjoy the evenino- 
 upon the lawn. The men smoked ; Annabel had her 
 little table with tea and coffee ; Paula had brought out 
 a magazine, and affected to read. Annabel noticed, 
 however, that a page was very seldom turned. 
 
 ' Have you seen Mrs. Ormonde lately ? ' Mr. Xew- 
 thorpe asked of EgTemont. 
 
 ' I spent a day at Eastbourne before going to Jersey.' 
 
 ' She has promised to come to us in the autumn,' 
 said Annabel. ' But she seems to have such a difficulty 
 in leaving her Home. Had she many children about 
 her when you were there ? ' 
 
 ' Ten or twelve.' 
 
 * Do they all come from London ? ' asked Annabel. 
 
 c 2
 
 20 THYRZA 
 
 'Yes. She has relations with sundry hospitals and 
 tlie like. By-the-by, she told rae one remarkable 
 story. A short time ago, out of eight children that 
 were in the house, only one could read, a little girl of 
 ten, and this one regularly received letters from home. 
 Now there came for her what seemed to be a small 
 story-paper, or something of the kind, in a wrapper. 
 Mrs. Ormonde gave it her without asking any ques- 
 tions, and in the course of the morning, happening to 
 see her reading it, she went to look what the paper was. 
 It proved to be a weekly advocate of Atheism, and on 
 the front page stood a vile woodcut offered as a bur- 
 lesque illustration of some Biblical incident ! She was 
 amazed, and not a little angry. " Father always brings 
 it home and gives it me to read," said the child. " It 
 makes me laugh ! " ' 
 
 ' Probably she knew nothing of the real meaning of 
 it all,' said ]Mr. Newthorpe. 
 
 ' On the contrary, she understood the tendency of 
 the par>er surprisingly well ; her father had explained 
 everything to the family. Well, you know that Mrs. 
 Ormonde i« no dogmatist ; she had reason in her anger. 
 There was the only child out of eight who could read, 
 having her advantage abused by a father who had no 
 sense of beauty or fitness.' 
 
 ' One of the interesting results of popular educa- 
 tion,' remarked i\Ir. Newthorpe philosophically. ' It is 
 inevitable.' 
 
 ' What did Mrs. Ormonde do ? ' Annabel asked.
 
 THE IDEALIST i\ 
 
 ' It was a difficult point. No good would have I een 
 done by endeavouring to set the child against her 
 father ; she would be home again in a fortnight. So 
 Mrs. Ormonde simply asked if she might have the 
 paper when it was done with, and, having got posses- 
 sion, threw it into the fire with vast satisfaction. 
 Happily it didn't come again.' 
 
 ' What a gross being that father must be ! ' Annabel 
 exclaimed. 
 
 ' Grross enough,' Egremont replied, ' yet I shouldn't 
 wonder if he had brains above the average in his class. 
 A mere brute wouldn't do a thing of that kind ; ten to 
 one he honestly believed that he was benefiting the 
 girl, educating her out of superstition. By sending 
 the paper to the Home, he probably wished to show that 
 he had the courage of his opinions ; he may have hoped 
 that Mrs. Ormonde would give him an opportunity of 
 proving his enlightenment in an argumentative letter. 
 A woman less wise would have amply gratified him.' 
 
 ' A century of it to come, Egremont ! ' repeated 
 Mr. Newthorpe, watching the smoke from his cigar. 
 ' Progress is a costly article.' 
 
 'But why should the poor people be left to such 
 ugly-minded teachers, father ? ' Annabel exclaimed. 
 ' Surely those influences may be opposed I' 
 
 'I doubt whether they can be,' said her father. 
 ' The one insuperable difficulty lies in the fact that we 
 have no power greater than commercial enterprise. 
 Nowadays nothing will succeed save on the com-
 
 22 THYRZA 
 
 mercial basis ; from church to public-house the prin- 
 ciple applies. There is no way of spreading popular 
 literature save on terms of supply and demand. Take 
 the Education Act ; it was devised and carried simply 
 for the reason indicated by Egremont's friend Dal- 
 maine ; a more intelligent type of workmen is de- 
 manded that our manufacturers may keep pace with 
 those of other countries. Not a jot more teaching will 
 be given than is held just commercially profitable. 
 Well, there is a demand for comic illustrations of tlie 
 Bible, and the demand is met ; the paper exists because 
 it pays. An organ of culture for the people who enjoy 
 burlesquing the Bible couldn't possibly be made to pay.' 
 
 ' But is there no one who would undertake such 
 work without hope of recompense in money ? We are 
 not all mere tradespeople.' 
 
 As soon as she had uttered the words, she flushed 
 painfully. She had spoken without thought of Egre- 
 mont's parentage, and in the instant of recollection she 
 exaggerated the offensiveness of her remark. She could 
 not look at Egremont, but knew well that his eyes were 
 fixed upon her. In truth he was smiling, quite un- 
 scathed. 
 
 ' I have an idea for a beginning of such work. Miss 
 Newthorpe,' he said, 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
 
 THE IDEALIST 23 
 
 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. 
 
 ' Xo, no, don't go, Paula ! ' urged her cousin, lising. 
 
 ' You shall have a shawl, dear ; I'll ^et 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. 
 
 ' 0, I don't want to go,' she said. ' I feel I'm get- 
 ting very serious and wise, listening to such talk. Xow 
 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.
 
 24 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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 float- 
 ing 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 practi- 
 cally do nothing ; only the vastest changes to be wrought 
 by time will cleanse that foulness, by destroying the 
 monstrous wrong which produces it. ^^'hat I should 
 like to attempt would be the spiritual education of the 
 upper artisan and mechanic class. At present they are al 1 
 but wholly in the hands of men who can do them no- 
 thing but harm — j ournalists, socialists, vulgar propagators 
 of what is called free-thought. 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
 
 THE IDEALIST 25 
 
 of politics, knowing nothing better. But they are veiy 
 far above the gross multitude. I believe sucJi men as 
 these have a great part to play in social development, 
 that in fact ihe^j 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, insen- 
 sibly 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. 
 
 ^Ir. Xewthorpe 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 Memb^i^-^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
 
 26 THYRZA 
 
 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 en- 
 thusiasm 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 
 Xewthorpe ' 
 
 '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 ? ' 
 
 ' Made virtute I ' murmured Mr. Xewthorpe. ' I 
 believe you will do something, at all events.'
 
 THE IDEALIST 27 
 
 ' Thinking it so clearly must be half doing it,' said 
 Annabel. 
 
 Egremont replied to her with a clear regard. 
 
 ' But the details,' Mr. Xewthorpe remarked. ' Are 
 you going to make Lambeth your field ? ' 
 
 'Yes, Lambetli. 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 work- 
 men. My project is to begin with lectures. Eeserve 
 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 
 sliall not throw open my doors to all and sundry, but 
 specially invite a certain small number of men, whom 
 1 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 31rs. 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 thouglit. I have spent my month in 
 Jersey in preparing a couple ot introductory lectures.
 
 28 THYRZA 
 
 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 — especi- 
 ally 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 
 are 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 under- 
 stand 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 
 w^orking 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 Anna- 
 bel, 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, 
 rd better say good-night.'
 
 THE IDE A LIS! 29 
 
 Her uncle, when he held her hand, stroked it 
 affectionately. He often laughed at the child's mani- 
 fold 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. 
 
 'Xo. 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 wlience their ramble was to 
 begin. Annabel enjoyed walking; very soon her being
 
 30 THYRZA 
 
 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 begin- 
 ning 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.'
 
 THE IDEALIST 31 
 
 'Correspondence' -was a new word. Usually she 
 said, ' I have an awful heap of letters to write.' Her 
 dignity of the fornaer 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 I ' Annabel exclaimed at 
 length. ' You learn Grreek and Latin when you are 
 children ; it ought to be the same with us. I am im- 
 patient ; I want to read straight on.' 
 
 'You very soon will,' he replied absently. Then, 
 having glanced at the windows, which were suddenlv 
 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 liis face. Annabel went up to
 
 32 THYRZA 
 
 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.' 
 
 ' Xot now.' 
 
 'Mr. Egremont wishes to go for a walk. Couldn't 
 vou 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 fe\v 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 waters 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 any- 
 thing.' 
 
 'Xo, 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 tliese years that 
 have gone so quickly. But it was not conscious pre- 
 paration. It has often seemed to me that in travelling
 
 THE IDEALIST y^ 
 
 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 ask- 
 ing 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 under- 
 taken 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 begur.. 
 What success may await you we cannot say ; the work 
 will certainly be very difficult. Will it not ask a life- 
 time ? ' 
 
 *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 tiling I need, to feel full confidence in myself, and 
 that is a woman's love. I have known for a louo^ 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 trouble J. His words were not unanticipated, 
 
 VOL. I. I,
 
 34 THYRZA 
 
 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 fir.st spoke to each other, I foresaw
 
 THE IDEALIST 35 
 
 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 iirst 
 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.' 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THYRZA 
 
 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 tliat
 
 THE IDEALIST 37 
 
 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 t(j 
 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 I Look for once 
 straight into my eyes and know me I ' 
 
 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 I ' 
 
 ' Isn't the rain sweet here I ' 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 tlie house. Annabel passed quickly 
 upstairs. Egremont remained standing in the porch, 
 looking forth upon the garden. His reverie was broken 
 by a voice.
 
 38 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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.
 
 39 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A COEXER OF LAMBETH. 
 
 A WORKING man, one Grilbert Grail, was spending an 
 hour of his Saturday afternoon in Westminster Ab])e\'. 
 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 physiog- 
 nomy impressive rather tliau pleasing ; the cast of
 
 40 THYRZA 
 
 thought was upon it, of thought eager and self-tor- 
 menting, 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 brood- 
 ing. 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 sculp- 
 tured 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 on 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 ? ' 
 
 ' Weil, it's tempted eighteen pence out of my 
 pocket,' Tvas the other's reply, as he gave the volume
 
 A CORNER OF LAMBETH 41 
 
 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 Grrail's. There 
 was rough comeliness in his face and plenty of intelli- 
 gence, something at the same time not quite satisfac- 
 tory if one looked for strengtk 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.' 
 
 ' What's the other ? ' Grail inquired, returning the 
 work on electricity, which he had glanced through 
 without show of much interest. 
 
 ' 0, this belongs to Jo Bunce,' Ackroyd replied 
 laughing. ' He's just lent it me.' 
 
 It was a collection of discourses by gentlemen of 
 the antitheistic persuasion ; the titles, which were 
 startling to the eye, sufficiently indicated the scope 
 and quality of the matter. Grail found even less satis- 
 faction 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 stufif of that kind.'
 
 42 THYRZA 
 
 ' 0, 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 mattei'S,' said 
 Grrail, 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.' 
 
 ' Xo, 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
 
 A CORNER OF LAMBETH 43 
 
 education. It's the best joke you could bit on. Let 
 him lecture away, by ail nieans. He'll do more than 
 he thinks.' 
 
 ' Where does he give them ? ' Grrail 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 work- 
 shops. 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 — six years ago — 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 chil- 
 dren 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.
 
 44 THYRZA 
 
 ' 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 haber- 
 dashery, firewood, fruit, soap — seemed to exhale its 
 essence distressfully under the heat; impossible that any- 
 thing sold here should preserve its native savour. The 
 air swarmed with flies, spite of the dread example of thou- 
 sands that lay extinct on sheets of smeared newspaper.
 
 A CORNER OF LAMBETH 45 
 
 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 ; gingerbeer, 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 the envy of Paradise 
 Street. Popular from a certain wordy good-humour 
 which she always liad 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 de- 
 pend upon the business ; her husband, as we already 
 know, was a foreman at Egremont & Pollard's oil- 
 cloth manufactory ; they were known to have money 
 laid by. You saw in her face tliat life had been smooth
 
 46 THYRZA 
 
 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 tlie tray sat Mrs. Bower's daugh- 
 ter, Mary. She was a girl of nineteen, sparely made 
 and rather plain featured, yet with a thoughtful, inter- 
 esting 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
 
 A CORNER OF LAMBETH 47 
 
 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 — the wooden member needed 
 none — 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 re- 
 putation for joviality, and with the aid of his fiddle 
 made himself welcome at many a festive gathering in 
 Lambeth. 
 
 ' Give Mr. Hackroyd a cup 0' tea, Mary,' said Mrs. 
 Bower. ' How you poor 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 liand. 
 
 ' Give us a friendly grip, ^Ir. Ackroyd I There's 
 never a friend in this world but the man as fin- Is vou
 
 48 THYRZA 
 
 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 man 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 Til 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 toon 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 '11 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 Eacket 
 played this instrument more than sixty year 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
 
 A CORNER OF LAMBETH 49 
 
 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 ^Ir. Trent. But not 
 better than somebody else we know of, eb, Mr. Hack- 
 royd ? ' 
 
 ' 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 '11 never know another like him. He was 
 made 0' 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 slie was a baby.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, she don't remember it of her father. It 
 was me as taught her it to be sure, as 1 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 fom 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 u' Decem- 
 ber, Mr. Ackroyd. There's a deal happened since 
 then. On that day I had my shop in the Cut, and I 
 bad two legs like otlier mortals. Things wasn't doing 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THYRZA 
 
 so bad with me. Why, it's like yesterday to re- 
 member. 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 ]\ir. Trent's 
 killed." It was Walton's, the pump-maker's, in Grround 
 Street.' 
 
 'It's Simpson & Thomas's now,' remarked Mrs. 
 Bower. ' Why, where Jim Caudle works, you know, 
 Mr. Mackroyd.' 
 
 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 I 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 
 l^yddy cry more than two or three times in my life ; 
 she always hid away for that, when she couldn't help 
 herself, bless her I ' 
 
 ' 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 
 lauo-h I — she looks at me for a long lime, an' then she
 
 A CORNER OF LAMBETH 51 
 
 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 
 anyone '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 
 anyone as her sister,' said Ackroyd, looking at Marv 
 Bower, who had been silent all this time. 
 
 ' 0, 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, re- 
 appearing from the shop. ' What a girl that is, to be 
 sure ! She's for all the world like a lad put into petti- 
 coats. I should think there's a goin' to be a feast over 
 in Newport Street. A tin o' sardines, four bottles o' 
 gingerbeer, 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. 
 
 K 2 
 
 LIBHAKY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 THYRZA 
 
 ' Why, T 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 Tris^i, 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 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 an- 
 swered ; ' 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 W'U'se or falser than your own ? '
 
 A CORXER OF LAMBETH 53 
 
 '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 par- 
 lour door. It was a face which atoned for lack of rep-u- 
 
 o 
 
 lar 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 love 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 wliich becomes 
 the light and joy of home, the l>liss of children, the 
 unfailing support of a man's courage. Her hair was
 
 54 THYRZA 
 
 cut sliort 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 seat- 
 ing 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 ? ' ]\L:s. Bower asked of 
 Lydia. 
 
 ' Xo ; but I mustn't stop to have any, thank you, 
 Mrs. Bower. Thyrza '11 think I'm never coming home. 
 I only looked in just to ask Mary to come and have 
 tea with us to-morrow.' 
 
 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.
 
 A CORNER OF LAMBETH 55 
 
 ' Yes, my dear ; the thing as keeps the world a-goin\ 
 How's the little im ? ' 
 
 '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' I ' sighed ^Nlrs. 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 ? ^Irs. 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 after- 
 noon trimminof new hats for herself and the orirls. 
 She's given me a shilling, and I'm sure it wasn't worth 
 half that, all I did. What a queer woman she is ! She 
 doesn't seem able to depend upon herself for anything. 
 You'll come to-morrow, Mary ? ' 
 
 'I will if — you know what.' 
 
 ' Now did you ever know such a girl I ' Lydia ex- 
 claimed, looking round at the others. ' You under- 
 stand what she means, ^Irs. 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 al)Out it. Good-bye, grandad.' 
 
 She stooped and kissed his cheek, then Imrried
 
 56 THYRZA 
 
 away, throwing back a Lriglit 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 voill 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 anything against you, Mr. Ackroyd.'
 
 A CORNER OF LAMBETH 57 
 
 » Thank you. Then Til 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.
 
 58 THYRZA 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THYRZA SINGS. 
 
 liTDiA, 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 ofif into a street which began unpromisingly 
 between low-bailt 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
 
 THYRZA SINGS 59 
 
 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 immedi- 
 ately 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 modi- 
 fied, so refined, as to become beauty of rare suggestive- 
 ness. 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, but their blue orbs regarded nothing near ; 
 imagination dwelt in them and seemed ever busy with 
 things remote from the workroom and the dull street. 
 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 shifting 
 lights upon a stream in woodland. It was not a morbid 
 physiognomy, yet it 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
 
 6o THYRZA 
 
 form was slight, graceful, and of lower stature than her 
 sister's. She wore a dress of small-patterned print, 
 with a hroad 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. Xot 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 I ' 
 
 ' 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 SINGS 6i 
 
 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. 
 
 ' I don't know, Lyddy. It's so hot, T don't feel able 
 to do anything.' 
 
 ' But you're always thinking and thinking. What 
 is it that troubles you ? ' 
 
 ' I feel dull. Everything is always the same, day 
 after day. When'll it change, Lyddy ? ' 
 
 Lydia drooped her eyes. 
 
 * Why don't you like to go out with ]Mr. Ackroyd ?' 
 she asked. 
 
 ' Why do yoti so much want me to, Lyddy ? ' 
 
 ' Because he thinks a great deal of you, and it woidd 
 be nice if you got to like him.' 
 
 'But I shan't, ever. I know I shan't.'
 
 62 THYRZA 
 
 ' Why not, dear ? ' 
 
 ' I don't cZislike him, but he mustn't get to think 
 it's anything 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 some- 
 thinof 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 diflSculty obtained slow passage. 
 On the outer edges of the pavement, in front of the 
 busy shop!>, were rows of booths, stalls and barrows, 
 whereon meat, vegetables, fish, and household require- 
 ments of indescribable variety, were exposed for sale ;
 
 THYRZA SINGS 63 
 
 the vendors vied with one another in uproarious 
 advertisement of their goods. In force of vociferation 
 the butchers doubtless excelled ; their ' Lovely, lovely, 
 lovely ! ' and their reiterated ' Buy, buy, buy ! ' rang 
 clangorous above the hoarse roaring of costernaongers, 
 and the din of those who clattered together 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 abundance of coarse humour. The 
 market-night is the sole out-of-door amusement regu- 
 larly at hand for London working people, the only one, 
 in truth, for which they show any real capacity. Every- 
 where 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 ; 
 decapng vegetables trodden under foot blended their 
 putridness with the musty smeli 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
 
 64 THYRZA 
 
 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 prektarian order. Children of the 
 gutter and sexless haunters of the street corner elbowed 
 comfortable artisans and their wives ; there were bare- 
 headed hoidens from the obscurest courts, and work- 
 girls whose self-respect was proof against all the squalor 
 and vileness homdy surrounding them. Of the women, 
 whatsoever their appearance, tbe 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 busi- 
 ness of sale upon their hands ; ragged urchins went 
 about with blocks of salt, importuning the marketers, 
 and dishevelled girls carried bundles of assorted vege- 
 tables, 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 publi -house as a natural incident 
 of the evenincf's business. The women with the babies
 
 THYRZA SINGS 65 
 
 grew thirsty in the hot, foul air of the street, and in- 
 vited 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 
 bootmaker'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 phiin, eight - 
 
 VOL. I. i'
 
 66 THYRZA 
 
 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 iudependence was complete ; for five years she had 
 Ijeen 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 preju- 
 dice was enhanced by the jealous care with which, from 
 the time of lier own childhood, she had been accus- 
 tomed to watch over her sister. Already there had 
 been ti'ouble 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 aggra- 
 vated to a quarrel. 
 
 So Lydia finished her marketing and turned home- 
 wards 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.
 
 THYRZA SINGS 67 
 
 ' 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 almost 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 mantelpiece 
 was a small card whereon was printed an announce- 
 ment of the friendly lead ; at the head 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 hig 
 first appeal. — Chairman : — Count Bismark. Vice : — 
 Dick Perkins. Assisted by ' — here was a long list, 
 
 F 2
 
 68 JHYRZA 
 
 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 shillings 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 came 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 ! Not for Totty N. ! Wliat'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 
 whole«ome-looking girl than Totty, but equally viva- 
 cious. 
 
 'Well, will you come to the Prince Albert, 
 Thyrza ? ' Totty asked.
 
 THYRZA SINGS 69 
 
 ' 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 race-horses, 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 tlie air was thickening with 
 smoke of pipes. The beneficiary of the evening, a portly 
 individual with a face of high satisfaction, sat near the 
 chairman, and by him were two girls of decent appear- 
 ance, his daughters. The president puffed at a church- 
 warden and exchanged genial banter with those wh(> 
 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
 
 70 THYRZA 
 
 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 be- 
 fore them and carried on primitive flirtations with their 
 neighbours were honest wage-earners of factory and work- 
 shop, 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 com- 
 pany 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
 
 THYRZA SINGS 71 
 
 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, tlie 
 laughter and applause were deafening. 
 
 ' He's a warm 'un, is Sem ! ' was the delighted com- 
 ment 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 'cr 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 I 
 
 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 in- 
 timated 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 l)egan with
 
 72 THYRZA 
 
 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 '01-lo-w'y I 
 
 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 suc- 
 ceeded at length in overcoming the diflfidence 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 spring-time 
 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. 
 
 Alas ! she had a drunken mother, and spent a month 
 or two of every year in the hospital, for her day's work 
 «)vertaxed her strength. She was one of those fated 
 toilers, to struggle on as long as anyone would employ 
 her, then to fall amoDg the forgotten wretched. And 
 .-he 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- 
 liouse amid the backways of Lambetli.
 
 THYRZA SINGS 73 
 
 Totty Nancarrow was whispering to Thjrza : 
 
 ' Sing something, old girl I 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.
 
 74 THYRZA 
 
 'Ob, 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 pro- 
 foundly, 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 hui't 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 mth eyes in which jealousy
 
 THYRZA SINGS 75 
 
 strove against admiration. There were renaarks 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 spell-bound. 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 I 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 ravM go,' she whispered. ' What's the 
 time ? ' 
 
 'It's only just after ten,' was the reply. 'You'll 
 soon run home.' 
 
 ' After ten ? 0, I must go at once.' 
 
 She left her place, and as quickly as possible made 
 her way through the crowd. Just at tlie door she saw 
 a face tliat 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
 
 76 THYRZA 
 
 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 recog- 
 nition 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. Ill see you home. You feel better, 
 don't you ? ' 
 
 Yes, she felt better, though her head ached miser- 
 ably. 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 wdth 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 '11 
 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 ? 0, it'll 
 be all right. But of course it isn't the kind of place 
 for you, Miss Trent.'
 
 THYRZA SINGS 77 
 
 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 ! Thyrza ! You might as well 
 take my life as take that hope. You don't know 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 ouglit 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 
 wliat'll become of me if I tliink of tl at ! The on!v
 
 78 THYRZA 
 
 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 anyone 
 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 : 
 * G-ood-night, Mr. Ackroyd. Thank you for bringing 
 me back. You'll be friends with me and Lyddy ? ' 
 
 ' Youll come out with her to-morrow ? ' 
 
 ' I can't promise. Gcod-night ?
 
 79 
 
 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. Reluming 
 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 eventu-
 
 8o THYRZA 
 
 ally ; 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 
 induence of Totty Nancarrow, stirred with apprehen- 
 sions 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. 
 
 ' That's your Totty Nancarrow,' Lydia went on, with 
 no check upon her tongue. ' Didn't I tell you what 
 'ud come of going about with her ? What next, I 
 should like to know ! If you go and sing in a public- 
 house, I don't know what you won't do. I shall never 
 trust you out by yourself again. You shan't go out at 
 night at all, that's about it ! You're an unkind girl I ' 
 
 ' You've no right to speak to me like that, Lydia ! ' 
 Thjrza replied, with indignation. The excitement and
 
 A LAND OF TWILIGHT 8i 
 
 the fainting fit had strunor j^er nerves painfully. And 
 for all her repentance, the echo of applause was still 
 very sweet in her ears ; this vehement reproach caused 
 a little injury to her pride. ' It doesn't depend on you 
 whether I go out or not. I'm not a child, and I can 
 take care of myself. I haven't done anything wrong." *^ 
 
 ' You have — and you know you have I You knew 
 perfectly well I shouldn't have let you go near such a 
 place. You know how I've begged you not to go with 
 Totty Nancarrow, and how you've promised me you 
 wouldn't be led into any harm. I shall never be able 
 to trust you again. You are only a child I You show 
 it I And in future you'll do as I tell youl ' 
 
 Thyrza caught up her hat. 
 
 ' I certainly shan't stop here whilst you're in such a 
 bad temper,' she said in a trembling voice. ' You'll 
 find that isn't the way to make me do as you wish.' 
 
 She stepped to the door. Lydia, frightened, sprang 
 forward and barred the way. 
 
 ' Go and sit down, Thyrza ! ' 
 
 ' Let me go I What right have you to stop me ? ' 
 
 Then both were silent. At the same moment they 
 became aware that a common incident of Saturda}^ 
 night was occurring in tlie street below. A half-tipsy 
 man and a nagging woman had got thus far on their 
 way home, the wife's shrill tongue running over every 
 scale of scurrility and striking every note of ingenious 
 malice. The man was at length worked to a pitch of 
 frenzy, and then — thud, thud, mingled with objurga- 
 
 YOL. I. G
 
 82 THYRZA 
 
 tions and shrill night-piercing yells. The near windy 
 side of murder was familiar enough to dwellers in this 
 region, but that woman's bell-clapper tongue had struck 
 shame into Lydia. She could not speak another angry 
 word. 
 
 ' Thyrza, take your hat off,' she said quietly, moving 
 away a little from the door. Her cheeks burned fiery, 
 and she quivered in the subsidence of her temper. 
 
 Her sister did not obey, but, unable to stand longer, 
 she went to a chair at a distance. The uproar in the 
 street continued for a quarter of an hour, then by de- 
 grees passed on, the voice of the woman shrieking foul 
 abuse till remoteness stifled it. Lydia forced herself 
 to keep silence from good or ill ; it was no use speaking 
 the thoughts she had till morning. Thyrza sat with 
 her eyes fixed on vacancy ; she was so miserable, her 
 heart had sunk so low, that tears would have come had 
 she not forced them back. More than once of late she 
 liad known this mood in which life lay about her barren 
 and weary. She was very young to suffer that oppres- 
 sion of the world-worn ; it was the penalty she paid for 
 her birthright of heart and mind. 
 
 By midnight they were lying side by side, but no 
 ' good-night ' had passed between them. When Thyrza's 
 gentle breathing told that she slept, Lydia still lay with 
 open eyes, watching the flicker of the street lamp upon 
 the ceiling, hearing the sounds that came of mirth or 
 brutality in streets near and far. She did not suffer in the 
 same way as her sister ; as soon as she had gently touched
 
 A LAND OF TWILIGHT 83 
 
 Thyrza's unconscious hand, love came upon her with its 
 warm solace ; but her trouble was deep, and she looked 
 into the future with many doubts. 
 
 The past she could scarcely deem other than happy, 
 though a stranger would have thought it sad enough. 
 Her mother she well remembered — a face pale and 
 sweet, like Thyrza's : the eyes that have tlieir sad 
 beauty from foresight of death. Her father lived only 
 a year longer, then she and the little one passed into 
 the charge of Mr. Boddy, who was paid a certain small 
 sum by Trent's employers, in consideration of the death 
 by accident. Then came the commencement of Mr. 
 Boddy's misfortunes ; his shop and house were bunit 
 down, he lost his limb in an endeavour to save his pro- 
 perty, he lost his wife in consequence of the shock. 
 Dreary things for the memory, yet they did not weigh 
 upon Lydia ; she was so happily endowed tliat her mind 
 selected and dwelt on sunny hours, on kind looks and 
 words which her strong heart cherished unassailably, on 
 the mutual charities which sorrow had begotten, rather 
 than on tlie sorrow itself. Above all, the growing love 
 of her dear one, of her to whom she was both mother 
 and sister, had strengthened her against every trouble. 
 Yet of late this strongest passion of her life had become 
 a source of grave anxieties, as often as circumstance 
 caused her to look beyond her contentment. Thyrza 
 was so beautiful, and, it seemed to her, so weak; always 
 dreaming of something beyond and above the life which 
 was her lot, so deficient in the practical qualities whicli 
 
 f) 2
 
 84 THYRZA 
 
 that life demanded. At moments Lydia saw her re- 
 sponsibility in a light which almost frightened her. 
 
 They worked at a felt-hat factory, as * trimmers ' ; 
 that is to say, they finished hats by sewing in the lining, 
 putting on the bands and the like. In the busy season 
 they could average together wages of about a pound a 
 week ; at dull times they earned less, and very occa- 
 sionally had to support themselves for a week or two 
 •vithout employment. Since the age of fourteen Lydia 
 nerself had received help from no one ; from sixteen 
 she had lived in lodgings with Thyrza, independent. 
 Poor Mr. Boddy was then no longer able to do more than 
 supply his own needs, for things had grown worse with 
 liim from year to year. Lydia occasionally found jobs for 
 her free hours, and she had never yet wanted. She was 
 strong, her health had scarcely ever given her a day's 
 uneasiness ; there never came to her a fear lest bread 
 should fail. But Thyrza could not take life as she 
 did ; it was not enough for that imaginative nature to 
 toil drearily day after day, and year after year, just for the 
 sake of earning a livelihood. In a month she would be 
 seventeen ; it was too true, as she had said to-night, 
 that she was no longer a child. What might happen 
 if the elder sister's influence came to an end ? Thyrza 
 loved her : how Lydia would have laughed at anyone 
 who hinted that the love could ever weaken ! But it 
 was not a guard against every danger. 
 
 It was inevitable that Lydia should have hoped 
 that her sister might marry earh^ And one man
 
 A LAXD OF TWILIGHT 85 
 
 she knew in whom — she scarcely could have told you 
 why — her confidence was so strong that she would 
 freely have entrusted him with Thyrza's fate. Thyrza 
 could not bring herself to think of him as a husband. 
 It was with Ackroyd that Lydia's thoughts were Ijusy 
 as she lay wakeful. Before to-night she had not 
 pondered so continuously on what she knew of him. 
 For some two years he had been an acquaintance, 
 through the Bowers, and she had felt glad when it was 
 plain that he sought Thyrza's society. 'Yes,' she had 
 said to herself, ' I like him, and feel that he is to be 
 relied upon.' Stories, to be sure, had reached her ears ; 
 something of an over-fondness for conviviality ; but 
 she had confidence. To-night she seemed called upon 
 to review all her impressions. Why ? Nothing new 
 had happened. She longed for sleep, but it only came 
 when dawn was white upon the blind. 
 
 When it was time to rise, neither spoke. Lydia 
 prepared the breakfast as usual — it seemed quite 
 natural that she should do nearly all the work of the 
 liome — and they sat down to it cheerlessly. 
 
 Since daybreak a mist had crept over the sky ; it 
 thinned the sunlight to a suffusion of grey and gold. 
 In the house there was the silence of Sunday morning ; 
 the s^-reet was still, save for the jodeling of a milkman 
 as he wheeled his clattering cans from house to house. 
 In that city on the far side of Thames, known to these 
 girls with scarcely less of vagueness than to simple 
 dwellers in country towns, the autumn-like air was
 
 86 THYRZA 
 
 foretaste of holiday ; the martyrs of the Season and 
 they who do the world's cleaner work knew that rest 
 was near, spoke at breakfast of the shore and the 
 mountain. Even to Lydia, weary after her short sleep 
 and unwontedly dejected, there came a wish that it 
 were possible to quit the streets for but one day, and 
 sit somewhere apart under the open sky. It was not 
 often that so fantastic a dream visited her. 
 
 In dressing, Thyrza had left ber hair unbraided. 
 Lydia always did that for her. ^Yhen the table was 
 cleared, the former took up a story-paper which she 
 bought every week, and made a show of reading. 
 Lydia went about her accustomed tasks. How heavy 
 the silence was. 
 
 Presently Lydia took a brush and comb and went 
 behind her sister's chair. She began to unloosen the 
 rough coils in which the golden hair was pinned to- 
 gether. It was always a joy to her to bathe her hands 
 in the warm soft torrent. With delicate care she 
 combed out every intricacy and brushed the ordered 
 tresses till the light gleamed on their smooth surface ; 
 then with skilful fingers she wove the braid, tying it 
 with a blue ribbon so that the ends hung loose. The 
 task completed, it was her custom to bend over the 
 little head and snatch an inverted kiss, always a moment 
 of laughter. This morning she omitted that ; she was 
 moving sadly away, when she noticed that the face 
 turned a little, a very little. 
 
 ' Isn't it right ? ' she asked, keeping her eyes down.
 
 A LAND OF TWILIGHT S? 
 
 ' I think so — it doesn't matter.' 
 
 She drew near again, as if to inspect her work. 
 Perhaps there was a slight lack of smoothness over the 
 temple ; she touched the spot with her fingers. 
 
 ' Why are you so unkind to me, Thyrza? ' 
 
 The words had come involuntarily ; the voice shook 
 as they were spoken. 
 
 * I don't mean to be, Lyddy — you know I don't.' 
 *But you do things that you know '11 make me 
 
 angry. I'm quick-tempered, and I couldn't bear to 
 think of you going to that place ; I ought to have 
 spoken in a different way.' 
 
 ' Who told you I'd been singing ? ' 
 
 * Mrs. Jarmey. I'm very glad she did ; it doesn't 
 seem any harm to you, Thyrza, but it does to me. 
 Dear, have you ever sung at such places before ? ' 
 
 Thyrza shook her head. 
 
 ' Will you promise me never to go there again ? ' 
 
 ' I don't want to go. But I get no harm. They 
 were very pleased with my singing. Annie West was 
 there, and several other girls. Why do you make so 
 much of it, Lyddy ? ' 
 
 'Because, dearest, there's nobody in the world as 
 lauch to me as you are, and I want to keep you safer 
 than my own life ! I'm older than you, Tliyrza, and if 
 ycu'll only trust me and do as I wish, you'll see some 
 day that I was right. I know you're a good girl ; I 
 dor't think a wrong thought ever came into your head. 
 It isn't that, it's Vjecause you can't go about the streets
 
 83 THYRZA 
 
 and into pulJic-hoiises without hearing bad things and 
 seeing bad people. I want to keep you away from 
 everything that isn't homelike and quiet. I want you 
 to love me more than anyone else I ' 
 
 ' I do, Lyddy I I do, dear ! It's only tliat I ' 
 
 ^What ?' 
 
 ' I don't know how it is. I'm discontented. There's 
 never any change. How can you be so happy day after 
 day ? I love to be with you, but if we could go and 
 live somewhere else. I should like to see a new place. 
 I've been reading there about the seaside ; what it 
 must be like! I want to know things. You don't 
 understand me ? ' 
 
 ' I think I do. I wish we could have a change 
 sometimes. I felt a little the same when I heard 
 Mrs. Isaacs and her daughter talking about Margate 
 yesterday. But we shall be better off some day, see 
 if we aren't ! Try your best not to think about those 
 things. Suppose you ask Mr. Grrail to lend you a book 
 to read ? I met ]\Irs. Grrail downstairs last night, and 
 she asked if we'd go down and have tea to-day. I 
 can't, because Clary's coming, but you might. And 
 I'm sure he'd lend you something nice if you asked 
 him.' 
 
 'I don't think I durst. He always sits so quiet, 
 and he's such a queer man.' 
 
 ' Yes, lie is rather queer, but he speaks very kind' 
 
 ' I'll see. But you mustn't speak so cross to mc if 
 I do wrong, Lyddy. It makes me have bad thoughts. 
 
 /
 
 A LAND OF TWILIGHT 89 
 
 I felt as if I should like to go away, sometime when 
 you didn't know. I did, really ! ' 
 
 Lydia gazed at her anxiously. 
 
 ' I don't think you'd ever have the heart to do that, 
 Thyrza,' she said, in a low voice. 
 
 ' Xo,' she shook her head, smiling. ' I couldn't do 
 without you. And now kiss me properly, like you 
 always do.' 
 
 Lydia stood behind the chair again, and the laugh- 
 ing caress was exchanged. 
 
 ' I should stay,' Thyrza went on, ' if it was only to 
 have you do my hair. I do so like to feel your soft 
 hands ! ' 
 
 ' Soft hands I Great coarse things ! Just look ! ' 
 
 She took one of Thyrza'?, and held it beside her 
 own. The difference was noticeable enough ; Lydia's 
 was not ill-shapen, but there were marks on it of all 
 the rough household work which she had never per- 
 mitted her sister to do. Thyrza's was delicate, supple, 
 beautiful in its kind as her face. 
 
 ' I don't care I ' she said, laughing. ' It's a good, 
 soft, sleepy hand.' 
 
 ' Sleepy, child ! ' 
 
 ' I mean it always makes me feel dozy when it's 
 doing my hair.' 
 
 There was no more cloud between them. The 
 morning passed on with sisterly talk. Lydia had wisely 
 refrained from exacting promises; she hoped to resume 
 the subject before long — together with anotlier that
 
 90 THYRZA 
 
 was in her mind. Thjrza, too, had something to speak 
 of, but could not bring herself to it as yet. 
 
 Though it was so hot, they had to keep a small fire 
 for cooking the dinner. This meal consisted of a small 
 piece of steak chosen from the odds and ends thrown 
 together on the front of a butcher's shop, and a few 
 potatoes. It was not always they liad meat ; yet they 
 never went hungry, and, in comparing herself with 
 others she knew, it sometimes made Lydia a little 
 unhappy to think how well she lived. 
 
 Then began the unutterable dreariness of a Sunday 
 afternoon. From the lower part of the house sounded 
 the notes of a concertina ; it was Mr. Jarmey who played ; 
 he had the habit of doing so whilst half asleep between 
 dinner and tea. With impartiality he passed from 
 strains of popular hymnody to the familiar ditties of the 
 music hall, lavishing on each an excess of sentiment. 
 He shook pathetically on top notes and langui.shed on 
 final chords. A dolorous music ! 
 
 The milkman came along the street. He was fol- 
 lowed by a woman who wailed ' wa-ater-creases ! ' Then 
 the concertina once more possessed the stillness. Few 
 pedestrians were abroad ; the greater part of the male 
 population of Lambeth slumbered after the baked joint 
 and flagon of ale. Yet here and there a man in his 
 shirt-sleeves leaned forth despondently from a window 
 or sat in view within, dozing over the Sunday paper. 
 
 A rattling of light wheels drew near, and a nasal 
 voice cried ' 'Okey-Pokey ! 'Okey-'Okey-'Okey I Penny
 
 A LAND OF TWILIGHT 91 
 
 a lump ! ' It was the man who sold ice-cream. He 
 came to a stop, and half a dozen boys gathered about 
 his truck. The delicacy was dispensed to them in little 
 green and yellow glasses, from which they extracted it 
 with their tongues. The vendor remained for a few 
 minutes, then on again with his ' 'Okey-'Okey-'Okey I ' 
 sung through the nose. 
 
 Next came a sound of distressful voices, whining the" 
 discords of a mendicant psalm. A man, a woman, and 
 two small children crawled along the street ; their eyes 
 surveyed the upper windows. All were ragged and 
 filthy ; the elders bore the unmistakable brand of the 
 gin-shop, and the children were visaged like debased 
 monkeys. Occasionally a copper fell to them, in return 
 for which the choragus exclaimed ' Gord bless yer I ' 
 
 Thyrza sat in her usual place by the window, now 
 reading for a few minutes, now dreaming. Lydia had 
 some stockings to be darned ; she became at length so 
 silent that her sister turned to look at her. Her head 
 had dropped forward. She slumbered for a few minutes, 
 then started to consciousness again, and laughed when 
 she saw Thyrza regarding her. 
 
 ' I suppose Mary '11 be here directly,' she said. ' I'd 
 better put this work out of sight.' And as she began to 
 spread the cloth, she asked : ' What '11 you do whilst 
 we're at chapel, Thyrza ? ' 
 
 ' I think I'll go and have tea with Mrs. Grail ; then 
 I'll see if I dare ask for a book.' 
 
 ' You've made up your mind not to go out ? '
 
 92 THYRZA 
 
 ' There was something I wanted to tell you. I met 
 Mr. Ackroyd as I was coming home last night. I told 
 him I couldn't come out alone, and I said I couldn't be 
 sure whether you'd come or not.' 
 
 ' But what a pity ! ' returned Lydia. ' You knew I 
 was going to chapel. I'm afraid he'll wait for u?.' 
 
 ' Yes, but I somehow didn't like to say we wouldn't 
 go at all. What time is he going to be there ? ' 
 
 ' FTe said at sis o'clock.' 
 
 ' Would you mind just running out and telling him. 
 Perhaps you'll be going past with Mary, not long 
 after ? ' 
 
 ' That's a nice job you give me I ' remarked Lydia, 
 with a half smile. 
 
 ' But I know you don't mind it, Lyddy. It isn't the 
 first thing you've done for me.' 
 
 It was said with so much oiaivete that Lydia could 
 not but laugh. 
 
 ' I should like it much better if you'd go yourself,' 
 she replied. ' But I'm afraid it's no good asking.' 
 
 ' Not a bit ! And, Lyddy, I told Mr. Ackroyd that 
 it would always be the same. He understands now.' 
 
 The otlier made no reply. 
 
 ' You won't be cross about it ? ' 
 
 ' No, dear; there's nothing to be cross about. But 
 I'm very sorry.' 
 
 The explanation passed in a tone of less earnestness 
 than either would have anticipated. They did not look 
 at each other, and they dismissed the subject as soon as
 
 A LAND OF TWILIGHT 93 
 
 possible. Then came two rings at the house-bell, signi- 
 fying the arrival of their visitor. 
 
 Mary Bower and Lydia had been close friends for 
 four or five years, yet they had few obvious points of 
 similarity and their differences were marked enough. 
 The latter grew indeed ; for Mary attached herself 
 more closely to religious observances, whilst Lydia con- 
 tinued to declare with native frankness that she could 
 not feel it incumbent upon her to give grave attention 
 to such matters. Mary grieved over this attitude in 
 one whose goodness of heart she could not call in 
 question ; it troubled her as an inconsequeuce in nature ; 
 she cherished a purpose of converting Lydia. Yet she 
 found it very difficult to draw her friend into conversa- 
 tion on these subjects — Lydia was apt to show restive- 
 ness when solemn questions were put to her; though 
 involuntarily, she seemed to resent them. Out of good- 
 nature she conceded points, such as the occasional 
 attendance of chapel ; she would admit occasionally 
 that her lack of piety was a fault ; but her life mani- 
 fested slight compunction. Mary had brouglit herself 
 to the point of hoping that some sorrow might befall 
 her friend — nothing of too sad a nature, but still a 
 grief which might turn her thoughts inward. Yet, had 
 anything of the kind come to pass, Mary would have 
 been the first to hasten with consolation. 
 
 Thyrza went downstairs, and the two gossiped as 
 tea was made ready. Mary had already heard of the 
 incident at the Prince Albert ; such a piece of news
 
 94 THYRZA 
 
 could not be long in reaching Mrs. Bower's. She wished 
 to speak of it, yet was in uncertainty whether Lydia had 
 already been told. The latter was the first to bring 
 forward the subject. 
 
 ' It's quite certain she oughtn't to make a friend of 
 that girl Totty,' Mary said, with decision. * You must 
 insist that it is stopped, Lydia.' 
 
 * I shan't do any good that way,' replied the 
 other, shaking her head. ' I lost my temper last 
 night, like a silly, and of course only harm came of it.' 
 
 'But there's no need to lose your temper. You 
 must toll her she's not to speak to the girl again, and 
 there's an end of it ! ' 
 
 Mary's 'short way with the Dissenters' struck a note 
 of character which was apt to show itself in smaller 
 matters. Lydia, who was conscious of too much 
 tendency to compromise, often admired this quality in 
 her friend. Yet she knew that it would avail nothing 
 in the situation she had to deal with. Her views 
 were larger than Mary's, though she felt so much less 
 certainty on questions of supreme moment. She shook 
 her head again. 
 
 ' Thyrza's too old for that, dear. I must lead her 
 by kindness, or I can't lead her at all. I don't think, 
 though, she'll ever do such a thing as that again. I 
 know what a temptation it was; she does sing so 
 sweetly. But she won't do it again now she knows how 
 I think about it.' 
 
 Mary appeared doubtful. Given a suggestion of
 
 A LAND OF TWILIGHT 95 
 
 iniquity, and it was her instinct rather to fear than 
 to hope. Secretly she had no real liking for Thyrza ; 
 something in that complex nature repelled her. As she 
 herself had said, ' Thyrza was not easy to understand,' 
 but she did understand that the girl's essential motives 
 were of a kind radically at enmity with her own. 
 Thyrza, it seemed to her, was worldly in the most hope- 
 less way. 
 
 ' You'll be sorry for it if you're not firm,' she 
 remarked. 
 
 Lydia made no direct reply, but after a moment's 
 musing, she said : 
 
 ' If only she could think of j\Ir. Ackroyd I ' 
 
 She had not yet spoken so plainly of this to Mary ; 
 the latter was surprised by the despondency of her tone. 
 
 * But I thought they were often together ? ' 
 
 ' She's only been out with him when I went as well, 
 and last night she told him it was of no use.' 
 
 ' Well, I can't say I'm sorry to hear that,' Mary 
 replied, with the air of one who spoke an unpleasant 
 truth. 
 
 ' Why not, Mary ? ' 
 
 ' I think he's likely to do her every bit as much 
 harm as Totty Nancarrow.' 
 
 ' Who do you mean, Mary ? ' There was a touch of 
 indignation in Lydia's voice. 'What harm can Mr. 
 Ackroyd do to Thyrza ? ' 
 
 * Not the kind of harm you're thinking of, dear. 
 !)Ut if I had a sister, I know I sl^oulln't like to see
 
 96 THYRZA 
 
 her marry Mr. Ackroyd. He's got no religion, and 
 what's more, he's always talking against religion. 
 Father says he made a speech last week at that horrid 
 place in Westminster Bridge Koad where the Atheists 
 have their meetings. I don't deny there's something 
 nice about him, but I wouldn't trust a man of that 
 kind.' 
 
 Lydia delayed her words a little. She kept her 
 eyes on the table ; her forehead was knitted. 
 
 ' I can't help what he thinks about religion,' she 
 replied at length, with firmness. ' He's a good man, 
 I'm quite sure of that.' 
 
 ' Lydia, he can't be good if he does his best to ruin 
 people's souls.' 
 
 ' I don't know anything about that, Mary. What- 
 ever he says, he says because he believes it and thinks 
 it right. Why, there's Mr. Grail thinks in the same 
 way, I believe. At all events, he never goes to church 
 or chapel. And he's a friend of Mr. Ackroyd's.' 
 
 ' But we don't know anything about Mr. Grrail.' 
 
 ' We don't know much, but it's quite enough to talk 
 to him for a few minutes to know he's a man that 
 wouldn't say or do anything wrong.' 
 
 ' He must be a wonderful man, Lydia.' 
 
 These Sunday conversations were always the most 
 fruitful of trouble. Mary was prepared by her morning 
 and afternoon exercises to be more aggressive and 
 uncompromising than usual. But the present difficulty 
 appeared a graver one than any that had yet risen
 
 A LAND OF TWILIGHT 97 
 
 between them. Lydia had never spoken in the tone 
 which marked her rejoinder : 
 
 'Eealij, Mary, it's as if you couldn't put faith in" 
 any one ! You know I don't feel the same as you do 
 about religion and such things, and I don't suppose I 
 ever shall. When I like people, I like them ; I can't 
 ask what they believe and what they don't believe. 
 We'd better not talk about it any mare.' 
 
 Mary's face assumed rather a hard look. 
 
 ' Just as you like, dear,' she said. 
 
 There ensued an awkward silence, which Lydia at 
 length broke by speech onsome wholly ditferent subject. 
 Mary with difiBculty adapted herself to the change ; 
 tea was finished rather uncomfortably. 
 
 It was six o'clock. Lydia, hearing the hour strike, 
 knew that Ackroyd would be waiting at the end of 
 Walnut Tree Walk. She was absent minded, halting 
 between a desire to go at once and tell him that they 
 could not come, and a disinclination not perhaps very 
 clearly explained. The minutes went on. It seemed 
 to be decided for her that he should learn the truth by 
 their failure to join him. 
 
 Church bells began to sound. Mary rose and put 
 on her hat, then, taking up the devotional books she 
 had with her, offered her hand as if to say good-bye. 
 
 'But,' said Lydia in surprise, 'I'm going with you.' 
 
 ' I didn't suppose you would, dear,' the other 
 returned quietly. 
 
 ' But haven't you had te:i with me ? ' 
 
 vt L. I. n
 
 98 THYRZA 
 
 ^lary had not now to learn that her friend held a 
 promise inviolable ; her surprise would have been 
 exceeding if Lydia had allowed her to go forth alone. 
 She smiled. 
 
 ' Will there be nice singing ? ' Lydia asked, as she 
 prepared herself quickly. ' I do really like the singing, 
 at all events, Mary.' 
 
 The other shook her head, sadly. 
 
 ' Foolish girl I ' Lydia exclaimed. ' As if that 
 wasn't better than nothing.' 
 
 They left the house and turned towards Kennington 
 Eoad. Before Lydia had gone half a dozen steps she 
 saw that Ackroyd was waiting at the end of the street. 
 She felt a pang of self-reproach ; it was wrong of her 
 to have allowed him to stand in miserable uncertainty 
 all this time ; slie ought to have gone out at six o'clock. 
 In a low voice she said to her companion : 
 
 •• There's ^Ir. Ackroyd. I want just to speak a 
 word to him. If youll go on when we get up, I'll soon 
 overtake you.' 
 
 ]Mary acquiesced in silence. Lydia, approaching, 
 saw disappointment on the young man's face. He 
 raised his hat to her — an unwonted attention in these 
 parts — and she gave him her hand. 
 
 ' I'm going to chapel,' she said playfully. 
 
 He had a sudden hope. 
 
 ' Then your sister '11 come out ? ' 
 
 ' Xo, ]Mr. Ackroyd ; she can't to-night. She's 
 having tea with ^Irs. (xiail.'
 
 A LAND OF TWILIGHT 99 
 
 He looked down the street. Lydia was impelled to 
 say earnestly : 
 
 ' Some time, perhaps ! Thyrza is very young yet, 
 Mr. Ackroyd. She thinks of such different things.' 
 
 ' What does she think of ? ' he asked, rather gloomily. 
 
 ' I mean she — she must get older and know you 
 better. Grood-bye ! ^lary Bower is waiting for me.' 
 
 She ran on, and Ackroyd sauntered away without a 
 glance after her.
 
 loo THYRZA 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 DISINHERITED. 
 
 When Thyrza left the two at tea and went down- 
 stairs, she knocked at the door of the front parlour on 
 the ground floor. The room which she entered was but 
 dimly lighted ; thick curtains encroached upon each side 
 of the narrow window, which was also shadowed above by 
 a vallance with long tassels, whilst in front of it stood 
 a table with a great pot of flowering musk. The atmo- 
 sphere was close; with the odour of the plant blended 
 the musty air which comes from old and neglected 
 furniture. Mrs. Grail, Cxilbert Grail's mother, was an 
 old lady with an unusual dislike for the upset of house- 
 hold cleaning, and as her son's prejudice, like that of 
 most men, tended in the same direction, this sitting- 
 room, which they used in common, had known little 
 disturbance since they entered it a year and a half 
 ago. Formerly they had occupied a house in Battersea ; 
 it was given up on the death of Gilbert's sister, and 
 these lodgings taken in Walnut Tree Walk. 
 
 A prominent object in the room was a bookcase, 
 some six feet high and two and a half broad, quite
 
 DISINHERITED loi 
 
 fall of books, most of them of shabby exterior. They 
 were Gilbert's purchases at second-band stalls dui-ing 
 the past fifteen years. Their variety indicated a mind 
 of liberal intelligence. There was no hint of technical 
 pursuits. Works of history and biography predominated, 
 but poetry and fiction were also represented on the 
 shelves. Odd volumes of expensive publications looked 
 forth plaintively here and there, and many periodical 
 issues stood unbound. 
 
 Another case, a small one with glass doors, contained 
 literature of another order, some thirty volumes which 
 had belonged to Gilbert's father, and were now his 
 mother's peculiar study. They were translations of 
 sundry works of Swedenborg, and productions put forth 
 by the Church of the Xew Jerusalem. Mrs. Grail was 
 a member of that church. Slie occasionally visited a 
 meeting-place in Brixton, but for the most part was 
 satisfied with conning the treatises of the mystic, by 
 preference that on ' Heaven and Hell,' which she read 
 in the first English edition, an old copy in boards, 
 much worn. 
 
 She was a smooth-faced, gentle-mannered woman, 
 not without dignity as she rose to receive Thyrza and 
 guided her to a comfortable seat. Her voice was 
 habitually subdued to the limit of audibleness ; she 
 spoke with precision, and in language very free from 
 vulgarisms either of thought or phrase. Her taste had 
 always been for a home-keeping life ; she dreaded 
 gossipers, and only left the house when it was absolutely
 
 I02 THYRZA 
 
 necessary, then going forth closely veiled. With the 
 landlady she held no more intercourse than arose from 
 the weekly payment of rent ; the other lodgers in the 
 house only saw her by chance on rare occasions. Her 
 son left home and returned with much regularity, he 
 also seeming to desire privacy above all things. Mrs. 
 Jarmey had at first been disposed to take this reserve 
 somewhat ill ; when she knocked at Mrs. Grail's door 
 on some paltry excuse for seeing the inside of the room, 
 and found that the old lady exchanged brief words with 
 her on the threshold, she wondered who these people 
 might be who thought themselves too good for wonted 
 neighbourship. In timej however, her feeling changed, 
 and she gave everybody to understand that her ground- 
 floor lodgers were of the highest respectability, inmates 
 such as did not fall to the lot of every landlady. 
 
 Grilbert was surprised when, of her own motion, 
 his mother made overtures to the sisters who lived 
 at the top of the house. Neither Lydia nor Thyrza 
 was at first disposed to respond very warmly ; they 
 agreed that the old lady was doubtless very respectable, 
 but at the same time decidedly queer in her way of 
 speaking. But during the past few months they had 
 overcome this reluctance, and were now on a certain 
 footing of intimacy with Mrs. Grail, who made it no 
 secret that she took great interest in Thyrza. Thyrza 
 always entered the sitting-room with a feeling of awe. 
 The dim light, the old lady's low voice, above all the 
 books, in her eyes a remarkable library, impressed her
 
 DISINHERITED 103 
 
 strongly. If Grail himself were present, he was in- 
 variably reading ; Thyrza held him profoundly learned, 
 a judgment confirmed by his mother's way of speaking 
 of him. For ^Irs. Grrail regarded her son with distinct 
 reverence. He, iu turn, was tenderly respectful to her. 
 They did not know what it was to exchange an unkind 
 or an impatient word. 
 
 Thyrza liked especially to have tea here on Sunday. 
 The appointments of the table seemed to her luxurious, 
 for the tea-service was uniform and of pretty, old- 
 fashioned pattern, and simple little dainties of a kind 
 new to her were generally forthcoming. Moreover, from 
 her entrance to her leave-taking, she was flattered by 
 the pleasantest attentions. The only other table at 
 which she sometimes sat as a guest was ]Mrs. Bower's ; 
 between the shopkeeper's gross good-nature and the 
 well-mannered kindness of ^Irs. Grrail there was a broad 
 distinction, and Thyrza was very ready to appreciate it. 
 For she was sensible of refinements ; numberless little 
 personal delicacies distinguished her from the average 
 girl of her class, and even from Lydia. Tlie meals 
 which she and her sister took in their own room miirht 
 be ever so poor ; they were always served with a modest 
 grace which perhaps would not have marked them if it 
 had depended upon I^ydia alone. In this respect, as in 
 many others, Thyrza had repaid her sister's devotion 
 with subtle influences tending to a comely life. 
 
 Once, when she had gone down alone to have tea, 
 she said to Lydia on her return, ' Downstairs they treat
 
 I04 THYRZA 
 
 me as if I were a lady,' and it was spoken with the 
 no/ive satisfaction which was one of her charming moods. 
 
 Till quite lately Gilbert had scarcely conversed with 
 her at all. When he broke his habitual silence he ad- 
 dressed himself to Lydia. When he did speak to the 
 younger girl it was with studied courtesy and kindness ; 
 but he seemed unable to overcome a sort of shyness 
 with which she had troubled him since the beginning 
 of their acquaintance. It was noticeable in his manner 
 this evening when he shook hands with a murmured 
 word or two. Thyrza, however, appeared a little less 
 timid than usual ; she just met his look, and in a 
 questioning way which he could not understand at the 
 time. The truth was, Thyrza wondered whether he had 
 heard of her escapade of the night before ; she tried 
 to read his expression, searching for any hint of 
 disapproval. 
 
 The easy chair was always given to her when she 
 entered ; so seldom she sat on anything easier than the 
 stiff cane-bottomed seats of her own room that this 
 always seemed luxurious. By degrees she had permitted 
 herself to lean back in it. She did so want Lyddy to 
 know what it was like to sit in that chair ; but it had 
 never yet been possible to effect an exchange. It might 
 have offended Mrs. Grrail, a tiling on no account to be 
 risked. 
 
 ' Lyddy has Mary Bower to tea,' she said on her 
 arrival this evening. ' They're going to chapel. You 
 don't mind me coming alone, Mrs. Grail ? '
 
 DISINHERITED 105 
 
 ' You're never anything but welcome, my dear,' 
 murmured the old lady, pressing the little hand in both 
 her own. 
 
 Tea was soon ready. Mrs. Grail talked with 
 pleasant continuousnes^, as usual. She had fallen upon 
 reminiscences, and spoke of Lambeth as she had known 
 it when a girl ; it was her birthplace, and through life 
 she had never strayed far away. She regarded the 
 growth of population, the crowding of mean houses 
 where open spaces used to be, the whole change of 
 times in fact, as deplorable. One would have fancied 
 from her descriptions that the Lambeth of sixty years 
 ago was a delightful rustic village. 
 
 After tea Thyrza resumed the low chair and folded 
 her hands, full of contentment. !Mrs. Grail took the tea- 
 things from the room and was absent about a quarter 
 of an hour. Thyrza, left alone with the man who for 
 her embodied so many mysteries, let her eyes stray over 
 the bookshelves. She felt it very unlikely that any 
 book there would be within the compass of her under- 
 standing ; doubtless they dealt with the secrets of 
 learning, the strange, high things for which her awed 
 imagination had no name. Gilbert had seated himself 
 in a shadowed comer ; his face was bent downwards. 
 Just when Thyrza was about to put some timid ques- 
 tion with regard to the books, he looked at her and said : 
 
 ' Do you ever go to Westminster Abbey ? ' 
 
 The intellectual hunger of his face was softened ; 
 he did not smile, but kept a mild gravity of expression
 
 io6 THYRZA 
 
 which showed that he had a pleasure in the girl's 
 proximity. When he had spoken, he stroked his 
 forehead with the tips of his fingers, a nervous action. 
 
 ' I've never been inside,' Thyrza niade answer. 
 ' What is there to see ? ' 
 
 ' It's the place, you know, where great men have 
 been buried for hundreds of years. I should like, if I 
 could, to spend a little time there every day.' 
 
 ' Can you see the graves ? ' Thyrza asked. 
 
 ' Yes, many. And on the stones you read who they 
 were that lie there. There are the graves of kings, 
 and of men much greater than kings.' 
 
 ' Greater than kings ! Who were they, Mr. 
 Grail?' 
 
 She had rested her elbow on the arm of the chair, 
 and her fingers just touched her chin. She regarded 
 him with a gaze of deep curiosity. 
 
 ' Men who wrote books,' he answered, with a slight 
 smile. 
 
 Thyrza dropped her ej^es. In lier thought of books 
 it had never occurred to her that any special interest 
 could attach to the people who wrote them ; indeed, she 
 had perhaps never asked herself how printed matter 
 came into existence. Even among the crowd of average 
 readers, we know how commonly a book will be swal- 
 lowed without a glance at its title page. 
 
 Gilbert continued : 
 
 ' I always come away from the Abbey with fresh 
 courage. If I'm tired and out of spirits, I go there,
 
 DISIXHERITED 107 
 
 and it makes me feel as if I daren't waste a minute of 
 the time when I'm free to try and learn something.' 
 
 It was a strange impulse that made him speak in 
 this way to an untaught child. With those who were 
 far more likely to understand him he was the most 
 reticent of men. 
 
 ' But you know a great deal, Mr. Grrail,' Thyrza 
 said with surprise, looking again at the bookshelves. 
 
 ' You mustn't think that. I had very little teach- 
 ing when I was a lad, and ever since I've had very little 
 either of time or means to teach myself. If I only 
 knew those few books well, it would be something, but 
 there are some of them I've never got to yet.' 
 
 ' Those jevj books I ' Thyrza exclaimed. ' But I 
 never thought anybody had so many, before I came into 
 this room.' 
 
 ' I should like you to see the library at the British 
 Museum. Every book that is published in England is 
 sent there. There's a large room where people sit and 
 study any book they like, all day long, and day after 
 day. Think what a life that must be I ' 
 
 ' Those are rich people, I suppose,' Thyrza remarked. 
 ' They haven't to work for their living.' 
 
 ' Xot rich, all of them. But they haven't to work 
 with their hands.' 
 
 He became silent. In his last words there was a 
 little bitterness. Thyrza glanced at liim ; he seemed 
 to have forgotten her presence, and his face had the 
 wonted look" of trouble kept under.
 
 loS THYRZA 
 
 Then Mrs. Grail returned. She sat down near 
 Thyrza, and, after a little more of her pleasant talk, 
 said, turDing to her son : 
 
 * Could you find something to read us, Gilbert ? ' 
 
 He thought for a moment, then reached down a 
 book of biographies, writing of a popular colour, not 
 above Thyrza's understanding. It contained a life of 
 Sir Thomas More, or rather a pleasant story founded 
 upon his life, with much about his daughter Margaret. 
 
 ' Yes, that'll do nicely,' was Mrs. Grail's opinion. 
 
 He began with a word or two of explanation to 
 Thyrza, then entered upon the narrative. As soon as 
 the proposal was made, Thyrza's face had lighted up 
 with pleasure ; she listened intently, leaning a little 
 forward in her chair, her hands folded together. Gilbert, 
 if he raised his eyes from the page, did not look at her. 
 ]Mrs. Grail interrupted once or twice with a question 
 or a comment. The reading was good ; Gilbert's voice 
 gave life to description and conversation, and supplied 
 an interest even where the writer was in danger of 
 growing dull. 
 
 When the end was reached, Thyrza recovered herself 
 with the sigh which follows strained attention. But 
 she was not in a mood to begin conversation again ; 
 her mind liad got something to work upon, it would 
 keep her awake far iuto the night with a succession of 
 half-realised pictures. What a world was that of 
 which a glimpse had been given her I Here indeed 
 was something remote from Ijer tedious life. Her
 
 DISINHERITED 109 
 
 brain was full of vague glories, of the figures of kings 
 and queens, of courtiers and fair ladies, of things nobly 
 said and done, and her heart throbbed with indignation 
 at wrongs greater than any she had ever imagined. 
 When it had all happened she knew not ; surely very 
 long ago ; but the names she knew, Chelsea, Lambeth, 
 the Tower, these gave a curiously fantastic reality to 
 the fairy tale. And one thing she saw with uttermost 
 distinctness : that boat going down the stream of 
 Thames, and the dear, dreadful head dropped into it 
 from the arch above. She would go and stand on the 
 bridge and think of it. 
 
 Ah, she must tell Lyddy all that I Better still, she 
 must read it to her. She found courage to say : 
 
 'Could you spare that book, Mr. Grail? Could 
 you lend it me for a day or two ? I'd be very careful 
 with it.' 
 
 'I shall be very glad to lend it you,' Gilbert answered. 
 His voice changed somehow from that in which he 
 usually spoke. 
 
 She received it from him and held it on her lap 
 with both hands. She would not look into it till alone 
 in her room. And, having secured it, she did not wish 
 to stay longer. 
 
 ' Going already ? ' Mrs. Grail said, seeing her rise. 
 
 * Lyddy '11 be back very soon,' was the reply. ' I 
 think I'd better go now.' 
 
 She shook hands with both of them, and they heard 
 her run up the thin-carpeted stairs.
 
 no THYRZA 
 
 Mother and son sat in silence for some minutes. 
 Gilbert had taken another book, and seemed to be 
 absorbed in it ; Mrs. Grrail had a face of meditation. 
 Occasionally she looked upwards, as though on the 
 track of some memory which she strove to make clear. 
 
 ' Gilbert,' she began at length, suggestively. 
 
 He raised his eyes and regarded her in absent way. 
 
 * I've been trying for a long time to remember what 
 that child's face reminded me of. Every time I see her, 
 I make sure I've seen someone like her before, and now 
 I think I've got it.' 
 
 Gilbert was used to a stream of amusing fanciful- 
 ness in his mother ; analysis and resemblances were 
 dear to her ; possibly the Biblical theories which she 
 had imbibed were in some degree answerable for the 
 characteristic. 
 
 ' And who does she remind you of ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Of somebody whose name I can't think of. You 
 remember the school in Lambeth Road where Lizzie 
 used to go ? ' 
 
 She referred to a time fi ve-and-twenty years gone 
 by, when Gilbert's sister was a child. He nodded. 
 
 ' It was Mrs. Green's school, you know, and soon 
 after Lizzie began to go, there ivas an assistant teacher 
 taken on. Now can you think whnt her name was ? 
 You must remember that Lizzie used to walk home 
 
 along with her almost every day. Miss , Miss . 
 
 Oh, dear me, what was that name ? ' 
 
 Gilbert smiled and shook his head.
 
 DISINHERITED in 
 
 ^ I can't help you, mother. I don't even remember 
 any such thing.' 
 
 * What a poor memory you have in ordinary thing?, 
 Gfilbert ! I wonder at it, with your mind for study.' 
 
 ' But what's the connection ? ' 
 
 'Why, Thyrza has got her very face. It's just 
 come to me. I'm sure that was her mother.' 
 
 'But how impossible that you should have that 
 woman's face still in your mind I ' Gilbert protested, 
 good-humouredly. 
 
 ' My dear, don't be so hasty. It's as clear to me 
 as if Lizzie had just come in and said, "Miss Denny 
 brought me home." Why, there is the name ? It 
 fell from my tongue ! To be sure ; Miss Penny I A 
 pale, sad-looking little thing, she was. Often and 
 often I've been at the window and seen her coming 
 along the street hand in hand with your sister. Now 
 I'll ask Thyrza if her mother's name wasn't Denny, 
 and if she didn't teach at Mrs. Green's school. Depend 
 upon it, I'm right, Gilbert I ' 
 
 Gilbert still smiled very incredulously. 
 
 ' It'll be a marvellous thing if it turns out to be 
 true,' he said. 
 
 ' Oh, but I have a wonderful memory for faces. I 
 always used to think there was something very good 
 and sweet in that teacher's look. I don't think I ever 
 spoke to her, though she went backwards and forwards 
 past our house in Brook Street for nearly two years. 
 Then I didn't see her any more. Depend upon it,
 
 112 THYRZA 
 
 she went away to be married. Lizzie had left a little 
 before that. Oh yes, it explains why I seemed to know 
 Thyrza the first time I saw her.' 
 
 xVIrs. Grail was profoundly satisfied. Again a short 
 silence ensued. 
 
 ' How nicely they keep themselves,' she resumed, 
 half to herself. ' I'm sure Lydia's one of the most 
 careful girls I ever knew. But Thyrza's my favourite. 
 How she enjoyed your reading, Gilbert ! ' 
 
 He nodded, but kept his attention on the book. 
 His mother just glanced at him, and presently con- 
 tinued : 
 
 ' I do hope she won't be spoilt. She is very pretty, 
 isn't she ? But they're not girls for going out much, I 
 can see. And Thyrza's always glad when I ask her to 
 come and have tea with us. I suppose they haven't 
 many friends.' 
 
 It was quite against Mrs. Grail's wont to interrupt 
 thus when her son had settled down to read. Gilbert 
 averted his eyes from the page, and, after reflecting a 
 little, said : 
 
 ' Ackroyd knows them.' 
 
 His mother looked at him closely. He seemed to 
 be absorbed again. 
 
 ' Does he speak to you about them, Gilbert ? ' 
 
 * He's mentioned them once or twice.' 
 
 * Perhaps that's why Lydia goes out to chapel,' the 
 old lady said, with a smile. 
 
 ' No, I don't think so.'
 
 DISINHERITED 113 
 
 The reply was so abrupt, so nearly impatient, that 
 Mrs. Grrail made an end of her remarks. In a little 
 while she too began to read. 
 
 They had supper at nine ; at ten o'clock Mrs. Grail 
 kissed her son's forehead and bade him good-night, 
 adding, ' Don't sit long, my dear.' Every night she 
 took leave of him with the same words, and they were 
 not needless. Gilbert too often forgot the progress of 
 time, and spent in study the hours which were demanded 
 for sleep. 
 
 His daily employment was at a large candle and 
 soap factory. By such work he had earned his living 
 for more than twenty years. As a boy, he had beo^un 
 with wages of four shillings a week, his task being to 
 trim with a knife the rough edges of tablets of soap 
 just stamped out. By degrees he had risen to a weekly 
 income of forty shillings, occasionally increased by 
 pay for overtime. Beyond this he was not likely to 
 get. Men younger than he had passed him, attaining 
 the position of foremen and the like ; some had earned 
 money by inventions which they put at the service of 
 their employers ; but Gilbert could hope for nothing 
 more than the standing of a trustworthy meclianic 
 who, as long as he keeps his strength, can count on 
 daily bread. His heart was not in his work ; it would 
 have been strange if he had thriven by an industry 
 which was only a weariness to him. 
 
 His hours were from six in the morning to seven at 
 night. Ah, that terrible rising at five o'clock, when it 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 
 
 THYRZA 
 
 seemed at first as if he must fall back again in sheer 
 anguish of fatigue, when his eyeballs throbbed to the 
 light and the lids were as if weighted with iron, when 
 the bitterness of the day before him was like poison in 
 his heart I He could not live as his fellow-workmen 
 did, coming home to satisfy his hunger and spend a 
 couple of hours in recreation, then to well-earned 
 sleep. Every minute of freedom, of time in which he 
 was no longer a machine but a thinking and desiring 
 man, he held precious as fine gold. How could he 
 yield to heaviness and sleep, when books lay open 
 before him, and Knowledge, the goddess of his worship, 
 whispered wondrous promises ? To Gilbert a printed 
 page was as the fountain of life ; he loved literature 
 passionately, and hungered to know the history of 
 man's mind through all the ages. This distinguished 
 him markedly from the not uncommon working man 
 who zealously pursues some chosen branch of study. 
 Such men ordinarily take up subjects of practical 
 bearing ; physical science is wont to be their field ; or 
 if they study history it is from the point of view of 
 current politics. Taste for literature pure and simple, 
 and disinterested love of historical search, are the 
 rarest things among the self-taught; naturally so, 
 seeing how seldom they come of anything but academical 
 tillage of the right soil. The average man of education 
 is fond of literature because the environment of his 
 growth has made such fondness a second nature. 
 Gilbert had conceived his passion by mere grace. It
 
 DISIXHERITED 115 
 
 had developed in him slowly. At twenty years he was 
 a young fellow of seemingly rather sluggish character, 
 without social tendencies, without the common am- 
 bitions of his class, much given to absence of mind. 
 About that time he came across one of the volumes of 
 the elder D'Israeli, and, behold, he had foimd himself. 
 Reading of things utterly unknown to him^ he was in- 
 spired with strange delights ; a mysterious fascination 
 drew him on amid names which were only a sound ; a 
 great desire was born in him, and its object was seen in 
 every volume that met his eye. Had he then been 
 given means and leisure, he would have become at the 
 least a man of noteworthy learning. Xo such good 
 fortune awaited him. Daily his thirteen hours went to 
 the manufacture of candles, and the evening leisure, 
 with one free day in the week, was all he could ever 
 hope for. 
 
 At five-and-twenty he had a grave illness. Insuffi- 
 cient rest and ceaseless trouble of spirit brought him 
 to death's door. For a long time it seemed as if he 
 must content himself w^ith earning his bread. He had 
 no right to call upon others to bear the burden of his 
 needs. His brother, a steady hard-headed mechanic, 
 who was doing well in the Midlands and had just 
 married, spoke to him with uncompromising common 
 sense ; if he chose to incapacitate himself, he must not 
 look to his relatives to support him. Silently Gilbert 
 acquiesced ; silently he went back to the factory, and, 
 when lie came home of nights, sat with eyes gazing 
 
 I 2
 
 ii6 THYRZA 
 
 blankly before him. His mother lived with him, she 
 and his sister ; the latter went out to work. All were 
 dependent upon the wages of the week. Xearly a year 
 went by, during which Gilbert did not open a book. 
 It was easier for him, he said, not to read at all than 
 to measure his reading by the demands of his bodily 
 weakness. He would have sold his handful of books, 
 sold them in sheer bitterness of mind, but this his 
 mother interfered to prevent. 
 
 But he could not live so. There was now a danger 
 that the shadow of misery would darken into madness. 
 Little by little he resumed his studious habits, yet 
 with prudence. At thirty his bodily strength seemed 
 to have consolidated itself ; if he now and then exceeded 
 the allotted hours at night, he did not feel the same 
 evil results as formerly. His sister was a very dear 
 companion to him ; she had his own tastes in a sim- 
 pler form, and woman's tact enabled her to draw him 
 into the repose of congenial talk when she and her 
 mother were troubled by signs of overwork in him. 
 He purchased a book as often as he could reconcile 
 himself to the outlay, and his knowledge grew, though 
 he seemed to himself ever on the mere threshold of the 
 promised land, hopeless of admission. 
 
 Then came his sister's death, and the removal from 
 Battersea back to Lambeth. Henceforth it would be 
 Geldomer than ever that he could devote a shilling 
 ;o the enrichment of his shelves, ^^^len both he and 
 Lizzie earned wages, the future did not give much
 
 DISLXHERITED 117 
 
 trouble, but now all pi'ovideace was demanded. His 
 brother in the Midlands made contribution towards the 
 mother's support, but Henry had a family of his own, 
 and it was only right that Gilbert should bear the 
 greater charge. Grilbert was nearing five-and-thirty. 
 
 By nature he was a lonely man. Amusement such 
 as his world offered had always been savourless to him, 
 and he had never sought familiar fellowship beyond his 
 home. Even there it often happened that for days he 
 kept silence ; he would eat his meal when he came from 
 work, then take his book to a corner, and be mute, 
 answering any needful question with a gesture or the 
 briefest word. At such times his face had the lines of 
 age : you would have deemed him a man weighed upon 
 by some vast sorrow. And was he not ? His life was 
 speeding by; already the best years were gone, the 
 years of youth and force and hope — nay, hope he could 
 not be said to have known, unless it were for a short 
 space when first the purpose of his being dawned upon 
 consciousness ; and the end of that had been bitter 
 enough. The purpose he knew was frustrated. The 
 ' Might have been,' which is ' also called No more. Too 
 late, Farewell,' often stared him in the eyes with those 
 unchanging orbs of ghastliness, chilling the flow of his 
 blood and making lite the cruellest of mockeries. Yet 
 lie was not driven to that kind of resentment which 
 makes the revolutionary spirit. His personality was 
 essentially that of a student ; conservative instincts 
 were stronger in him than the misery which accused his
 
 ii8 THYRZA 
 
 fortune. A touch of creative genius, and you had the 
 m;in whose song woukl lead battle against the hoary 
 iniquities of the world. That was denied him ; he 
 could only eat his own heart in despair, his protest 
 ao^ainst the outrag^e of fate a desolate silence. 
 
 A lonely man, yet a tender one. The capacity of 
 love was net less in him than the capacity of know- 
 ledge. Yet herein too he was wronged by circumstance. 
 In youth an extreme shyness held him from intercourse 
 with all women save his mother and his sister ; he 
 was conscious of his lack of ease in dialogue, of an 
 awkwardness of manner and an unattractiveness of 
 person. On summer evenings, when other young fellows 
 were ready enough in finding companions for their 
 walk, Gilbert would stray alone in the quietest streets 
 until he tired himself, then go home and brood over 
 fruitless longings. In love, as afterwards in study, he 
 had his ideal ; sometimes he would catch a glimpse of 
 some face in the street at night, and would walk on with 
 the feeling that his happiness had passed him — if only 
 he could have turned and pursued it ! In all women 
 he had supreme faith ; that one woman whom his heart 
 imagined was a pure and noble creature, with measure- 
 less aspiration, womanhood glorified in her to the type 
 of the ujiward striving soul — she did not come to him ; 
 his life remained chaste and lonely. 
 
 Neither had he friends. There were at all times 
 good fellows to be found among those with whom he 
 worked, but again his thyness held him apart, and
 
 DISINHERITED 119 
 
 indeed he feU that intercourse with them would afford 
 him but brief satisfaction. Occasionally some man 
 more thoughtful than the rest would be drawn to him 
 by curiosity, but, finding himself met with so much 
 reserve, involuntary in Grilbert, would become doubtful 
 and turn elsewhither for sympathy. Yet in this respect 
 Grail improved as time went on ; as his character 
 ripened, he was readier to gossip now and then of 
 common things with average associates. He knew, 
 however, that he was not much liked, and this naturally 
 gave a certain coldness to his behaviour. Perhaps the 
 very first man for whom he found himself entertaining 
 something like warmth of kindness was Luke Ackroyd. 
 Ackroyd came to the factory shortly after Gilbert had 
 gone to live in Walnut Tree Walk, and in the course of 
 a few weeks the two had got into the habit of walking 
 their common way homewards together. As might 
 have been anticipated, it was a character very unlike 
 his own which had at length attached Gilbert. To 
 begin with, Ackroyd was pronounced in radicalism, was 
 aggressive and at times somewhat noisy ; then, he was 
 far from possessing Grail's moral stability, and did not 
 care to conceal his ways of amusing himself; lastly, his 
 intellectual tastes were of the scientific order. Yet 
 Gilbert from the first liked him ; he felt that there was 
 no little good in the fellow, if only it could be fostered 
 at the expense of his weaker characteristics. Yet those 
 very weaknesses had much to do with his amiability. 
 This they had in common : both aspii*ed to something
 
 120 THYRZA 
 
 that fortune had denied them. Ackroyd had his idea 
 of a social revolution, and, though it seemed doubtful 
 whether he was exactly the man to claim a larger sphere 
 for the energies of his class, his thought often had 
 genuine nobleness, clearly recognisable by Gilbert. 
 Ackroyd had brain-power above the average, and it was 
 his right to strive for a better lot than the candle- 
 factory could assure him. So Grrail listened with a 
 smile of much indulgence to the young fellow's fuming 
 against the order of things, and if he now and then put 
 in a critical remark was not sorry to have it scornfully 
 swept aside with a flood of vehement words. He felt, 
 perchance, that a share of such vigour might have made 
 his own existence more fruitful. 
 
 This was Gilbert Grail at the time with which we 
 are now concerned. His mother believed that she had 
 discovered in him something of a new mood of late, a 
 tendency to quiet cheerfulness, and she attributed it in 
 part to the healthfulness of intercourse with a friend ; 
 partly she assigned to it another reason. But her 
 assumption did not receive much proof from Gilbert's 
 demeanour when left alone in the sitting-room this 
 Sunday night. Since Thyrza's departure, he had in 
 truth only made pretence of reading, and now that 
 his mother was gone, he let the book fall from his 
 hands. His countenance was fixed in a supreme sad- 
 ness, his lips were tightly closed, and at times moved, 
 as if in the suppression of pain. Hopelessness in youth, 
 unless it be justified by some direst ruin of the future,
 
 DISINHERITED 121 
 
 is wont to touch us either with impatience or with a 
 comforting sense that reaction is at hand ; in a man of 
 middle age it moves us with pure pathos. The sight 
 of Grilbert as he sat thus motionless would have brought 
 tears to kindly eyes. The past was a burden on his 
 memory, the future lay before him like a long road 
 over which he must wearily toil — the goal, frustration. 
 To-night he could not forget himself in the thoughts 
 of other men. It was one of the dread hours, which 
 at intervals came upon him, when the veil was lifted 
 from the face of destiny, and he was bidden gaze 
 himself into despair. At such times he would gladly 
 have changed beings with the idlest and emptiest of 
 his fellow-workmen ; their life might be ignoble, but 
 it had abundance of enjoyment. To him there came 
 no joy, nor ever would. Only when he lay in his last 
 sleep would it truly be said of him that he rested. 
 
 At twelve o'clock he rose; he had no longing for 
 sleep, but in five hours the new week would have 
 begun, and he must face it with what bodily strength 
 he might. Before entering his bedroom, which was 
 nest to the parlour, he went to the house-door and 
 opened it quietly. A soft rain was falling. Leaving 
 the door ajar, he stepped out into the street and looked 
 up to the top windows. There was no light behind the 
 blinds. As if satisfied, he went back into the house 
 and to his room. 
 
 The factory was at so short a distance from Walnut
 
 122 THYRZA 
 
 Tree Walk that Gilbert was able to come home for 
 breakfast and dinner. When lie entered at mid-day on 
 Monday, his mother pointed to a letter on the mantel- 
 piece. He examined the address, and was at a loss to 
 recognise the writing. 
 
 ' Who's this from, I wonder ? ' he said, as he opened 
 the envelope. 
 
 He found a short letter, and a printed slip which 
 looked like a circular. The former ran thus : 
 
 ' Sir, — I am about to deliver a course of evening 
 lectures on a period of English Literature in a room 
 which I have taken for the purpose, Xo. — High 
 Street, Lambeth. I desire to have a small audience, 
 not more than twenty, consisting of working men who 
 belong to Lambeth. Attendance will be at my invi- 
 tation, of course without any kind of charge. You 
 have been mentioned to me as one likely to be inte- 
 rested in the subject I propose to deal with. I permit 
 myself to send you a printed syllabus of the course, 
 and to say that it will give me great pleasure if you 
 are able to attend. I should like to arrange for two 
 lectures weekly, each of an hour's duration ; the days I 
 leave undecided, also the hour, as I wish to adapt 
 these to the convenience of my hearers. If you feel 
 inclined to give thought to the matter, will you meet 
 me at the lecture-room at eight o'clock on the evening 
 of Sunday, August 16, when we could discuss details? 
 The lectures themselves had better, I should think, 
 begin with the month of September.
 
 DISINHERITED 1 2 3 
 
 ' Reply to this is unnecessary ; I hope to have the 
 
 pleasure of meeting you on the 16th. — Believe me to 
 
 be, yours very truly, 
 
 ' Walter Egiiemont.' 
 
 ' Ah, this is what Ackroyd was speaking of on Satur- 
 day,' (jilbert remarked, holding the letter to his mother. 
 * I wonder what it means.' 
 
 * Who is this Mr. Ec^remont ?' asked 3Irs. Grail. 
 
 o 
 
 ' He belongs to the firm of Egremont & Pollard, so 
 Ackroyd tells me. You know that big factory in West- 
 minster Bridge Road- -where they make oil -cloth.' 
 
 Gilbert was perusing the printed syllabus; it in- 
 terested him, and he kept it by his plate when he sat 
 down to dinner. 
 
 ' Do you think of going? ' his mother inquired. 
 
 ' Well, I should like to, if the lectures are good. 
 I suppose he's a young fellow fresh from college. He 
 may have something to say, and he may be only con- 
 ceited ; there's no knowing. Still, I don't dislike the 
 way he writes. Yes, I think I shall go and have a look 
 at him, at all events.' 
 
 Gilbert finished his meal and walked back to the 
 factory- Groups of men were standing about in the 
 sunshine, waiting for the bell to ring ; some talked and 
 joked, some amused themselves with hori«e-play. The 
 narrow street was redolent with oleaginous matter ; the 
 clothing of the men was penetrated with the same 
 nauseous odour. 
 
 At a little distance from the factory, Ackroyd was
 
 124 THYRZA 
 
 Fitting on a door-step, smoking a pipe. Grail took a 
 seat beside him and drew from his pocket the letter he 
 had just received. 
 
 ' I've got one of them, too,' Luke observed with 
 small show of interest. There was an unaccustomed 
 gloom on his face ; he puffed at his pipe rather 
 sullenly. 
 
 ' Who has told him our names and addresses ? ' 
 Gilbert asked. 
 
 ' Bower, no doubt.' 
 
 'But how comes Bower to know anything about 
 me?' 
 
 ' Oh, I've mentioned you sometimes.' 
 
 ' Well, do you think of going ? ' 
 
 ' Xo, I shan't go. It isn't at all in my line.' 
 
 Gilbert became silent. 
 
 ' Something the matter ? ' he asked presently, as his 
 companion puffed on in the same gloomy way. 
 
 ' A bit of a headache, that's all.' 
 
 His tone was unusual. Gilbert fixed his eyes on 
 the pavement. 
 
 ' It's easy enough to see what it means,' Ackroyd 
 continued after a moment, referring to Egremont's in- 
 vitation. ' We shall be having an election before long, 
 and he's going to stand for Vauxhall. This is one way 
 of making himself known.' 
 
 'If I thought that,' said the other, musingly, 'I 
 shouldn't go near the place.' 
 
 ' What else can it be ? '
 
 DISINHERITED . 125 
 
 * I don't know anything about the man, but he may 
 have an idea that he's doing good.' 
 
 ' If so, ihat^s quite enough to prevent me from 
 going. What the devil do I want with his help? 
 Can't I read about English literature for myself ! ' 
 
 'Well, I can't say that I have that feeling. A 
 lecture may be a good deal of use, if the man knows 
 his subject well. But,' he added, smiling, ' I suppose 
 you object to him and his position ? ' 
 
 ' Of course I do. What business has the fellow to 
 have so much time that he doesn't know what to do 
 with it ? ' 
 
 ' He might use it worse, anyhow.' 
 
 ' I don't know about that. I'd rather he'd get a 
 bad name, then it 'ud be easier to abuse him, and he'd 
 be more good in the end.' 
 
 Their eyes met. Grilbert's had a humorous expres- 
 sion, and Ackroyd laughed in an unmirthful way. The 
 factory bell rang; Gilbert rose and waited for the other 
 to accompany him. But Luke, after a struggle to his 
 feet, said suddenly : 
 
 ' Work be hanged ! I've had enough of it ; I feel 
 Mondayish, as we used to say in Lancashire.' 
 
 ' Aren't you coming, then ? ' 
 
 ' No, I'll go and get drunk instead.' 
 
 ' Oome on, old man. No good in getting drunk.' 
 
 * Maybe I won't ; but I can't go back to work to-day. 
 So long.' 
 
 With which vernacular leave-taking, he turned and
 
 126 THYRZA 
 
 strolled away. The bell was clanging its last strokes ; 
 Gilbert hurried to the door, and once more merged his 
 humanity in the wage-earning machine. 
 
 Two da}s later, as he sat over his evening meal, 
 Gilbert noticed that his mother had something to say. 
 She cast frequent glances at him; her pursed lips 
 seemed to await an opportune moment. 
 
 ' Well, mother, what is it ? ' he said presently, with 
 his wonted look of kindness. By living so long together 
 and in such close intercourse the two had grown skilled 
 in the reading of each other's faces. 
 
 ' My dear,' she replied, with something of solemnity, 
 ' I was perfectly right. Miss Denny vxis those girls' 
 mother.' 
 
 'Nonsense!' 
 
 ' But there's no doubt about it. I've asked Thyrza. 
 She knows that was her mother's name, and she knows 
 that her mother was a teacher.' 
 
 ' In that case I've nothing more to say. Youre a 
 wonderful old lady, as I've often told you.' 
 
 ' I have a good memory, Gilbert. You can't think 
 how pleased I am that I found out that. I feel more 
 interest in them than ever. And the child seemed so 
 pleased too I She could scarcely believe that I'd known 
 her mother before she was born. She wants me to tell her 
 and her sister all I can remember. Now, isn't it nice ? ' 
 
 Gilbert smiled, but made no further remark. The 
 evening silence set in.
 
 [27 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 THE WORK IN PKOGRESS. 
 
 On the sheltered side of Eastbourne, just at the springing 
 of the downs as yon climb towards Beachy Head, is a 
 spacious and heavy-looking stone house, with pillared 
 porch, oriel windows on the ground floor of the front, 
 and a square turret rising above the fine row of chestnuts 
 which flanks the road. It was built some forty years 
 ago, its only neighbours then being a few rustic cottages ; 
 recently there haB sprung up a suburb of comely red- 
 brick houses, linking it with the visitors' quarter of 
 Eastbourne. The builder and first proprietor, a gentle- 
 man whose dignity derived from Mark Lane, called the 
 house Odessa Lodge ; at his death it passed by purchase 
 into the hands of people to whom this name seemed 
 something more than inappropriate, and the abode was 
 henceforth known as The Chestnuts. 
 
 One morning early in November, three months afler 
 the date of that letter which he addresi:ed to Gilbert 
 (jrail and otlier working men of Lambeth, our friend 
 Egremont arrived from t<»wn at Eastbourne station and 
 was conveyed thence ])y fly to the house of whicli I
 
 128 THYRZA 
 
 speak. He inquired for Mrs. Ormonde. That lady 
 was not within, but would very shortly return from 
 her morning drive. Egremont followed the servant to 
 the library and prepared to wait. 
 
 The room was handsomely furnished and more than 
 passably supplied with books, which inspection showed 
 to be not only such as one expects to find in the library 
 of a country house, but to a great extent works of very 
 modern issue, arguing in their possessor the catholicity 
 of taste which our time encourages. The solid books 
 wliich form the substratum of every collection were 
 brought together by Mr. Brook Ormonde, in the first 
 instance at his house in Devonshire Square ; when 
 failing health compelled him to leave London, the town 
 establishment was broken up, and until his deatli, 
 three years later, the family resided wholly at The 
 Chestnuts. During those years the library grew ap- 
 preciably, for the son of the house, Horace Ormonde, 
 had just come forth from the academic curriculum 
 with a vast appetite for literature. His mother, more- 
 over, was of the women who read. Whilst Mr. 
 Ormonde was taking a lingering farewell of the world 
 and its concerns, these two active minds were busy with 
 the fire-new thought of the scientific and humanitarian 
 af>-e. Walter Egremont was then a frequent visitor of 
 the house ; he and Horace talked many a summer night 
 into dawn over the problems which nowadays succeed 
 measles and scarlatina as a form of youthful complaint. 
 But Horace Ormonde had even a shorter span of life
 
 THE WORK IN PROGRESS 129 
 
 before him than his invalid father ; he was drowned in 
 bathing, and it was Egremont who had to take the 
 news up to The Chestnuts. A few months later, there 
 was another funeral from the house. Mrs. Ormonde 
 remained alone. 
 
 It was in this room that Egremont had waited for 
 the mother's coming, that morning when he returned 
 companionless from the beach. He was then but twu- 
 and-twenty ; his task was as terrible as a man can be 
 called upon to perform. Mrs. Ormonde had the 
 strength to remember that ; she shed no tears, uttered 
 no lamentations. WTien, after a few questions, she 
 was going silently from the room, Walter, his own e^es 
 blinded, caught her hand and pressed it passionately in 
 both his own. She was the woman whom he reverenced 
 above all others, worshipping her with that pure devo- 
 tion which young men such as he are wont to feel for 
 some gracious lady much their elder. At that moment 
 he would have given his own life to the sea could he 
 by so doing have brought her back the son who would 
 never return. Such moments do not come often to the 
 best of us, perhaps in very truth do not repeat them- 
 selves. Egremont never entered the library without 
 having that impulse of uttermost unsel6shness brought 
 back vividly to his thoughts ; on that account he liked 
 the room, and gladly spent a quiet half-liour in it. 
 
 In a little less than that Mrs. Ormonde returned 
 from her breathing of the sea air. At the door she 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THYRZA 
 
 was told of Egremont's arrival, and with a look of 
 pleased expectancy she went at once to the library. 
 
 Egremont rose from the fireside, and advanced with 
 the quiet confidence with which one greets only the 
 dearest friends. 
 
 ' So the sunshine has brought you,' she said, hold- 
 ing his hand for a moment. ' We had a terrible storm 
 in the night, and the morning is very sweet after it. 
 Had you arrived a very little sooner, you would have 
 been in time to drive with me.' 
 
 She was one of those women who have no need to 
 soften their voice when they would express kindness. 
 Her clear and firm, yet sweet, tones uttered with 
 perfection a nature very richly and tenderly endowed ; 
 if you had heard her speak the commonest words, 
 herself unseen, you would have known her for what she 
 was. During the past five years she had aged in 
 appearance ; the grief which she would not expose had 
 drawn its lines upon her features, and something too of 
 imperfect health was visible there. But her gaze was 
 the same as ever, large, benevolent, intellectual. In 
 her presence Egremont always felt a well-being, a 
 peace of mind, which gave to his own look its 
 pleasantest quality. Of friends she was still, and would 
 ever be, the dearest to him. The thought of her 
 approval was always active with him when he made 
 plans for fruitful work : he could not have come before 
 her with a consciousness of ignoble fault weighing upon 
 his mind.
 
 THE WORK IN PROGRESS 131 
 
 I have come to see you,' he replied, * first for your 
 own sake, then to hear news from Ullswater.' 
 
 * Let us invert those motives, Walter, and be glad 
 to see each other. Gro up into the front drawing-room, 
 will you. I will take off my bonnet and be with you 
 directly.' 
 
 She passed upstairs, and he followed more slowly. 
 Behind the first landing was a small conservatory ; and 
 there, amid evergreens, sat two children whose appear- 
 ance w^ould very much have surprised a chance visitor 
 knowing nothing of the house and its mistress. They 
 obviously came from some very poor working-class 
 home ; their clothing was of the plainest possible, and, 
 save that they were very clean and in perfect order, 
 they might have been sitting on a doorstep in a 
 London back street. Mrs. Ormonde had thrown a 
 kind word to them in hurrying by ; at the sight of 
 Egremont they hushed their renewed talk and turned 
 shamefaced looks to the ground. He went on to the 
 drawing-room, where there was the same comfort and 
 elegance as in the library. Almost immediately Mrs. 
 Ormonde joined him. 
 
 ' So you want news I ' she said, with her own smile, 
 always a little sad, always mingling tenderness with 
 reserve on the firm lips. 'Really, I told you every- 
 thing essential in my letter. Annabel is in admirable 
 health, both of body and mind. She is deep in Virgil 
 and Dante — what more could you wish her ? Her 
 father, I'm sorry to say, is not altogether well. Indeed, 
 
 K 2
 
 132 THYRZA 
 
 I was guilty of doing my best to get him to London for 
 the winter.' 
 
 ' Ah ! That is something of winch your letter made 
 no mention.' 
 
 * No, for I didn't succeed. At least, he shook his 
 head very persistently.' 
 
 ' I heartily wish you had succeeded. Couldn't you 
 get help from Annabel — Miss Newthorpe ? ' 
 
 ' Never mind ; let it be Annabel between us,' said 
 Mrs. Ormonde, seating herself near the fire. ' I tried 
 to, but she was not fervent. All the same, it is just 
 possible, I think, that they may come. Mr. New- 
 thorpe needs society, however content he may believe 
 himself. Annabel, to my surprise, does really seem 
 independent of such aids. How wonderfully she has 
 grown since I saw her two years ago ! No, no, I don't 
 mean physically — though that is also true — but how her 
 mind has grown I Even her letters hadn't quite pre- 
 pared me for what I found.' 
 
 Egremont was leaning on the back of a chair, his 
 hands folded together. He kept silence, and Mrs. 
 Ormonde, with a glance at him, added : 
 
 ' But she is something less than human at present. 
 Probably that will last for another year or so.' 
 
 ' Less than human ? ' 
 
 ' Abstract, impersonal. With the exception of her 
 father, you were the only living person of whom she 
 voluntarily spoke to me.' 
 
 ' She spoke of me ? '
 
 THE WORK IN PROGRESS 133 
 
 ' Very naturally. Your accounts of Lambetli 
 affairs interest her deeply, though again in rather too 
 — what shall we call it ? — too theoretical a way. But 
 that comes of her inexperience.' 
 
 ' Still she at least speaks of me.' 
 
 Mrs. Ormonde could have made a discouraging re- 
 joinder. She said nothing for a moment, her eyes fixed 
 on the fire. Then : 
 
 ' But now for your own news.' 
 
 ' \Miat I have is unsatisfactory. A week ago the 
 class suffered a secession. You remember my description 
 of Ackroyd ? ' 
 
 ' Ackroyd ? The young man of critical aspect.' 
 
 * The same. He has now missed two lectures, and I 
 don't think he'll come again.' 
 
 ' Have you spoken to Bower about him ? ' 
 ' Xo. The fact is, my impressions of Bower have 
 continued to grow unfavourable. Plainly, he cares 
 next to nothing for the lectures. There is a curious 
 pomposity about him, too, which grates upon me. I 
 shouldn't have been at all sorry if he had been the 
 seceder ; he's bored terribly, I know, yet he naturally 
 feels bound to keep his place. But I'm very sorry that 
 Ackroyd has gone ; he has brains, and I wanted to get 
 to know him. I shall not give him up ; I must per- 
 suade him to come and have a talk with me.' 
 ' What of :Mr. Grail ? ' 
 
 * Ah, Grail is faithful. Yes, Grail is the man of them 
 all ; that I am sure of. I am going to ask him to stay
 
 134 THYRZA 
 
 after the lecture to-morrow. I haven't spoken privately 
 with him yet. But I think I can begin now to 
 establish nearer relations with two or three of them. I 
 have been lecturing for just a couple of months ; they 
 ought to know something of me by this time. On the 
 whole, I think I am succeeding. But if there is one 
 of them on whom I found great hopes, it is Grrail. The 
 first time I saw him, I knew what a distinction there 
 was between him and the others. He seems to be a 
 friend of Ackroyd's, too ; I must try to get at Ackroyd 
 by means of him.' 
 
 ' Is he — Grail, I mean — a married man ? ' 
 
 ' I really don't know. Yet I should think so. I 
 shouldn't be surprised if he were unhappily married. 
 Certainly there is some great trouble in his life. 
 Sometimes he looks terribly worn, quite ill.' 
 
 ' The idea of an unhappy marriage doesn't quite 
 recommend itself to me. Probably you'll find that is 
 not the case.' 
 
 ' I hope it isn't ; yet he might very well wear that 
 look if he came from a wretched home.' 
 
 ' And Mr. Bunce ? ' she asked, with a look of peculiar 
 interest. 
 
 ' Poor Bunce is also a good deal of a mystery to me. 
 He too always looks more or less miserable, and I'm afraid 
 his interest is not very absorbing. Still, he takes notes, 
 and now and then even puts an intelligent question.' 
 
 ' He has not attacked you on the subject of religion 
 yet?'
 
 THE WORK IN PROGRESS 135 
 
 ' Oh, no ! We still have that question to fight out. 
 But of course I must know him very well before I ap- 
 proach it. I think he bears me goodwill ; I caught 
 him looking at me with a curious sort of cordiality the 
 other night. Poor fellow ! ' 
 
 ' I must have that little girl of his down again,' Mrs. 
 Ormonde said. ' I wonder whether she still reads that 
 insufferable publication. By-the-by, I found you had 
 told them the story at Ullswater.' 
 
 ' Yes. It came up apropos of my scheme.' 
 
 A gong sounded down below. 
 
 ' Twelve o'clock ! ' remarked Mrs. Ormonde. ' My 
 birds are going to their dinner — poor little town 
 sparrows ! We'll let them get settled, then go and 
 have a peep at them — shall we ? ' 
 
 * Yes, I should like to see them — and,' he added 
 pleasantly, ' to see the look on your face when you 
 watch them.' 
 
 ' I have much to thank them for, Walter,' she said, 
 earnestly. ' They brighten many an hour when I 
 should be unhappy.' 
 
 Presently Mrs. Ormonde led the way downstairs and 
 to the rear of the house. A room formerly devoted to 
 billiards had been converted into a homely but very 
 bright refectory ; it was hung round with cheerful 
 pictures, and before eacli of the two windows stood a 
 large aquarium, full of water-plants and fishes. At the 
 table were seated seven little girls, of ages from eight 
 to tliirteen, all poorly clad, yet all looking remarkaljly
 
 136 THVRZA 
 
 joyous and eating with much evidence of appetite. At 
 the head of the table was a wonaan of middle age and 
 motherly aspect — Mrs. Mapper. She had the superin- 
 tendence of tlie convalescents whom the lady of the 
 house received and sent back to their homes in London 
 better physically and morally than they had ever been 
 in their lives before. The children did not notice that 
 Mrs, Ormonde and her companion had entered ; they 
 were chatting gaily over their meal. Now and then 
 one of them drew a gentle word of correction from 
 Mrs. Mapper, but on the whole they needed no rebuke. 
 Those who had been longest in the house speedily in- 
 structed new arrivals in the behaviour they had learned 
 to deem becoming. A girl waited at table. On that 
 subject Mrs. Ormonde had amusing stories to relate ; 
 how more than one servant had regretfully but firmly 
 declined to wait upon little ragamuffins (female, too), 
 and how one in particular had explained that she made 
 no objection to doing it only because she regarded it as 
 a religious penance. 'With that girl,' Mrs. Ormonde 
 was wont to add, ' I at once shook hands, and we soon 
 became the best of friends.' 
 
 Egremont had his pleasure in regarding her face, 
 nobly beautiful as she moved her eyes from one to 
 another of her poor little pensioners. She had said at 
 first that it would be impossible ever again to live in 
 this house, when she quitted it for a time after her 
 liusband's deatli. How could she pass through the 
 barren rooms, how dwell within sight and sound of the
 
 THE WORK IN PROGRESS 137 
 
 treacherous waves which had taken her dearest ? It was 
 a royal thought which converted the sad dwelling into 
 a home for those whose reawakening laughter would 
 chide despondency from beneath the roof, whose happi- 
 ness would ease the heavy heart and make memory a 
 sacred solace. She had her abounding reward, the great- 
 hearted one, and such as only the greatly loving may 
 attain to. 
 
 They withdrew without having excited attention ; 
 Mrs. Mapper saw them, but Mrs. Ormonde made sign 
 to her to say nothing. 
 
 ' Two are upstairs, I'm sorry to say,' she remarked 
 as they went back to the drawing-room. 'They have 
 obstinate colds ; I keep them under the bed-clothes. 
 The difficulty these poor things have in getting rid of 
 a cold I With many of them I believe such a condition 
 is chronic ; it goes on, I suppose, until they die of it.' 
 
 They talked together till luncheon time. Egremont 
 led the conversation back to Ullswater, where Mrs. 
 Ormonde had just spent a fortnight. 
 
 ' I think I must go and see them at Christmas,' he 
 said, ' if they don't come south.' 
 
 The other considered. 
 
 ' Don't go so soon,' she said at length. • 
 
 ' So soon ? It will 1)0 six mortal months.' 
 
 'Be advised.' 
 
 Egremont sighed and left the subject. 
 
 'Tell me what you have been doing of late,' ^Irs. 
 Ormonde resumed, ' apart from your lectures.'
 
 138 THYRZA 
 
 ' Very little of which any account can be rendered. 
 I read a good deal, and occasionally come across an 
 acquaintance.' 
 
 ' Have you seen the Tyrrell s since they returned ^ ' 
 
 ' Xo. I had an invitation to dine with them the 
 other day, but excused myself.' 
 
 ' On what grounds ? ' 
 
 ' I mean to see less of people in general.' 
 
 Mrs. Ormonde regarded him. 
 
 ' I hope,' she said, ' that you will pursue no such 
 idea. You mean, of course, that your Lambeth work 
 is to l)e absorbing. Let it be so, but don't fall into the 
 mistake of making it your burden. You are not one of 
 those who can work in solitude.' 
 
 ' I am getting a distaste for ordinary society.' 
 
 ' Then I beg of you to resist the mood. Gro into 
 society freely. You are in danger as soon as you begin 
 to neglect it.' 
 
 ' I, individually ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' She smiled at the deprecating look he turned 
 on her. ' Let me be your moral physician. Already I 
 notice that you fall short of perfect health : the refusal 
 of that invitation is a symptom. Pray give faith to 
 what I say ; if anyone knows you, I think it is I.' 
 
 He kept silence. Mrs. Ormonde continued : 
 
 ' I hear that the Tyrrells have made the acquaint- 
 ance of Mr. Dalmaine. Paula mentions him in a 
 letter.' 
 
 ' Ha ! With enthusiasm probably ? '
 
 THE WORK IN PROGRESS 139 
 
 ' Xo. They met him somewhere in Switzerland. 
 He gave them the benefit of his experience on the educa- 
 tion question.' 
 
 ' Of course. Well, I am prejudiced against the man, 
 as you know.' 
 
 ' He is a force. It looks as if we should hear a good 
 deal of him in the future.' 
 
 ' Doubtless. The incarnate ideal of British philis- 
 tinism is sure to have a career before him.' 
 
 The lady laughed. 
 
 Early in the afternoon Egremont took leave of his 
 friend and returned to London. It was his habit, when 
 in England, to run down to Eastbourne in this way 
 about once a month. 
 
 Since the death of his father, his home had been 
 represented by a set of rooms in Great Eussell Street. 
 He chose them on account of their proximity to the 
 British Museum ; at that time he believed himself de- 
 stined to produce some monumental work of erudition ; 
 the subject had not defined itself, but his thoughts were 
 then busy with the origins of Christianity, and it seemed 
 to him that a study of certain Oriental literatures would 
 be fruitful of results. Characteristically, he must esta- 
 blish himself at the very doors of the great Library. 
 His Oriental researches, as we know, were speedily 
 abandoned, but the rooms in Gfreat Russell Street still 
 kept their tenant. They were far from an ideal abode, 
 indifferently furnished, with draughty doors and smoky 
 chimneys, and the rent was exorbitant ; the landlady
 
 I40 THYRZA 
 
 who speedily gauged her lodger's character, had already- 
 made a small competency out of him. Even during 
 long absences abroad Egremont retained the domicile ; 
 at each return he said to himself that he must really 
 find quarters at once more reputable and more homelike, 
 but the thought of removing his books, of dealing with 
 new people, deterred him from the actual step. In fact, 
 he was very indifferent as to where or how he lived ; 
 all he asked was the possibility of privacy. The ugli- 
 ness of his surroundings did not trouble him, for he 
 paid no attention to them. Some day he would have a 
 beautiful home, but what use in thinking of that till he 
 had someone to share it with him. This was a mere 
 yied a terre ; it housed his body and left his mind 
 free. 
 
 The real home which he remembered was a house 
 looking upon Clapham Common. His father dwelt there 
 for the last fifteen years of his life ; his mother died 
 there, very shortly after the removal from the small 
 house in Xewington where she went to live upon her 
 marriage. With much tenderness Egremont thougi it of 
 the clear-headed and warm-hearted man whose life-long 
 toil had made such provision for the son he loved. Un- 
 educated, homely, narrow enough in much of his think- 
 ing, the manufacturer of oil-cloth must have had singular 
 possibilities in his nature to renew himself in a youth 
 so apt for modern culture as Walter was ; thinking back 
 in his maturity, the latter remembered many a note- 
 worthy trait in his father, and wished the old man could
 
 THE WORK IN PROGRESS 141 
 
 have lived yet a few more years to see his son's work 
 really beginning. Such memories touched him with 
 compassion ; to the mind which has enjoyed every ad- 
 vantage of training, there is infinite pathos in the sim- 
 plicity of a humble parent. And Egremont often felt 
 lonely. Possibly he had relatives living, but he knew 
 of none ; in any case they could not now be of real ac- 
 count to him. The country of his birth was far behind 
 him ; how far, he had recognised since he began his 
 lecturing in Lambeth. None the less, he at times knew 
 home sickness : not seldom there seemed to be a gap 
 between him and the people bom to refinement who 
 were his associates, his friends. That phase of feelin<j' 
 was rather strong in him just now ; disguising itself in 
 the form of sundry plausible motives, it had induced 
 him to decline Mrs. Tyrrell's invitation, and was foster- 
 ing his temporary distaste for the society in which he 
 had always found much pleasure. What if in strictness 
 he belonged to neither sphere ? What if his life was 
 to be a struggle between inherited sympatliies and the 
 affinities of his intellect ? All the better, perchance, 
 for his prospect of usefulness ; he stood as a mediator 
 between two sections of society. But fur his private 
 happiness, how ? 
 
 He spent this evening very idly, sometimes pacing 
 his large, uncomfortable room, sometimes endeavouring 
 to read one or other of certain volumes new from the 
 circulating library. Of late he had passed many such 
 evenings, for it was very seldom that anyone came to see
 
 142 THYRZA 
 
 him, and for the amusements of the town he had no 
 inclination. He was thinking much of Annabel. It. 
 seemed very long since his visit to Ullswater, and, by a 
 curious freak of mind, he had a difficulty in recalling 
 the details of his talk with her that morning by the lake. 
 Endeavouring to repeat her words, he found that they 
 had become a vague, remote murmur, discouraging to 
 his emotion. Yet she herself was real enough before his 
 mind's eye, and the look he saw upon her face was calm, 
 untouched with shadow of regret. Yes, she was deep 
 in Virgil and Dante ; she spoke of him with interest, 
 'very naturally.' His heart grew heavy as he pictured 
 her in the quiet room bending over her books. Worst 
 of all, he could not imagine her other than calm, intel- 
 lectual ; he could not hear her voice uttering passionate 
 words. A great change must come over her before 
 her reserved maidenliness could soften to such sweet 
 humility. 
 
 And he had no faith in his power so to change her. 
 
 The next day was Thursday. This and Sunday were 
 his lecture days ; his class met at half-past eight. Pre- 
 cisely at that hour he reached a small doorway in High 
 Street, Lambeth, and ascended a flight of stairs to a 
 room which he had furnished as he deemed most suitable. 
 Several rows of school-desks faced a high desk at which 
 he stood to lecture. The walls were washed in dis- 
 temper, the boarding of the floor was uncovered, the 
 two windows were hidden with plain shutters. The 
 room had formerly been used for purposes of storage by
 
 THE WORK IN PROGRESS 143 
 
 a glass and china merchant ; below was the workshop 
 of a saddler, which explained the pervading odour of 
 leather. A wonaan of the neighbourhood had charge of 
 the place ; she had it ready and the door open half an 
 hour before lecture time. 
 
 A little group of men stood in conversation near 
 the fire ; on Egremont's appearance they seated them- 
 selves at the desks, each producing a note-book which 
 he laid open before him. Thus ranged they were seen 
 to be eight in number. Out of fourteen to whom 
 invitations were addressed, nine had presented them- 
 selves at the preliminary meeting ; one, we know, had 
 since proved unfaithful. Egremont looked round for 
 Ackroyd on entering, but the young man was not here. 
 
 On the front bench were two men whom as yet you 
 know only by name. Mr. Bower was clearly distin- 
 guishable by his personal importance and the ennui, not 
 to be disguised, with which he listened to the opening 
 sentences of the lecture. He leaned against the desk 
 behind him, and carefully sharpened the point of his 
 pencil. He was a large man with a spade-shaped 
 beard ; his forehead was narrow, and owed its appear- 
 ance of height to incipient baldness ; his eyes were 
 small and shrewd. He habitually donned his suit of 
 black for these meetings. At the works, where he held 
 a foreman's position, he was in good repute ; for years 
 he had proved himself skilful, steady, abundantly 
 respectful to his employers. In private life he enjoyed 
 the fame of a petty capitalist ; since his marriage,
 
 144 THYRZA 
 
 thirty years ago, he and his wife had made it the end 
 of their existence to put by money, with the result that 
 his obsequiousness when at work was balanced by the 
 blustering independence of his leisure hours. The man 
 was a fair instance of the way in which prosperity 
 affects the average proletarian ; all his better qualities 
 — honesty, perseverance, sobriety — took an ignoble 
 colour from the essential vulgarity of his nature, which 
 would never have so offensively declared itself if ill 
 fortune had kept him anxious about his daily bread. 
 Formerly Egremont had been impressed by his intelli- 
 gent manner ; closer observation had proved to him of 
 how little worth this intelligence was, in its subordina- 
 tion to a paltry character. Bower regarded himself as 
 the originator of this course of lectures; through all 
 his obsequiousness it was easy to see that he deemed 
 his co-operation indispensable to the success of the 
 project. On sundry occasions he had favoured Egremont 
 with commendatory remarks after the lecture was over, 
 and in so doing had proved how iacapable he was of 
 really understanding what he had heard. Kecently, 
 however, he had refrained from private discussion, 
 partly because he grew wearier of affecting interest, 
 partly on account of a hurt which his dignity experi- 
 enced from Egremont's neglect. At first, as was natural, 
 Egremont had sometimes seemed to address words 
 specially to him ; of late he had purposely avoided 
 doing so, and Bower began to feel that his services 
 lacked recognition.
 
 THE WORK IN PROGRESS 145 
 
 The other, of whom there has been casual mention, 
 was Joseph Bunce. Of spare frame and with hollow 
 cheeks which suggested insufficiency of diet, he yet 
 had far more of manliness in his appearance than the 
 portly Bower. You divined in him independence 
 enough, and of worthier origin than that which secretly 
 inflated his neighbour. His features were at first 
 sight by no means pleasing; their coarseness was un- 
 deniable, but familiarity revealed a sensitive significance 
 in the irregular nose, the prominent lips, the small 
 severed chin and long throat. Egremont had now and 
 then caught a light in his eyes which was warranty for 
 more than his rough tongue could shape into words. 
 He often appeared to have a difficulty in follo\ving the 
 lecture ; would shrug nervously, and knit his brows and 
 mutter. Whenever he noticed that, Egremont would 
 pause a little and repeat in simpler form what he had 
 been saying, with the satisftictory result that Bunce 
 showed a clearer face and jotted something on his dirty 
 note-book with his stumpy pencil. 
 
 Gilbert Grrail we know. It was impossible not to 
 remark him as the one who followed with most consecu- 
 tive understanding, even if his countenance had not 
 declared Jiim of higher grade than any of those among 
 whom he sat. It had needed only the first ten minutes 
 of the first lectm'e to put him at hie ease with regard 
 to Egremont's claims to stand forward as a teacher ; 
 the preliminary meeting, indeed, had removed the 
 suspicions suggested by Ackroyd. To him these evenings 
 
 VOL. 1. L
 
 146 THYRZA 
 
 were pure enjoyment. He delighted in this subject, and 
 had an inexpressible pleasure in listening continuously 
 to the speech of a cultivated man. Had the note- 
 books of the class been examined (Egremont had 
 strongly advised their use), Gilbert's jottings would 
 probably have alone been found of substantial value, 
 seeing that he alone possessed the mental habit neces- 
 sary for the practice. Bunce's would doubtless have 
 come next, though at a long distance ; a Carlylean 
 editor might have disengaged from them many a rudely 
 forcible scrap of comment. Bower's pages would have 
 smelt of the day-book. It was to Grrail that Egremont 
 mentally directed the best things he had to say ; not 
 seldom he was repaid by the quick gleam of sympathy 
 on that grave interesting face. 
 
 The remaining five hearers were average artisans of 
 the inquiring type ; they followed with perseverance, 
 though at times one or the other would furtively regard 
 his watch or allow his eyes to stray about the room. 
 They had made a bargain, and were bent on honourably 
 carrying out their share in it. But Egremont already 
 began to doubt whether he was really fixing anything 
 in their thoughts. How were they likely to serve 
 him for the gTeater purpose whereto this instruction 
 was only preliminary ? When he looked forward to 
 that, he had to fix his eyes on Grail and forget the 
 others. He was beginning to regret that the choice of 
 those to whom his invitations were sent had depended 
 upon Bower ; another man might have aided him more
 
 THE WORK IN PROGRESS 147 
 
 effectually. Yet the fact was that Bower's selection 
 had been a remarkably good one. It would have been 
 difficult to assemble nine Lambeth workmen of higher 
 aggregate intellect than those who responded to the 
 summons; it would have been, on the other hand, the 
 easiest thing to find nine with not a man of them 
 available for anything more than futile wrangling over 
 politics or religion. Egremont would know this some 
 day ; he was yet young in social reform. 
 
 And the lectures ? It is not too much to say that 
 they were remarkably good. Egremont had capacity 
 for teaching ; with his education, had he been without 
 resources, he would probably have chosen an academic 
 career and have done service in it. There was nothing 
 deep in his style of narrative and criticism, and here 
 depth was not wanted ; sufficient that he was perspicuous 
 and energetic. He loved the things of which he spoke, 
 and he had the power of presenting to others his reason 
 for loving them. The first lecture had been prepared 
 with extreme solicitude ; his knowledge of the minds he 
 was about to address was then little more than theoretic, 
 for he had always in view his own father, who was bv 
 no means the typical working man. The experience' 
 of delivery enabled him to avoid certain errors and 
 'make points ' which formerly he had not had in view. 
 With ready perception he gauged the mental attitude 
 of each who sat before him, with quick sympathy ht 
 adapted himself to their requirements. Not one in 
 five hundred of men inexperienced in such work could 
 
 L 2
 
 148 THYRZA 
 
 have held the ears of the class as he did for the first 
 two or three evenings. It was impossible for them to 
 mistake his spirit — ardent, disinterested, aspiring ; im- 
 possible not to feel something of a respondent impulse. 
 That familiarity should diminish the effect of his 
 speech was only to be anticipated. He was preaching 
 a religion, but one that could find no acceptance as 
 such with eight out of nine who heard him. Common 
 minds are not kept at high -interest mark for long to- 
 gether by exhibition of the merely beautiful, however 
 persuasively it be set forth. 
 
 He had chosen the Elizabethan period, and he led 
 up to it by the kind of introduction which he felt 
 would be necessary. Trusting himself more after the 
 first fortnight, he ceased to write out his lectures 
 verbatim ; free utterance was an advantage to himself 
 and his audience. He read at large from his authors ; 
 to expect the men to do this for themselves — even had 
 the books been within their reach — would have been 
 too much, and without such illustration the lectures 
 were vain. This reading brought him face to face 
 with his main difficulty : how to create in men a sense 
 which they do not possess. The working man does 
 not read, in the strict sense of the word ; fiction has 
 little interest for him, and of poetry he has no com- 
 prehension whatever ; your artisan of brains can study, 
 btit he cannot read. Egremont was under no illusion 
 on this point ; he knew well that the loveliest lyric 
 would appeal to a man like Bower no otherwise than a
 
 THE WORK IN PROGRESS 149 
 
 paragraph from the daily newspaper. Was it impos- 
 sible to bestow this sense of intellectual beauty ? With 
 what earnestness he made the endeavour I He took 
 sweet passages of prose and verse, and read them with 
 all the feeling and skill he could command. ' Do vou 
 yield to that ? ' he said within himself as he looked 
 from face to face. 'Are your ears hopelessly sealed, 
 your minds immutably earthen ? ' G-rail — yes, Grail 
 had the right intelligence in his eyes; but Ackroyd,but 
 Bunce ? Ackroyd thought of the meaningof the words ; 
 no more. Poor Bunce had darkling throes of mind, 
 but struggled with desperate nervousness and could not 
 be at ease till the straightforward talk began again. 
 And Bower? — Xay, there goes more to this matter 
 than mere enthusiasm in a teacher. Who had instructed 
 Gilbert Grail to discern the grace of the written word ? 
 On the other hand, it was doubtful whether Walter 
 Egremont, left to himself in the home of his good 
 plain father, would have felt what now he did. The 
 soil was there, but how much do we not owe to tilla^^e ! 
 Read what Egremont on one occasion read to these men : 
 ' He beginneth not with obscure definitions, which 
 must blur the margent with interpretations and load 
 the memory with doubtfulness : but he cometh to you 
 with words set in delightful proportion, either accom- 
 panied with or prepared for the well-enchanting skill 
 of music ; and with a tale forsooth he cometh unto you 
 — with a tale which holdeth children from play, and 
 old men from the chimney-comer.'
 
 150 THYRZA 
 
 What were that to you, save for the light of 
 memory fed with incense of the poets ? Save for 
 innumerable dear associations, only possible to the in- 
 structed, which make the finer part of your intellectual 
 being. Walter was attempting too much, and soon 
 became painfully conscious of it. 
 
 He came to the dramatists, and human interest 
 thenceforth helped him. He could read well, and a 
 scene from those giants of the prime had efficiency 
 sven with Bower. Hope revived in the lecturer. 
 
 To-night he was less happy than usual, for what 
 reason he could not himself understand. His thoughts 
 wandered, sometimes to Eastbourne, sometimes to 
 Ullswater ; yet he was speaking of Shakespeare. Bower 
 was more owl-eyed than usual ; the five doubtful hearers 
 obviously felt the time long. Only Grail gave an unfail- 
 ing ear. Egremont closed with a sense of depression. 
 
 Would Bower come and pester him with fatuous 
 questions and remarks ? No ; Bower turned away and 
 reached down his hat from the peg. The doubtful five 
 took down their hats and followed the portly man from 
 the room. Bunce was talking with Grrail, pointing 
 with dirty forefinger to something in his dirty note- 
 book. But he too speedily moved to the hat-pegs. 
 Grrail was also going, when Egremont said : 
 
 * Could you spare me five minutes, Mr. Grail ; I 
 should like to speak to you.' 
 
 ' Certainly, sir,' was the reply.
 
 151 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A CLISP OF HANDS. 
 
 Grail approached the desk with pleasure. Egremont 
 observed it, and met his trusty auditor with the eye- 
 smile which made his face so agreeable. 
 
 ' I am sorry to see that Mr. Ackroyd no longer sits 
 by you,' he began. ' Has he deserted us ? ' 
 
 Gilbert hesitated, but spoke at length with his 
 natural directness. 
 
 ' I'm afraid so, sir.' 
 
 'He has lost his interest in the subject?' 
 
 ' It's not exactly the bent of his mind. He only 
 came at my persuasion, to begin with. He takes more 
 to science than literature.' 
 
 'Ah, I should have thought that. But I wish he 
 could have still spared me the two hours a week. I felt 
 much interest in him ; it's a disappointment to lose 
 him so unexpectedly. I'm sure he has a head for our 
 matters as weU as for science.' 
 
 Grail was about to speak, but checked himself. 
 An inquiring glance persuaded him to say: 
 
 ' He's much taken up with politics just now. They 
 don't leave the mind very quiet.'
 
 152 THYRZA 
 
 ' Politics ? I regret more than ever that he's 
 gone.' 
 
 Egremont moved away from the desk at which he 
 had been standing, and seated himself on the end of a 
 bench which came out opposite the fire-place. 
 
 ' Come and sit down for a minute, will you, Mr 
 Grail ? ' he said. 
 
 Gilbert silently took possession of the end of the 
 next bench. 
 
 ' Is there no persuading him back ? Do you think 
 he would come and have a talk with me ? I do wish 
 he would ; I believe we could understand each other. 
 You see him occasionally ? ' 
 
 ' Every day. We work together.' 
 
 ' Would you ask him to come and have a chat with 
 me here some evening ? ' 
 
 ' I shall be glad to, sir.' 
 
 ' Pray persuade him to. Any evening he likes. 
 Perhaps next Sunday after the lecture would do ? 
 Tell him to bring his pipe and have a smoke with me 
 here before the fire.' 
 
 Grail smiled, and undertook to deliver the invi- 
 tation. 
 
 ' But there are other things I wished to speak of to 
 you,' Egremont continued. ' Do you think it would be 
 any advantage if I brought books for the members of 
 the class to take away and use at their leisure? Shake- 
 speare, of course, you can all lay hands on, but the other 
 Elizabethan authors are not so readily found. For
 
 A CLASP GF HANDS I'^z 
 
 instance, there's a Marlowe on the desk ; would you 
 care to take him away with you ? ' 
 
 ' Thank you very much, sir,' was the reply, ' but I've 
 got Marlowe. I picked up a second-hand copy a year 
 or two ago.' 
 
 ' You have him I Ah, that's good I ' 
 
 Egremont was surprised, but remembered that it 
 would not be very courteous to express such feeling. 
 After surprise came new warmth of interest in the man. 
 He began to speak of Marlowe with delight, and in a 
 moment he and Grail were on a footing of intimacy. 
 
 ' But there are other books perhaps you haven't come 
 across yet. I shall be overjoyed if you'll let me be of use 
 to you in that way. Have you access to any library? ' 
 
 •■ Xo, I haven't. I've often felt the want of it.' 
 
 Egremont fell into musing for a moment. He 
 looked up with an idea in his eyes. 
 
 'Wouldn't it be an excellent thing if one could 
 establish a lending library in Lambeth ? ' 
 
 Grrail might have excusably replied that it would 
 be a yet more excellent thing if those disposed to use 
 such an institution had time granted them to do so ; 
 but with the young man's keen look fixed upon him, he 
 had other thoughts. 
 
 * It would be a great thing ! ' he replied, with sub- 
 dued feeling. He seldom allowed his stronger emotions 
 to find high utterance ; that moderated voice was 
 symbol of the suppression to whicli Ins life had trained 
 itself.
 
 154 THYRZA 
 
 ' A free library,' Egremont went on, ' with a good 
 reading-room. That would be a seed sown, I think.' 
 
 It was an extension of his scheme, and delighted 
 him with its prospect of possibilities. It would be 
 preparing the ground upon which he and his adherents 
 might subsequently work. Could he undertake to 
 found a library at his own expense ? It was not 
 beyond his means, at all events a beginning on a 
 moderate scale. His eyes sparkled, as they always did 
 when a thought burst blossom-like within him. 
 
 ' Mr. Grail, I have a mind to try if I can't work on 
 that idea.' 
 
 Gilbert was stirred. This interchange of words had 
 strengthened his personal liking for Egremont, and his 
 own idealism took fire from that of the other. He 
 regarded the young man with admiration and with 
 noble envy. To be able to devise such things and 
 straightway say ' It shall be done ! ' How blest beyond 
 all utterance was the man to whom fortune had given 
 such power ! Gilbert often dreamed of the possibilities 
 which lay in wealth, and marvelled that there was not 
 oftener found some possessor of riches whose soul 
 inspired him to great deeds. Here at length one such 
 was before him. He reverenced Egremont profoundly. 
 It was the man's nature to worship, to bend with 
 singleness of heart before whatsoever seemed to him 
 high and beautiful. 
 
 He had no words ready, but simply looked into 
 Egremont's face with a quiet smile.
 
 A CLASP OF HANDS 155 
 
 ' Yes,' the latter continued, ' I will think it out. 
 We might begin with a moderate supply of books ; we 
 might find some building that would do at first ; a real 
 library could be built when the people had begun to 
 appreciate what was offered them. Better, no doubt, 
 if they would tax themselves for the purpose, but they 
 have burdens enough.' 
 
 ' They won't give a farthing towards a library,' said 
 Grail, ' until they know its value ; and that they can't 
 do until they have learnt it from books.' 
 ' True. Well break the circle.' 
 He pondered again, then added cheerfully : 
 ' I say v:e. I mean you and the others who come 
 to my lecture. I want, if possible, to make this class 
 permanent, to make it the beginning of a society for 
 purposes I have in my mind. I must tell you some- 
 thing of this, for I know you will feel with me, Mr. 
 Grail.' 
 
 The reply was again the look of quiet trust. 
 Egremont had not thought to get so far as this to- 
 night, but Grail's personality wrought upon him, even 
 as his on Grail. He felt a desire to open his mind, as 
 he had done that evening in the garden by Ullswater. 
 This man was of those whom he would benefit, but, if 
 he mistook not, far unlike the crowd ; Grail could 
 understand as few of his class could be expected to. 
 
 ' To form a society, a club, let us say. Not at all 
 like the ordinary clubs. There are plenty of places 
 where men can meet to talk about what ou^ht to be
 
 1 56 THYRZA 
 
 done for the working class ; my idea is to bring the 
 working class to talk of what it can do for itself. And 
 not how it can claim its material rights, how to get 
 better wages, shorter hours, more decent homes. With 
 all those demands I sympathise as thoroughly as any 
 man ; but those things are coming, and it seems to me 
 that it's time to ask what working men are going to do 
 with such advantages what they've got them. Now, my 
 hope is to get a few men to see — what you, I know, see 
 clearly enough — that lite, to be worthy of the name, 
 must be first and foremost concerned with the things 
 of the heart and mind. Yet everything in our time 
 favours the opposite. The struggle for existence is 
 so hard that we grow more and more material : the 
 tendency is to regard it as the end of life to make money. 
 If there's time to think of higher things, well and good ; 
 if not, it doesn't matter much. Well, we have to earn 
 money ; it is a necessary evil ; but let us think as little 
 about it as we may. Our social state, in short, has 
 converted the means of life into its end.' 
 
 He paused, and Gilbert looked hearty agreement. 
 
 ' That puts into a sentence,' he said, ' what I have 
 thought through many an hour of work.' 
 
 ' Well, now, we know there's no lack of schemes for 
 reforming society. Most of them seek to change its 
 spirit by change of institutions. But surely it is plain 
 enough that reform of institutions can only come as 
 the natural result of a change in men's minds. Those 
 who preach revolution to the disinherited masses give
 
 A CLASP OF HANDS 157 
 
 no tliouglit to this. It's a hard and a bad thing to 
 live under an oppressive sj'stem ; don't think that I 
 speak lightly of the miseries which must drive many 
 a man to frenzy, till he heeds nothing so long as the 
 present curse is attacked. I know perfectly well that 
 for thousands of the poorest there is no possibility of 
 a life guided by thought and feeling of a higher kind 
 until they are lifted out of the mire. But if one faces 
 the question with a grave purpose of doing good that 
 will endiu:e, practical considerations must outweigh 
 one's anger. There is no way of lifting those poor 
 people out of the mire ; if their children's children tread 
 on firm ground it will be the most we can hope for. But 
 there is a class of working people that can and should 
 aim at a state of mind far above that which now 
 contents them. It is my view that our only hope of 
 social progress lies in the possibility of this class being 
 stirred to effort. The tendency of their present educa- 
 tion — a misapplication of the word — must be counter- 
 acted. They must be taught to value supremely quite 
 other attainments than those which help them to earn 
 higher wages. Well, there is my thought. I wish to 
 communicate it to men who have a care for more than 
 food and clothiug, and who will exert themselves to 
 influence those about them.' 
 
 Grail gazed at the fire, the earnest words wrought in 
 him. 
 
 ' If that were possible ! ' he murmured. 
 
 * Tell me,' the other resumed, quickly ; * how many
 
 158 THYRZA 
 
 of the serious people whom you know in Lambeth ever 
 go to a place of worship ? ' 
 
 Gilbert turned his eyes inquiringly, suspiciously. 
 Was Egremont about to preach a pietistic revival ? 
 
 ' I have very few acquaintances,' he answered, ' but 
 I know that religion has no hold upon intelligent work- 
 ins' men in London.' 
 
 ' That is the admission I wanted. For good or for 
 evil, it has passed ; no one will ever restore it. And 
 yet it is a religious spirit that we must seek to revive. 
 Dogma will no longer help us. Pure love of moral and 
 intellectual beauty must take its place.' 
 
 Grilbert smiled at a thought which came to him. 
 
 ' The working man's Bible,' he said, ' is his Sunday 
 newspaper.' 
 
 ' An arrow in the white ! The newspaper is the 
 very voice of all that is worst in our civilisation. 
 If ever there is in one column a pretence of higher 
 teaching, it is made laughable by the base tendency of 
 all the rest. The newspaper has supplanted the book ; 
 every gross-minded scribbler who gets a square inch of 
 space in the morning journal has a more respectful 
 hearing than Shakespeare. These writers are tradesmen, 
 and with all their power they cry up the spirit of trade. 
 Till the influence of tlie newspaper declines — the news- 
 paper as we now know it— our state will grow worse.' 
 
 Grail was silent. Egremont had worked himself 
 to a fervour which showed itself in his unsteady hands 
 and tremulous lips.
 
 A CLASP OF HANDS 159 
 
 * I had not meant to speak of this yet,' he continued. 
 * I hoped to surround myself with a few friends who 
 would gradually get to know my views, and perhaps 
 think they were worth something. I have obeyed an 
 impulse in opening my mind to yoa ; I feel that you 
 think with me. Will you join me as a friend, and work 
 on with me for the founding of such a society as I have 
 described ? ' 
 
 * I will, Mr. Egremont,' was the clear-voiced answer. 
 Walter put forth his hand, and it was grasped 
 
 firmly. In this moment he was equal to his ambition, 
 unwavering, exalted, the pure idealist. Grail, too, 
 forgot his private troubles, and tasted the strong air of 
 the heights which it is granted us so seldom and for 
 so brief a season to tread. There was almost colour 
 in his cheeks, and his deep- set eyes had a light as of 
 dawn. 
 
 * We have much yet to talk of,' said Egremont, as 
 he rose, ' but it gets late and T mustn't keep you longer. 
 Will you come here some evening when there is no 
 lectm-e and let us turn over our ideas together? I 
 shall begin at once to think of the librarv. It will 
 make a centre for us, won't it ? And remember Ack- 
 royd. You are intimate with him ? 
 
 *We think very differently of many things,' said 
 Grail, ' but I like him. We work togetlier.' 
 
 ' We mustn't lose him. He has the briglit look of 
 a man who could do much if he were really moved. 
 Persuade him to come and see me on Sunday ni^ht.'
 
 i6o THYRZA 
 
 They shook hands again, and Grail took bis depar- 
 ture. Egremont still stood for a few minutes before 
 the fire ; then he extinguished the gas, locked the 
 door behind him, and went forth into the street singing 
 to himself. 
 
 Gilbert turned into Paradise Street, which was 
 close at hand. He had decided to call and ask for 
 Ackroyd on his way home. The latter had not been 
 at work that day, and was perhaps ailing; for some 
 time he had seemed out of sorts. Intercourse between 
 them was not as constant as formerly. Grail explained 
 tliis as due to Ackroyd's disturbed mood, another result 
 of which was seen in his ceasing to attend the lecture ; 
 yet in Gilbert also there was something which tended 
 to weaken the intimacy. He knew well enough what 
 this was, and strove against it, but not with great 
 success. 
 
 Ackroyd lived with his married sister, who let half 
 her house to lodgers. When Gilbert knocked at the 
 door, it was she who opened. Mrs. Poole was a buxom 
 young woman with a complexion which suggested con- 
 tinual activity within range of the kitchen fire ; her 
 sleeves were always rolled up to her elbow, and at 
 whatever moment surprised she wore an apron which 
 seemed just washed and ironed. She knew not weari- 
 ness, nor discomfort, nor discontent, and her flow of 
 words sugL^ested a safety valve letting off superfluous 
 energy. 
 
 'That Mr. Grail?' she said, peering out into the
 
 A CLASP OF HANDS i6i 
 
 darkness. ' You've come to look after that great good- 
 for-DOthing of a brother of mine, I'll be bound I Come 
 downstairs, and I'll tell him you're here. You may 
 well wonder what's become of him. Ill I Xot he, 
 indeed I Xo more ill than I am. It's only his lazi- 
 ness. He wants a good shaking, that's about the 
 truth of it, Mr. Graii.' 
 
 She led him down into the kitchen. A low clothes- 
 horse, covered with fresh-smelling, gently-steaming 
 linen, stood before a great glowing fire. A baby Inv 
 awake in a swinging cot just under the protruding leai 
 of the table, and a little girl of three was sitting in 
 nifyht-dress and shawl on a stool in a warm corner. 
 
 o 
 
 ' Yes, you may well stare,' resumed Mrs. Poole, 
 noticing Grrail's glance at the children. ' A quarter 
 past ten and neither one of 'em shut an eye yet, nor 
 won't do till their father comes home, not if it's twelve 
 o'clock. You dare to laugh. Miss!' she cried to tl.e 
 little one on the stool, with mock wrath. ' The idea 
 of having to fetch you out o' bed just for peace and 
 quietness. And that young man there ' — she pointed 
 to the cradle ; ' there's about as much sleep in him as 
 there is in that eight-day clock ! You rascal, you ! ' 
 
 Like lier brother, she had the northern accent still 
 lingering in her speech ; it suited with her brisk, hearty 
 ways. Whilst speaking, she had partly moved the 
 horse from the fire and placed a round-backed chair for 
 the visitor in a position which would have answered 
 toleruoly had she meant to roast him. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 1 62 THYRZA 
 
 ' He's in the sulks, that's what he is,' she continued, 
 returning- to the subject of Luke. 'I suppose you 
 know all about it, Mr. Grail ? ' 
 
 Gilbert seated himself, and Mrs. Poole, pretending 
 to arrange the linen, stood just before liim, with a sly 
 smile. 
 
 ' I'm not sure that I do,' he replied, avoiding her 
 look. 
 
 She lowered her voice. 
 
 ' The idea of a great lad going on like he does ! 
 Why, it's the young lady that lives in your house — ^liss 
 Trent, you know. I don't know her myself; no doubt 
 she's wonderful pretty and all the rest of it, but I'm 
 that sick and tired of hearing about her ! My hus- 
 band's out a great deal at night, of course, and Luke 
 comes and sits here hours by the clock, just where you 
 are, right in my way. I don't mean you^re in my way : 
 I'm talking of times when I'm busy. Well, there he 
 sits; and sometimes he'll be that low it's enough to 
 make a body strangle herself with her apron-string. 
 Other times he'll talk, talk, talk : and it's all Thyrza 
 Trent, Thvrza Trent, till the name makes my ears 
 jingle. This afternoon I couldn't put up with it, so I 
 told him he was a great big baby to go on as he does. 
 Then we had some snappy words, and he went off to 
 his bedroom and wouldn't have any tea. But really 
 and trulv, I don't know what '11 come to him. He says 
 he'll take to drinking, and he does a deal too much o' 
 that as it is. And to think of him losing days from
 
 A CLASP OF HANDS 163 
 
 his work! Now do just tell him not to be a fooL Mr. 
 Grail.' 
 
 With difficulty Gilbert found an opportunity to put 
 in a word. 
 
 ' But is there something wrong between them ? ' he 
 asked with a forced smile. 
 
 ' Wrong ? Why, doesn't he talk about it to you ? ' 
 
 ' Xo. I used to hear just a word or two, but there's 
 been no mention of her for a long time.' 
 
 'You may think yourself lucky then, that's all / 
 can say. Why, she wouldn't have anything to say to 
 him. And I don't see what he's got to complain of; he 
 admits she told him from the first she didn't care a bit 
 for him. As if there wasn't plenty of other lasses ! 
 Luke was always such a softy about em ; but I never 
 knew him have such a turn as this. I'll just go and 
 tell him you're here.' 
 
 ' Perhaps he's gone to bed.' 
 
 'Xot he. He sits in the cold half the night, just 
 to make people sorry for him. He doesn't get much 
 pity from me, the silly fellow.' 
 
 She ran up the stairs. Grail, as soon as she was 
 gone, fell into a reverie. It did not seem a pleasant 
 one ; his face darkened almost to sternness. 
 
 In a few minutes Mrs. Poole was heard returning ; 
 behind her came a heavier foot. Ackroyd followed his 
 sister into the kitchen. He certainly looked far from 
 well, but had assumed a gay air, which he exaggerated. 
 
 ' Come to see if I've hanged myself, old man ? 
 
 M 2
 
 i64 THYRZA 
 
 Not quite so bad as that yet. I've bad the tootbacbe 
 and the headache and Lord knows what. Now I feel 
 hungry ; we'll have some supper together. Give me a 
 jug, Maggie, and I'll get some beer.' 
 
 'You sit down,' she replied. ' I'll run out and fetch it.' 
 
 'Why, what's the good of a jug like that!' he 
 roared, watching her. ' Here's Grrail never sits down to 
 less than a pot, and a gallon or so won't be a drop too 
 much for me. Take two jugs, Maggie.' 
 
 'Don't get any beer for me, Mrs. Poole,' put in 
 Gilbert. 'I can't stop more than five minutes, and 
 there'll be supper waiting when I get home.' 
 
 ' You do as I tell you, lass,' cried Ackroyd. ' Bring 
 all you can carry.' 
 
 He flung himself on a chair and stretched his legs. 
 
 ' Been to the lecture ? ' he asked, as his sister left 
 the room. 
 
 'Yes,' Gilbert replied, his wonted quietness con- 
 trasting with the other's noise. ' Mr. Egremont's been 
 asking me about you. He's very disappointed that 
 you've left him.' 
 
 'Can't help it. I held out as long as I could. 
 It isn't my line. Besides, nothing's my line just now. 
 So you had a talk with him, eh ? ' 
 
 'Yes, a talk I shan't forget. There are not many 
 men like Mr. Egremont.' 
 
 Gilbert had it on his lips to speak of the library 
 project, but a doubt as to whether he might not be 
 betraying confidence checked him.
 
 A CLASP OF HANDS 165 
 
 ' He wants you to go and see him at the 
 lecture-room,' he continued, ' either on Sunday after 
 the lecture, or any evening that suits you. Will 
 you go ? ' 
 
 Luke shook his head. 
 
 « No. What's the good ? ' 
 
 *I wish you would, Ackroyd,' said Gilbert, bending 
 forward and speaking with earnestness. ' You'd be 
 glad of it afterwards. He said I was to ask you to go 
 and have a smoke with him by the fire ; you needn't 
 be afraid of a sermon, you see. Besides, you know he 
 isn't that kind of man.' 
 
 'No, I shan't go, old man,' returned the other, 
 with resolution. ' I liked his lectures well enough, as 
 far as they went, but they're not the kind of thing to 
 suit me nowadays. If I go and talk to him, I'm bound 
 to go to the lectures. What's the good? What's the 
 good of anything ? ' 
 
 Gilbert became silent. The little girl on the 
 stool, who had been moving restlessly, suddenly said : 
 
 ' Uncle, take me on your lap.' 
 
 ' Why, of course I will, little un I ' Luke replied 
 with a sudden affectionateness one would not have ex- 
 pected of him. ' Give me a kiss. Who's that sitting 
 there, eh ? ' 
 
 ' Dono.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! Say : ^Ir. Grail.' 
 
 In the midst of this, Mrs, Poole reappeared with the 
 jug foaming.
 
 1 66 THYRZA 
 
 ' Oh, indeed ! So ihaVs where you are ! ' she ex- 
 claimed with her vivacious emphasis, looking at the 
 child. ' A nice thing for you to be nursed at this hour 
 o' night! — Now just one glass, Mr Grail. It's a bitter 
 night ; just a glass to walk on.' 
 
 Gilbert pleased her by drinking what she offered. 
 Ackroyd had recommenced his uproarious mirthfulness. 
 
 ' I wish you could persuade your brother to go to 
 the lectures again, Mrs. Poole,' said Gilbert. 'He 
 misses a great deal.' 
 
 ' And he'll miss a good deal more,' she replied, ' if 
 lie doesn't soon come to his senses. Nay, it's no good 
 o' me talking! He used to be a sensible lad— that is, 
 he could be if he liked.' 
 
 Gilbert gave his hand for leave-taking. 
 
 ' I stilly hope you'll go on Sunday night,' he said, 
 seriously. 
 
 Ackroyd shook his head again, then tossed the 
 child into the air and began singing. He did not offer 
 to accompany Grail up to the door.
 
 [67 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A GOLDEN PROSrECT. 
 
 It wanted a week to Christmas. For many days the 
 weather had been as bad as it can be even in London. 
 Windows glimmered at noon with the sickly ray of gas 
 or lamp ; the roads were trodden into viscid foulness ; 
 all night the droppings of a pestilent rain were doleful 
 upon the roof, and only the change from a black to a 
 yellow sky told that the sun was risen. No wonder 
 Thyrza was ailing. 
 
 It was nothing serious. The inevitable cold had 
 clung to her and become feverish ; it was necessary for 
 her to stay at home for a day or two. Lydia made her 
 hours of work as short as possible, hastening to get 
 back to her sister. But fortunately there wa& a friend 
 always at hand ; Mrs. Grail could not have been more 
 anxious about a child of her own. Her tendance was 
 of the kind which inspires trust ; Lydia, always 
 fretting herself into the extreme of nervousness if her 
 dear one lost for a day the wonted health, was thankful 
 she had not to depend on Mrs. Jarmey's oflBces. 
 
 Thyrza had spent a day in bed, but could now sit
 
 i68 THYRZA 
 
 by the fire ; her chair came from the Grails' parlour, 
 and was the very one which had always seemed to her 
 so comfortable. Her wish that Lyddy should sit in it 
 had at length been gratified. 
 
 It was seven o'clock on Frida}^ evening. The table 
 was drawn near to Thyrza's cliair, and Tliyrza was 
 engaged in counting out silver coins, which she took 
 from a capacious old purse. Lydia leaned on the table, 
 opposite. 
 
 ' Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six ! I'm sure I 
 saw a very nice overcoat marked twenty-five shillings, 
 not long ago.' 
 
 Lydia mused for a moment ; then she said : 
 
 ' I don't like to spend it, Thyrza.' 
 
 Her sister looked up in uttermost astonishment. 
 
 ' What do you mean, Lyddy ? Don't like to spend 
 it ? Why, what have we saved it up for, tlien ? ' 
 
 ' Are you sure you feel better, dear ? ' the other 
 asked, earnestly. 
 
 ' Is that what you're thinking about ? I've a good 
 mind to go out myself and buy the coat. I would this 
 minute, if I thought you were going to trouble about me 
 in that way. Why, I'm quite well ; I only pretend, 
 just because I like to be made much of. You'll have 
 to get a cold next, Lyddy, and sit here all day ; and 
 Mrs. Grail and me '11 make you tliat comfortable as 
 never was.' 
 
 Lydia allowed herself to be reassured. She said 
 presently :
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT 169 
 
 ' But we can't buy the coat without knowing 
 grandad's measure.' 
 
 ' Oh, but you know it near enough, I think.' 
 
 ' Near enough ! But I want it to look nice. I 
 wonder whether I could take a measure without him 
 knowing it ? If I could manage to get behind him and 
 just measure across the shoulders, I think that 'ud do.' 
 
 Thyrza laughed. 
 
 ' Go now. He's sure to be sitting with the Bowers. 
 Take the tape and try.' 
 
 ' Xo, I'll take a bit of string ; then he wouldn't 
 think anything if he saw it.' 
 
 Lydia put on her hat and jacket. 
 
 * I'll be back as soon as ever I can. Play with tlie 
 money like a good baby. You're sure you're quite 
 warm ? 
 
 Thyrza was wrapped in a large shawl, which hooded 
 over her head. Lydia had taken incredible pains to 
 stop every possible draught at door and window. A 
 cheerful fire tlirew its glow upon the invalid's face. 
 
 ' I'm like a toast. Just look up at the sliop next to 
 ^Irs. Isaac's, Lyddy. There was a sort of brownish coat, 
 with laps over the pockets; it was hanging just by the 
 door. We must get a few more shillings if it makes all 
 the difference, mustn't we ? ' 
 
 ' We'll see. Good-bye, Blue-eyes.' 
 
 Lydia went her way. For a wonder, there was no 
 fog to-Tiight, l)nt tlie street lamps glistened on wet pave- 
 ments, and vehicles as they rattled along sent mud-
 
 I70 THYRZA 
 
 volleys to either side. In passing through Lambeth 
 Walk, Lydia stopped at the clothing shop of which Thyrza 
 had spoken. The particular brownish coat had seemingly 
 been carried off by a purchaser, but she was glad to 
 notice one or two second-hand garments of very respect- 
 able appearance which came within the sum at her 
 command. She passed on into Paradise Street and 
 entered Mrs. Bower's shop. 
 
 In the parlour the portly Mr. Bower stood with his 
 back to the fire ; he was speaking oracularly, and, at 
 Lydia's entrance, looked up with some annoyance at 
 being interrupted. Mr. Boddy sat in his accustomed 
 comer. Mrs. bower, arrayed in the grandeur suitable 
 to a winter evening, was condescending to sew. 
 
 ' Mary out ? ' Lydia asked, as she looked round. 
 
 ' Yes, my dear,' replied Mrs. Bower, with a sigh of 
 resignation. ' She's at a prayer meetin', as per us'l. 
 That's the third night this blessed week. I 'old with 
 goin' to chapel, but like everything else it ought to be 
 done in moderation. Mary's gettin' beyond everything. 
 I don't believe in makin' such a fuss o' religion ; you 
 can be religious in your mind without sayin' prayers an' 
 singin' 'ymns all the week long. There's the Sunday 
 for that, an' I can't see as it's pleasin' to God neither 
 to do so much of it at other times. Now suppose I give 
 somebody credit in the shop, on the understandin' as 
 they come an' pay their bill once a week reg'lar ; do you 
 think I should like to have 'em lookin' in two or three 
 times every day an' cryin' out : " Oh, Mrs. Bower, ma'am,
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT 171 
 
 I don't forget as I owe you so and so much ; be sure I 
 shall come an' pay on Saturday I " If they did that, I 
 should precious soon begin to think there was something 
 wrong, else they'd 'old their tongues an' leave it to be 
 understood as they was honest. ^Vhy, an' it's every bit 
 the same with religion ! ' 
 
 Mr. Boddy listeoed gravely to this, and had the air 
 of probing the suggested analogy. He had a bad cold, 
 poor old man, and for the moment it made him look as 
 if he indulged too freely in ardent beverages ; his nose 
 was extremely red and his eyes were very watery. 
 
 ' How's the little un, my dear ? ' he asked, as Lydia 
 took a seat by him. 
 
 ' Oh, she's much better, grandad. ^Irs. Grail is so 
 kind to her, you wouldn't believe. She'll be all right 
 again by Monday, I think.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Grail's kind to her, is she ? ' remarked ^Ir. 
 Bower. ' Why, you're getting great friends with the 
 Grails, Miss Lydia.' 
 
 ' Yes, we really are.' 
 
 ' And do you see much of Grail himself? ' 
 
 ' Xo, not much. We sometimes have tea with them 
 both.* 
 
 * Ah, you do ? He's a very decent, quiet fellow, is 
 Grail. I dare say he tells you something about Egre- 
 mont now and then ? ' 
 
 Mr. Bower put the question in a casual way; in 
 truth, it was designed to elicit information which he 
 much desired. He knew that for some time Grail had
 
 172 THYRZA 
 
 leen on a new footing with the lecturer, that the two 
 often remained together after the class had dispersed ; 
 it was a privilege which he regarded disapprovingly, 
 because it lessened his own dignity in the eyes of the 
 other men. He wondered what the subject of these 
 private conversations might be ; there had seemed to 
 him something of mystery in Grrail's manner when he 
 was plied with a friendly inquiry or two. 
 
 ' I've heard him speak of the lectures,' said Lydia. 
 'He says he enjoys them very much.' 
 
 * To be sure. Yes, they're very fair lectures, very 
 fair, in their way. I don't know as I've cared quite so 
 much for "em lately as I did at first. I've felt he was 
 falling off a little. I gave him a hint a few weeks ago, 
 just told him in a quiet way as I thought he was going 
 too far into things that weren't very interesting, but he 
 didn't seem quite to see it. It's always the way with 
 young men of his kind ; when you give them a bit of 
 advice, it makes them obstinate. Well, he'll see when 
 he begins again after Christmas. Thomas and Lin wood 
 are giving it up, and I shall be rather surprised if 
 Johnson holds out for another course.' 
 
 ' But I suppose you'll go, Mr. Bower ? ' said Lydia. 
 
 Bower stuck his forefingers into his waistcoat 
 pockets, held his head as one who muses, clicked with 
 his tonofue. 
 
 ' I shall see,' he replied, with a judicial air. ' I 
 don't like to give the young feller up. You see, I may 
 say as it was me put him on the idea. We had a lot
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT 173 
 
 of talk about one thing and another one day at the 
 works, and a hint of mine set him off. I should like 
 to make the lectures successful ; I believe they're a 
 good thing, if they are properly carried out. I'm a 
 believer in education. It's the educated men as oet on 
 in the world. Teach a man to use his brains and he'll 
 soon be worth double wages. But Egremont must 
 keep up to the mark if he's to have my support. I 
 shall have to have a word or two with him before he 
 begins again. By-the-by, I passed him- in Kennington 
 Road just now : I wonder what he's doing about here 
 at this time. Been to the works, perhaps.' 
 
 Whilst the portly man thus delivered himself, 
 Lydia let her arm rest on Mr. Boddy's shoulder. It 
 was a caress which he sometimes received from her ; he 
 looked round at her affectionately, then continued to 
 pay attention to the weighty words which fell from 
 Mr. Bower. Mrs. Bower, who was less impressed by 
 her husband's utterances, bent over her sewing. In this 
 way Lydia was able craftily to secure the measurement 
 she needed. And having got this, she was anxious to 
 be back with Thyrza. 
 
 ' I suppose it's no use waiting for Mary,' she said, 
 rising. 
 
 ' I don't suppose she'll be back not before nine 
 o'clock,' Mrs. Bower replied. ' Did you want her 
 partic'lar ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no, it'll do any time.' 
 
 ' Whilst I think of it,' said Mrs. Bower, letting her
 
 174 THYRZA 
 
 sewing fall upon her lap and settling the upper part of 
 her stout body in an attitude of dignity; 'you and 
 your sister '11 come an' eat your Christmas dinner with 
 us?' 
 
 Lydia cast down her eyes. 
 
 ' It's very kind of you, Mrs. Bower, but I'm sure 
 I don't know whether Thyrza '11 be well enough. I 
 must be very careful of her for a time.' 
 
 ' Well, well, you'll see. It'll only be a quiet little 
 fam'ly dinner this year. You'll know there's places 
 kep' for you.' 
 
 Lydia again expressed her thanks, then took leave. 
 As she left the shop, she heard Mr. Bower's voice again 
 raised in impressive oratory. 
 
 On entering the house in Walnut Tree Walk, she 
 found Mrs. Grail just descending the stairs. The old 
 lady never spoke above her breath at such casual 
 meetings outside her own door. 
 
 ' Come in for a minute,' she whispered. 
 
 Lydia followed her into the parlour. Gilbert was 
 settled for the evening at the table. A volume lent 
 by Egremont lay before him, and he was making notes 
 from it. At Lydia's entrance he rose and spoke a word, 
 then resumed his reading. 
 
 'I've just taken Thyrza a little morsel of jelly I 
 made this afternoon,' Mrs. Grail said, apart to the girl. 
 ' I'm sure she looks better to-night.' 
 
 'How good you are, Mrs. Grail! Yes, she does 
 look better, but I couldn't have believed a day or two
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT 175 
 
 'ud have made her so weak. I shan't let her go out 
 before Christmas.' 
 
 ' Xo, I don't think you ought, my dear.' 
 
 As Mrs. Grrail spoke, the knocker of the house-door 
 sounded an unusual summons, a rat-tat, not loud in- 
 deed, but distinct from the knocks wont to be heard 
 here. 
 
 ' Mr. and Mrs. Jarmey are both out,' said Lydia. 
 ' They're gone to the theatre. Perhaps it's for you, 
 Mrs. Grail ? ' 
 
 ' No, that's not at all likely.' 
 
 ' I'll go.' 
 
 Lydia opened. A gentleman stood without ; he 
 inquired in a pleasant voice if Mr. Grrail was at home. 
 
 ' I think so,' Lydia said. ' Will you please wait a 
 minute ? ' 
 
 She hurried back to the parlour. 
 
 ' It's a gentleman wants to see Mr. Grail,' she 
 whispered, with the momentary excitement which any 
 little out-of-the-way occurrence produces in those who 
 live a life void of surprises. And she glanced at Gilbert, 
 who had heard what she said. He rose. 
 
 ' I wonder whether it's Mr. Egremont ! Thank 
 you, ^liss Trent ; I'll go to the door.' 
 
 Lydia escaped up the stairs. Gilbert went out into 
 the passage, and his surmise was confirmed. Egremont 
 was there, sheltering himself under an umbrella from 
 rain which was once more beginning to fall. 
 
 'Could I have a word with you?' he said, with
 
 176 THYRZA 
 
 friendly freedom. ' I should have written, but I had 
 to pass so near ' 
 
 ' I'm very glad. Will you come in ? ' 
 
 It was the first time that Egremont had been at 
 the house. Gilbert conducted him into the parlour, 
 and took from him his hat and umbrella. 
 
 *This is my mother,' he said. 'Mr. Egremont, 
 mother ; you'll be glad to see him.' 
 
 The old lady regarded Walter with courteous 
 curiosity, and bowed to him. A few friendly words 
 were exchanged, then Egremont said to Grail : 
 
 ' If you hadn't been in, I should have left a mes- 
 sage, asking you to meet me to-morrow afternoon.' 
 
 Mrs. Grail was about to leave the room ; Egremont 
 begged her to remain. 
 
 ' It's only a piece of news concerning our library 
 scheme. I think I've found a building that will suit 
 us. Do you know a school in Brook Street, connected 
 with a Wesleyan Chapel somewhere about here ? ' 
 
 Gilbert said that he knew it; his mother also 
 murmured recognition. 
 
 ' It'll be to let at the end of next quarter : they're 
 building themselves a larger place. I heard about it 
 this afternoon, and as I was told that evening classes 
 are held there, I thought I'd come and have a look at 
 the place to-night. At last it is something like what 
 we want. Could you meet me there, say at three, 
 to-morrow afternoon, so that we could see it together 
 in daylight — if daylight be granted us ? '
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT 177 
 
 Grail expressed his readiness. 
 
 ' You were reading,' Walter went on, with a glance 
 at the table. ' I mustn't waste your time.' 
 
 He rose, but Gilbert said : 
 
 ' I should be glad if you could stay a few minutes. 
 Perhaps you haven't time ? ' 
 
 ' yes. What are you busy with ? ' 
 
 Half an hour's talk followed, of course mainly of 
 books. Egremont looked over the vohimes on the 
 shelves ; those who love such topics will know how 
 readily gossip spun itself from that centre. He was 
 pleased with Grail's home ; it was very much as he had 
 liked to picture it since he had known that Gilbert 
 lived with his mother. Mrs. Grail sat and listened to 
 all that was said, a placid smile on her smooth face. 
 At length Egremont declared that he was consuming 
 his friend's evening. 
 
 ' Perhaps you'll let me come some other night ? ' 
 he said, as he took up his hat. ' I know very few 
 people indeed who care to talk of these things in the 
 way I like.' 
 
 Gilbert came back from the door with a look of 
 pleasure. 
 
 ' Now, isn't he a fine fellow, mother ? I'm so glad 
 you've seen him.' 
 
 ' He seems a very pleasant young man indeed,' Mrs. 
 Grail replied. ' He's not quite the picture I'd made of 
 him, but his way of speaking makes you like him from 
 the very first.' 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 THYRZA 
 
 ' I never heard him say a word yet that didn't sound 
 genuine,' Gilbert added. ' He speaks what he thinks, 
 and you won't find many men who make you feel that. 
 And he has a mind ; I wish you could hear one of his 
 lectures ; he speaks in just the same easy running way, 
 and constantly says things one would be glad to re- 
 member. They don't understand him, Bower, and 
 Bunce, and the others ; they don't fed his words as they 
 ought to. I'm afraid he'll only have two or three when 
 he begins again.' 
 
 'That's a pity, when he tries so hard to teach 
 them.' 
 
 ' What do you think Ackroyd said the other day ? 
 " I can't see that it's much to talk of," he said. " Let 
 him give back all the money he's got out of the men that 
 work for him, and I'll think he means to be honest." 
 That's Ackroyd's latest idea. I can't quite make out 
 whether he believes what he says.' 
 
 ' Well, I suppose the library will cost a good deal 
 of money,' suggested the old lady. 
 
 ' To be sure it will ; perhaps Ackroyd will see some- 
 thing to be satisfied with at last. There'll be a heavy 
 rent for the building, and there's no knowing how much 
 he'll have to lay out in books. Then he'll have to 
 engage a librarian — an educated man who no doubt '11 
 require a large salary ; assistants too, I dare say, as the 
 library gets known. He is rich, no doubt, but how 
 many rich men are willing to spend their money in that 
 way ? '
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT 179 
 
 '^Ir. Ackroyd seems to have had a prejudice from 
 the first, Gilbert.' 
 
 'I don't think it's a personal prejudice. The poor 
 fellow has got into the wrong road ; he hears such a 
 lot of nonsense at that club of his, and he makes it a 
 point to see nothiog good m any man who employs 
 labour.' 
 
 Mrs. Grail turned presently to a different topic. 
 
 'Would you believe, Gilbert!' she murmured. 
 'Those two girls have saved up more than a pound to 
 buy that poor old Mr. Boddy a top-coat for Christmas. 
 When I went up with the jelly, Thyrza had the money 
 out on the table ; she told me as a great secret what it 
 was for. Kind-hearted things they are, both of them." 
 
 Gilbert assented sileully. His mother seldom 
 elicited a word from him on the subject of the sisters. 
 
 On the following afternoon, Gilbert and Egremont 
 met at the appointed place just as three was striking. 
 Already night had begun to close in, a sad wind moaned 
 al)Out the streets, and the cold grey of the sky was 
 patched about with dim shifting black clouds. Egre- 
 mont was full of cheeriness as he shook hands. 
 
 ' What a wonderful people we are,' he exclaimed, 
 ' to have developed even so much civilisation in a 
 climate such as this ! ' 
 
 The school building which they were about to in- 
 spect stood at the junction of two streets, which consisted 
 chieflv of dwellings. In the nature of things it was 
 ugly. Tliree steps led up to the narrow entrance,
 
 I So THYRZA 
 
 which, as well as the windows on the ground floor, was sur- 
 rounded with a wholly inappropriate pointed arch. Iron 
 railing's ran along* the two sides which abutted upon 
 pavements, and by the door was a tall iron support for 
 a lamp ; probably it had never been put to its use. 
 There was only one upper storey, and the roof was 
 crowned with a small stack of hideous metal chimneys. 
 
 ' We must go round to the caretaker's house,' said 
 Egremont, when they had cast their eyes over the face 
 of the edifice. 
 
 The way was by a narrow passage between the 
 school itself and the whitewashed side of ati adjacent 
 house ; this led them into a small paved yard, upon 
 which looked the windows of the caretaker's dwelling, 
 which was the rear portion of the school building. A 
 knock at the door brought a very dirty and very asth- 
 matical old woman, who appeared to resent their visit. 
 When Egremont expressed his desire to go over the 
 school, she muttered querulously what was understood 
 to be an invitation to enter. Followed by Grilbert, 
 Egremont was conducted along a pitch-dark passage. 
 
 ' Mind the steps ! ' snarled their guide. 
 
 Egremont had already stumbled over an ascent of 
 two when the warning was given, but at the same 
 moment a door was thrown open, giving a view of the 
 main schoolroom. 
 
 ' 'Tain't swep' out yet,' remarked the old woman. 
 
 I couldn't tell as nobody was a-comin'. You can 
 
 complain to them if you like ; I'm used to it from all
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT i8i 
 
 sorts, an' 'taint for much longer, praise goodness I 
 Though there's not h ink before me but the parish when 
 the time does come.' 
 
 Egremont glanced at the strange creature in sur- 
 prise, but it seemed better to say nothing. He began 
 to speak of the aspects of the room with his companion. 
 
 The place was cheerless beyond description. In a 
 large grate the last embers of a fire were darkening : 
 the air was chill, and, looking up to the ceiling, one 
 saw floating scraps of mist which had somehow come 
 in from the street. The lower half of each window 
 was guarded with lattice-work of thin wire ; the win- 
 dows themselves were grimy, and would have made it 
 dusk within even on a clear day. The whitewash of 
 the ceiling was dark and much cracked. Benches and 
 desks covered half the floor. There were black-boards 
 and other mechanical appliances for teacliing, and on 
 the walls hung maps and diagrams. 
 
 ' The walls seem quite dry,' observed Walter, ' which 
 is a great point.' 
 
 They laid their palms against the plaster. The old 
 woman stood with one hand pressed against her bosom, 
 the other behind her back ; her head was bent ; she 
 seemed to pay no kind of attention to what was said. 
 
 'There's room here for some thousands of volume?,' 
 Egremont said, moving to one of the windows. * It 
 will serve tolerably as a reading-room, too. Nothing 
 like as large as it ought to be, of course, but we must 
 be content to feel our way to better things.'
 
 182 
 
 THVRZA 
 
 Gilbert nodded. In spite of his companion's resolute 
 cheerfulness, he felt a distressing dejection creep upon 
 him as lie stood in the cold, darkening room. He could 
 not feel the interest and hope which hitherto this project 
 had inspired him with. The figure of the old caretaker 
 impressed him painfully. For any movement she made 
 t^he might have been asleep ; the regular sound of her 
 heavy breathing was quite audible, and vapour rose from 
 her lips upon the air. 
 
 ' "What do you think ? ' Egremont asked, when Grail 
 remained mute. 
 
 ' I should think it will do very well. What is there 
 upstairs ? ' 
 
 ' Two class-rooms. We should use those for lectures. 
 Let us go up.' 
 
 The old woman walked before them to a door 
 opposite that by which they had entered. They found 
 themselves in a small vestibule, out of which, on one 
 hand, a door led into a cloak-room, while on the other 
 ascended a flight of stone stairs. There was nothing 
 noticeable in the rooms above ; the windows here were 
 also very dirty, and mist floated below the ceilings. 
 
 The caretaker had remained below, contenting her- 
 self with indicating the way. 
 
 ' You seem disappointed,' Walter said. He himself 
 had ceased to talk, he felt cold and uncomfortable. 
 
 ' No, no, indeed I'm not,' Grail hastened to reply. 
 ' I think it is as good a place as you could have found.' 
 
 ' We don't see it under very inspiriting conditions.
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT 1S3 
 
 Fire and light and comfortable furniture would make 
 a wonderful difference, even on a day like this.' 
 
 Gilbert reproached himself for taking so coldly his 
 friend's generous zeal. 
 
 'And books still more,' he replied. 'The room 
 below will be a grand sight with shelves all round 
 the walls.' 
 
 ' Well, I must make further inquiries, but I think 
 the place will suit us.' 
 
 They descended, their footsteps ringing on the stone 
 and echoing up to the roof. The old woman still stood 
 at the foot of the stairs, her head bent, the hand against 
 her side. 
 
 ' Will you go out here,' she asked, ' or do you want 
 to see anythink else ? ' 
 
 ' I should like to see the back part again,' Egremont 
 replied. 
 
 She led them across the schoolroom, through the 
 dark passage, and into a small room which had the 
 distant semblance of a parlour. Here she lit a lamp, 
 then, without speaking, guided them over the house, of 
 which she appeared to be the only inhabitant. There 
 were seven rooms ; only three of them contained any 
 furniture. Then they all returned to the comfortless 
 parlour. 
 
 'Your chest is bad,' Egremont remarked, looking 
 curiously at the woman. 
 
 ' Yes, I dessay it is,' was the ungracious reply. 
 
 ' Well, I don't think we need trouble you any more
 
 1 84 THYRZA 
 
 at present, but I shall probably have to come again in 
 a day or two.' 
 
 ' I dessay you'll find me here.' 
 
 'And feeling better, I hope. The weather gives 
 you much trouble, no doubt.' 
 
 He held half a crown to her. She regarded it, 
 clasped it in the hand which was against her bosom, 
 and at length dropped a curtsey, though without 
 speaking. 
 
 ' What a poor crabbed old creature ! ' Egremont 
 exclaimed, as they walked away. ' I should feel posi- 
 tively relieved if I knew that she went off at once to 
 the warmth of the public-house opposite.' 
 
 ' Yes, she hasn't a very cheerful home.' 
 
 ' Oh, but it can be made a very different house. 
 It has fallen into such neglect. Wait till spring sun- 
 shine and the paperhangers invade the place.' 
 
 They issued into a main street, and, after a little 
 further talk, shook hands and parted. 
 
 That night, and through the Sunday that followed, 
 G-ilbert continued to suffer even more than his wont 
 from mental dreariness. The cold gloom of the future 
 library seemed to cling about him still ; he had to 
 make constant demands upon reason to avoid thinking 
 despondently of the undertaking. On Sunday after- 
 noon, Mr. Jarmey's concertina was more itritating and 
 depressing than ever. He could not fix his attention 
 upon a book, and Mrs. Grail was unable to draw him 
 into conversation.
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT 185 
 
 About four o'clock she said : 
 
 * May I ask Lydia and Thyrza to come and have 
 tea with us, Grilbert ? ' 
 
 He looked up absently. 
 
 ' But they were here last Sunday, mother.' 
 
 ' Yes, my dear, but I think they like to come, and 
 I'm sure I like to have them.' 
 
 ' Let us leave it till next Sunday, mother. You 
 don't mind ? I feel I must be alone to-night.' 
 
 It was a most unusual thing for Gilbert to offer 
 opposition when his mother had expressed a desire for 
 anything. Mrs. Grrail at once said : 
 
 ' I dare say you're right, my dear. Next Sunday '11 
 be better.' 
 
 The next morning he went to his work through a 
 fog so dense that it was with difficulty he followed the 
 familiar way. Lamps were mere lurid blotches in the 
 foul air, perceptible only when close at hand ; the foot- 
 fall of invisible men and women hm-rying to factories 
 made a muffled, ghastly sound ; harsh bells summoned 
 through the darkness, the voice of pitiless taskmasters 
 to whom all was indifferent save the hour of toil. 
 Gilbert was racked with headache. Bodily suffering 
 made him as void of intellectual desire as the meanest 
 labourer then going forth to earn bread ; he longed for 
 nothing more than to lie down and lose consciousness 
 of the burden of life. 
 
 Then came Christmas Eve. The weather had 
 changed ; to-night there was frost in the air, and the
 
 1 86 THYRZA 
 
 light of stars made a shimmer upon the black vault. 
 Gilbert always gave this season to companionship with 
 his mother. About seven o'clock they were talking 
 quietly together of memories light and grave, of Grilbert's 
 boyhood, of his sister who was dead, of his father who 
 was dead. Then came a pause, whilst both were silently 
 busy with the irrecoverable past. 
 
 Mrs. Grail broke the silence to say : 
 
 ' You're a lonely man, Gilbert.' 
 
 ' Why no, not lonely, mother. I might be, but for 
 you.' 
 
 ' Yes, you're lonely, my dear. It's poor company 
 that I can give you. I should like to see you with a 
 happier look on your face before I die.' 
 
 Gilbert had no reply ready. 
 
 ' You think too poorly of yourself,' his mother re- 
 sumed, ' and you always have done. But there's people 
 have a better judgment of you. Haven't you thought 
 that somebody looks always very pleased when you read 
 or talk, and sits very quiet when you've nothing to say, 
 and always says good-night to you so prettily ? ' 
 
 ' Mother, mother, don't speak like that I I've tliought 
 nothing of the kind. Put that out of your head ; never 
 speak of it again.' 
 
 His voice was not untender, but very grave. The 
 lines of his face hardened. Mrs. Grail glanced at him 
 timidly, and became mute. 
 
 A loud double knock told that the postman had 
 delivered a letter at the house. Whilst the two still
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT 187 
 
 sat in silence Mrs. Jarmey tapped at their door and 
 said : 
 
 ' A letter for you, Mr. Grail.' 
 
 ' From Mr. Egremont,' said Gilbert, as he resumed 
 his seat and opened the envelope. ' More about the 
 library, I expect.' 
 
 He read to himself. 
 
 * My dear Grail, — I have decided to take the school 
 building on a lease of seven years, after again carefully 
 examining it and finding it still to my mind. It will 
 be free at the end of March. By that time I hope to 
 have sketched out something of a rudimentary catalogue, 
 and before summer the library should be open. 
 
 ' I asked you to come and look over this place with 
 me because I had a project in my mind with reference 
 to the library which concerns yourself. I lay it before 
 you in a letter, that you may think it over quietly and 
 reply at your leisure. I wish to ofifer you the position 
 of librarian : I am sure I could not find anyone better 
 suited for the post, and certainly there is no man whom 
 I should like so well to set; occupying it. I propose 
 that the balary ))e one hundred and fifty pounds a year, 
 with free tenancy of the dwelling-house at present so 
 dolorously occupied — I am sure it can be made a com- 
 fortable abode — and of course, gas and fuel. I should 
 make arrangements for the necessary cleaning, &c., with 
 some person of the neighbourhood ; your own duties 
 would be solely those of librarian and reading-room 
 superintendent.
 
 1 88 THYRZA 
 
 ' The library should be open, I think, from ten to ten, 
 for I want to lose no possibility of usefulness. If one 
 loafer be tempted to come in and read, the day's object 
 is gained. These hours are of course too long for you 
 alone ; I would provide you with an assistant, so that 
 you could assure for yourself, let us say, four hours free 
 out of the twelve. But details would be easily arranged 
 between us. By-the-by, Sunday must not be a day of 
 closing ; to make it so would be to deprive ourselves of 
 the greatest opportunity. Your freedom for one entire 
 day in the week should be guaranteed. 
 
 ' I offer this because I should like to have you working 
 with me, and because I believe that such work would 
 be more to your taste than that in which you are now 
 occupied. It would, moreover, leave you a good deal 
 of time for study ; we are not likely to be overwhelmed 
 with readers and borrowers during the daytime. But 
 you will consider the proposal precisely as you would do 
 if it came from a stranger, and will accept or reject it 
 as you see fit. 
 
 ' I leave town to-day for about a week. Will you 
 
 write to me at the end of that time ? — Always yours, 
 
 my dear Grail, 
 
 'Walter Egremont.' 
 
 Mrs. G-rail showed no curiosity about the letter ; 
 the subject of the interrupted conversation held her 
 musing. When Gilbert had folded the sheets, and, in 
 the manner of one who receives few letters, returned 
 it to its envelope, he said :
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT 189 
 
 ' Yes, it's about the library. He's taken the house 
 for seven years.' 
 
 His mother murmured an expression of interest. 
 For another minute the clock on the mantelpiece ticked 
 loud; then Gilbert rose, and without saying anything, 
 went out. 
 
 He entered his bedroom. The darkness was com- 
 plete, but he moved with the certainty of habit to a 
 chair by the head of the bed, and there seated himself. 
 Presently he felt a painful surging in his throat, then a 
 gush of warm tears forced its way to his eyes. It cost 
 him a great effort to resist the tendency to sob aloud. 
 He was hot and cold alternately, and trembled as 
 though a fever were coming upon him. 
 
 In a quarter of an hour he lit the candle, and, after 
 a glance at himself in the glass, bathed his face. 
 Then he took down his overcoat from the door, and 
 put it on. His hat too he took, and went to the 
 parlour. 
 
 ' I have to go out, mother,' he said, standing at the 
 door. ' I'll be back by supper-time.' 
 
 ' Very well, my dear,' was the quiet reply. 
 
 He walked out to the edge of the pavement, and 
 stood a moment, as if in doubt as to his direction. 
 Then he looked at the upper windows of the house, as 
 we saw him do one night half a year ago. There was 
 a light this time in the sisters' room. 
 
 He turned towards Lambeth Walk. The market 
 of Christmas Eve was flaring and clamorous ; the
 
 I90 THYRZA 
 
 odours of burning naphtha and fried fish were pungent 
 on the wind. He walked a short distance among the 
 crowd, then found the noise oppressive and turned into 
 a by-way. As he did so, a street organ began to play 
 in front of a public-house close by. Grrail drew near ; 
 there were children forming a dance, and he stood to 
 watch them. 
 
 Do you know that music of the obscure ways, to 
 which children dance ? Not if you have only heard it 
 ground to your ears' aflfliction beneath your windows 
 in the square. To hear it aright you must stand in 
 the darkness of such a by-street as this, and for the 
 moment be at one with those who dwell around, in the 
 blear-eyed houses, in the dim burrows of poverty, in 
 the unmapped haunts of the semi-human. Then you 
 will know the significance of that vulgar clanging of 
 melody ; a pathos of which you did not dream will 
 touch you, and therein the secret of hidden London 
 will be half revealed. The life of men who toil 
 without hope, yet with the hunger of an unshaped 
 desire ; of women in whom the sweetness of their sex 
 is perishing under labour and misery ; the laugh, the 
 song of the girl who strives to enjoy her year or two 
 of youthful vigour, knowing the darkness of the years 
 to come ; the careless defiance of the youth who feels 
 his blood and revolts against the lot which would tame 
 it ; all that is purely human in these darkened multi- 
 tudes speaks to you as you listen. It is the half- 
 conscious striving of a nature which knows not what
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT 191 
 
 it would attain, which deforms a true thought by gross 
 expression, which clutches at the beautiful and soils it 
 with foul hands. 
 
 The children were dirty and ragged, several of them 
 bare-footed, nearly all bare-headed, but they danced 
 with noisy merriment. One there was, a little girl, 
 on crutches ; incapable of taking a partner, she 
 stumped round and round, circling upon the pavement, 
 till giddiness came upon lier and she had to fall back 
 and lean against the wall, laughing aloud at her weak- 
 ness. Gilbert stepped up to her, and put a penny into 
 her hand, then, before she had recovered from her sur- 
 prise, passed onwards. 
 
 He came out at length by Lambeth parish church, 
 which looks upon the river ; the bells were ringing a 
 harsh peal of four notes, unchaugingly repeated. 
 Thence he went forward on to Lambeth Bridge. 
 
 Unsightliest of all bridges crossing Thames, the 
 red hue of its iron superstructure, which in daylight 
 only enhances the meanness of its appearance, at night 
 invests it with a certain grim severity ; the archwav, 
 with its bolted metal plates, its wire- woven cables, over- 
 glimmered with the yellowness of the gas-lamps which 
 it supports, might be the entrance to some fastness of 
 ignoble misery. The road is narrow, and after night- 
 fall has but little traffic. 
 
 Gilbert walked as far as the mid^lle of the bridge, 
 tlien leaned upon the parapet and looked northwards. 
 The tide was running out ; it swept darkly onwards to
 
 192 THYRZA 
 
 the span of Westminster Bridge, whose crescent of 
 lights it repeated in long unsteady rays. Along the 
 base of the Houses of Parliament the few sparse lamps 
 contrasted with the line of brightness on the Embank- 
 ment opposite. The Houses themselves rose grandly 
 in obscure magnitude ; the clock-tower beaconed with 
 two red circles against the black sky, the greater tower 
 stood night -clad, between them were the dim pinnacles, 
 multiplied in shadowy grace. Farther away Gilbert 
 could just discern a low, grey shape, that resting-place 
 of poets and of kings which to look upon filled his heart 
 with worship. 
 
 In front of the Embankment, a few yards out into 
 the stream, was moored a string of barges ; between 
 them and the shore the reflected lamp-light made one 
 unbroken breadth of radiance, blackening the mid- 
 current. From that the eye rose to St. Thomas's 
 Hospital, spreading block after block, its windows 
 telling of the manifold woe within. Nearer was the 
 Archbishop's Palace, dark, lifeless; the roofs were 
 defined against a sky made lurid by the streets of 
 Lambeth. On the pier below signalled two crimson 
 lights. 
 
 The church bells kept up their clangorous discord, 
 softened at times by the wind. A steamboat came 
 fretting up the stream ; when it had passed under the 
 bridge, its spreading track caught the reflected gleams 
 and flung them away to die on unsearchable depths. 
 Then issued from beneath a barge with set sail, making
 
 A GOLDEX PROSPECT 193 
 
 way with wind and tide ; in silence it moved onwards, 
 its sail dark and ghastly, till the further bridge swallowed 
 it. 
 
 The bells ceased. Gilbert bent his head and 
 listened to the rush of the water, voiceful, mysterious, 
 as though it whispered secrets. Sometimes he had 
 stood there and ^vished that the dread tide could whelm 
 him. His mood was far other now ; some power he did 
 not understand had brought him here as to the place 
 where he could best realise this great joy that had be- 
 fallen him. 
 
 But the wind blew piercingly, and when at length 
 he moved from the parapet, he found that his arms 
 were quite numb ; doubtless he had stood longer than 
 he thouglit. Instead of returning by the direct way, 
 he walked along the Embankment. It was all but 
 deserted ; the tread of a policeman echoed from the 
 distance. But in spite of the bitter sky, two people 
 were sitting together on one of the benches, a young 
 man and a work-girl ; they were speaking scarcely 
 above a whisper. Gilbert averted his face as he passed 
 them, and for the moment his eyes had their pain- 
 stricken look. 
 
 Issuing into Westminster Bridge Koad, he found 
 himself once more amid a throng. And before he had 
 gone far he recognised a figure that walked just ahead 
 of him. It was Ackroyd ; he was accompanied by a 
 girl of whom Gilbert had no knowledge — Miss Totty 
 Nancarrov^. They were talking in a merry, careless 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 THYRZA 
 
 way ; Ackroyd smoked a cigar, and Totty walked with 
 her usual independence, with that swaying of the 
 haunches and swing of the hands with palm turned 
 outwards which is characteristic of the London work- 
 girl. Her laugh now and then rose to a high note ; 
 her companion threw back his head and joined in the 
 mirth. Clearly Ackroyd was in a way to recover his 
 spirits. 
 
 At the junction of two ways they stopped. Gilbert 
 stopped too, for he did not care to pass them and be 
 recoofuised. He crossed the road, and from the other 
 side watched them as they stood talking. Now they 
 were taking leave of each other. Ackroyd appeared 
 to hold the girl's hand longer than she liked ; when she 
 struggled to get away, he suddenly bent forward and 
 snatched a kiss. With a gesture of indignation she 
 escaped from him. 
 
 Gilbert had a desire to join Ackroyd, now that the 
 latter was alone. But as he began to recross the 
 street, the young man moved on and turned into a 
 public-house. Gilbert again stopped, and, disregarding 
 the crowds about him, lost himself in thought. He 
 determined at length to go his way. 
 
 Mrs. Grail had supper ready, with some mince pies 
 of her own making. 
 
 ' Each lot I make,' she said, as they sat down, ' I say 
 to myself they'll be the last.' 
 
 *No, no, mother; we shall eat a good many to- 
 gether yet,' Gilbert replied, cheerily. The wind had
 
 A GOLDEN PROSPECT I95 
 
 brought a touch of colour to his cheeks and made his 
 eyes glisten. 
 
 ' Have you taken any upstairs ? ' he asked pre- 
 sently. 
 
 * No, my dear. Do you think I may ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, I should think so.' 
 
 The old lady looked at him and grew thoughtful. 
 
 There was no work to rise to on the morrow. With 
 a clear conscience Gilbert could sit on into the still 
 hours which were so precious to him. And again, 
 before going to rest, he stepped quietly from the house 
 to look at the upper windows. 
 
 o 2
 
 196 THYRZA 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 TEMPTING FORTUNE. 
 
 Thyrza corttinued to be far from well. The day-long 
 darkness encouraged her natural tendency to sad 
 dreaming. When alone, in Lydia's absence at the 
 work-room, she sometimes had fits of weeping ; it was 
 a relief to shed tears. She could have given no 
 explanation of the sufferings which found this outlet ; 
 her heart lay under a cold weight, that was all she 
 knew. Her being was repressed and struggled darkly 
 with the forces which constrained it. With her sister 
 she could often win an hour of cheerfulness, but it was 
 paid for in headaches and dejection. 
 
 Lydia pursued her course with the usual method 
 and contentment, yet, in these days just before Christ- 
 mas, with a perceptible falling off in the animation 
 which was the note of her character. Perhaps she too 
 was affected by the weather ; perhaps she was anxious 
 about Thyrza ; one would have said, however, that she 
 had some trouble distinct from these. For Lydia to 
 sit down with sewing and straightway forget it in an 
 absence which cast shadow upon her face, was some-
 
 TEMPTIXG FORTUXE 197 
 
 thing so unlike her that Thyrza, observing it one 
 evening, asked anxiously what was the matter. Lydia 
 confessed a headache ; but headaches did not affect her 
 in that way. 
 
 On Christnaas Eve she ran round to Paradise Street 
 to make arrangements for the next day. Evidently 
 it would not be wise for Thyrza to leave home ; that 
 being the case, it was decided that Mr. Boddy should 
 come and have tea with the girls in their own room. 
 Lydia talked over these things with Mary in the 
 kitchen below the shop, where odours of Christmas fare 
 were already rife. The parlour was full of noisy 
 people, amid whom Mr. Bower was holding weighty 
 discourse ; the friends had gone below for privacy. 
 
 ' So I shall keep the coat till he comes,' Lydia 
 said. ' I know Thyrza would like to see his poor old 
 face when he puts it on. And you might come round 
 yourself, Mary, just for an hour.' 
 
 ' 111 see if I can.' 
 
 ' I suppose you'll have people at night ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know, I'm sure. I'd much rather come 
 and sit with you, but mother may want me.' 
 
 Lydia asked : 
 
 ' Has Mr. Ackroyd been here lately ? * 
 
 ' I haven't seen him. I hope not.' 
 
 ' Why do you say that, Mary ? ' asked Lydia, im- 
 patiently. 
 
 ' I only say what I think, dear.' 
 
 Ljdia for once succeeded in choosing wiser silence.
 
 198 THYRZA 
 
 But that look which had no place upon her fair, open 
 countenance came for a moment, a passing darkness 
 which might be forecast of unhappy things. 
 
 At four o'clock on the following afternoon — this 
 Christmas fell on a Friday — everything was ready in 
 Walnut Tree Walk for Mr. Boddy's arrival. The 
 overcoat, purchased by Lydia, after a vast amount of 
 comparing and selecting, of deciding and rejecting and 
 redeciding, was carefully hidden, to be produced at a 
 suitable moment. The bitter coldness of the day 
 gladdened the girls now that they knew the old man 
 would go away well wrapped up. This coat had fur- 
 nished a subject for many an hour of talk between 
 them, and now as they waited they amused themselves 
 with anticipation of what Mr. Boddy would say, what 
 he would think, how joyfully he would throw aside that 
 one overcoat he did possess, a garment really too far 
 gone and with no pretence of warmth in it. Thyrza 
 introduced a note of sadness by asking : 
 
 ' What'll happen, Lyddy, if he gets that he can't 
 earn anything?' 
 
 ' I sometimes think of that,' Lydia replied gravely. 
 ' We couldn't expect the Bowers to keep him there if 
 he couldn't pay his rent. But I always hope that we 
 shall be able to find what he needs. It isn't much, 
 poor grandad ! And you see we can always manage to 
 save something, Thyrza.' 
 
 ' But it wouldn't be enough — nothing like enough 
 for a room and meals, Lyddy.'
 
 TEMPTING FORTUNE 199 
 
 ' Oh, we shall find a way ! Perhaps ' — she laughed 
 — ' we shall have more money some day.' 
 
 Two rings at the bell on the lower landing an- 
 nounced their visitor's arrival. Lydia ran downstairs 
 and returned with the old man, whose face was very red 
 from the raw air. He had a mufiQer wrapped about his 
 neck, but the veteran overcoat was left behind, for the 
 simple reason that Mr. Boddy felt he looked more 
 respectable without it. His threadbare black suit had 
 been subjected to vigorous brushing, with a little ex- 
 ercise of the needle here and there. A pair of woollen 
 gloves, long kept for occasions of ceremony, were the 
 most substantial article of clothing that he wore. A 
 baize bag, of which Lydia had relieved liim, contained 
 his violin. 
 
 ' I thought you'd maybe like a little music, my dear,' 
 he said as he kissed Thyrza. ' It's cheerin' when you don't 
 feel quite the thing. I doubt you can't sing though.' 
 
 ' Oh, the cold's all gone,' replied Thyrza. ' We'll 
 gee after tea.' 
 
 They made much of lum, and it must have been 
 very sweet to the poor old fellow to be so affectionately 
 tended by these whom he loved as his own children. 
 When Lydia began to lay the table, she showed him a 
 plate of mince pies. 
 
 ' Mrs. Grail brought us up these this morning,' she 
 said. ' There never was anything like her kindness 
 since Thyrza's been poorly. She wanted us to go and 
 have dinner with them.'
 
 200 THYRZA 
 
 'And why didn't you?' asked Mr. Boddy. 'It 
 would 'a been more like a Christmas to you.' 
 
 'We didn't like, grandad. If it had been Mrs. 
 Grail alone, perhaps we might ; but there's Mr. Grail, 
 too, and we thought we might be in his way.' 
 
 ' Why, what's he got to do, my dear ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't mean he's busy, but — well, we've 
 thought he's been very quiet with us the last few times ; 
 haven't we, Thyrza ? ' 
 
 ' I think it's only his way,' the younger sister re- 
 marked. ' He scarcely ever talks. He did one night to 
 me, a long time ago : he told me all about Westminster 
 Abbey ; but he's always been quiet since then.' 
 
 ' I don't know as I ever saw him,' said Mr. Boddy, 
 ' but I've heard he's a worthy man.' 
 
 ' Oh, we like him very much,' said Thyrza, anxious 
 not to be misunderstood. ' It's natural enough if 
 he doesn't want to be disturbed when he's at home. 
 He told me that he was always troubling because he 
 couldn't get enough time for reading. I feel a little 
 sorry for him ; he always looks unhappy. Doesn't he, 
 Lyddy?' 
 
 Simple, cheerful chat sustained itself through 
 teatime. Mary Bower was mentioned, and Lydia 
 asked : 
 
 •• Did she tell tales about me behaving badly in 
 chapel last Sunday ? ' 
 
 ' Not that I've heard, my dear/ replied Mr. Boddy. 
 
 ' She must have noticed it, though she didn't say
 
 TEMPTING FORTUNE 201 
 
 anything. There was somebody just behind us, singing 
 — well, you can't think ! I never heard such a squealy 
 voice in my life. I was in that terror lest I should 
 begin to laugh ; I quite shook every now and then. I 
 know Mary saw me.' 
 
 ' You oughtn't to go to chapel at all, Lyddy,' said 
 Thyrza, reprovingly. 
 
 * But I didn't mean any harm, dear. And it was 
 such a shocking squeal. I'm sure you^d have laughed ! ' 
 
 Mary herself came not long after tea, then Mr. 
 Boddy took out his violin from the bag and played all 
 the favourite old tunes, those which brought back their 
 childhood to the two girls. To please Mary, Lydia 
 asked for a hymn-tune, one she had grown fond of in 
 chapel. Mary began to sing it, so Lydia got her hymn- 
 book, and asked Thyrza to sing with them. The air 
 was a sweet one, and Thyrza's voice gave it touching 
 beauty as she sang soft and low. Other hymns followed ; 
 Mary Bower fell into her gentler mood and showed how 
 pleasant she could be when nothing irritated her 
 susceptibilities. The hours passed quickly to nine 
 o'clock, then Mary said it was time for her to go. 
 
 ' Do you want to stay a little longer, Mr. Boddy,' 
 she said, ' or will you go home with me ? ' 
 
 ' I'd rather walk home in good company than alone, 
 Miss Mary,' he replied. ' I call it walking, but it's only 
 a stump-stump.' 
 
 * But it would be worse if you couldn't walk at all,' 
 Mary said.
 
 202 THYRZA 
 
 ' Right, my dear, as you always are. I've no call to 
 grumble. It's a bad habit as grows on me, I fear. If 
 Lyddy 'ud only tell me of it, both together you might 
 do me good. But Lyddy treats me like a spoilt child. 
 It's her old way,' 
 
 'Mary shall take us both in hand,' said Lydia. 
 ' She shall cm-e me of my sharp temper and you of 
 grumbling, grandad ; and I know which '11 be the 
 hardest job ! ' 
 
 Laughing with kindly mirth, the old man drew on 
 his woollen gloves and took up his hat and the violin- 
 bag. Then he offered to say good-bye. 
 
 ' But you're forgetting your top-coat, grandad,' said 
 Lydia. 
 
 ' I didn't come in it, my dear.' 
 
 ' What's that, then ? I'm sure %'oe don't wear such 
 things.' 
 
 She pointed to a chair, on which Thyrza had just 
 artfully spread the gift. Mr. Boddy looked in a 
 puzzled way ; had he really come in his coat and for- 
 gotten it ? He drew nearer. 
 
 ' That's no coat o' mine, Lyddy,' he said. 
 
 Thyrza broke into a laugh. 
 
 * Why, whose is it, then ? ' she exclaimed. ' Don't 
 play tricks, grandad ; put it on at once ! ' 
 
 ' Now come, come ; you're keeping Mary waiting,' 
 said Lydia, catching up the coat and holding it ready. 
 
 Then Mr. Boddy understood. He looked from 
 • Lydia to Thyrza with dimmed eyes.
 
 TEMPTING FORTUNE 203 
 
 ' I've a good mind never to speak to either of you 
 again,' he said in a tremulous voice. ' As if you hadn't 
 need enough of your money ! Lyddy, Lyddy ! And 
 you're as bad, Thyrza ; a grown up woman like you, you 
 ought to teach your sister better. Why there ; it's no 
 good ; I don't know what to say to you. Now what 
 do you think of this, Mary ? ' 
 
 Lydia still held up the coat, and at length persuaded 
 the old man to don it. The effect upon his appearance 
 was remarkable ; conscious of it, he held himself more 
 upright and stumped to the little square of looking- 
 glass to try and regard himself. Here he furtively 
 brushed a hand over his eyes. 
 
 ' I'm ready, Mary, my dear ; I'm ready ! It's no 
 good saying anything to girls like these. Good-bye, 
 Lyddy ; good-bye, Thyrza. May you have a many 
 happy Christmas, children ! This isn't the first as 
 you've made a happy one for me.' 
 
 Lydia went down to the door and watched the two 
 till they were lost in darkness. Then she returned to 
 her sister with a sigh of gladness. For the moment 
 she had no trouble of her own. 
 
 Upon days of festival, kept in howsoever quiet and 
 pure a spirit, there of necessity follows depression ; all 
 mirth is unnatural to the reflective mind, and even 
 the unconscious suffer a mysterious penalty when they 
 have wrested one whole day from fate. On the Satur- 
 day Lydia had no work to go to, and the hours dragged. 
 In the course of the morning she went out to make
 
 204 THYRZA 
 
 some purchases. She was passing Mrs. Bower's without 
 intention of entering, when Mary appeared in the door- 
 way and beckoned her. Mrs. Bower was out; Mary 
 had been left in charge of the shop. 
 
 ' You were asking me about Mr. Ackroyd,' she said, 
 when they had gone into the parlour. ' Would you 
 like to know something I heard about him last night ? ' 
 
 Lydia knew that it was something disagreeable ; 
 Mary's air of discharging a duty sufficiently proved 
 that. 
 
 ' What is it ? ' she asked, coldly. 
 
 * They were talking about him here when I came 
 back last night. He's begun to go about with that 
 girl Totty Nancarrow.' 
 
 Lydia cast down her eyes. Mary keeping silence, 
 she said : 
 
 ' Well, what if he has ? ' 
 
 ' T think it's right you should know, on Thyrza's 
 account.' 
 
 ' Thyrza has nothing to do with Mr. Ackroyd ; you 
 know that, Mary.' 
 
 ' But there's something else. He's begun to drink, 
 Lydia. Mr. Haggles saw him in a public-house some- 
 where last night, and he was quite tipsy.' 
 
 Lydia said nothing. She held a market bag before 
 her, and her white knuckles proved how tightly she 
 clutched the handles. 
 
 ' You remember what I once said,' Mary continued. 
 There was absolutely no malice in her tone, but mere
 
 TEMPTING FORTUNE 205 
 
 satisfaction in proving that the premises whence her 
 conclusions had been drawn were undeniably sound. 
 She was actuated neither by personal dislike of Ackroyd 
 nor by jealousy ; but she could not resist this temptation 
 of illustrating her principles by such a noteworthy 
 instance. ' Xow wasn't I right, Lydia ? ' 
 
 Lydia looked up with hot cheeks. 
 
 ' I don't believe it ! ' she said vehemently. ' Who's 
 Mr. Eaggies ? How do you know he tells the truth ? 
 — And what is it to me, whether it's true or not ? ' 
 
 * You were so sure that it made no difference what 
 any one believed, Lydia,' said the other with calm per- 
 sistency. 
 
 * And I say the same still, and I always will say it I 
 You're glad when anybody speaks against Mr. Ackroyd, 
 and you'd believe them, whatever they said. I'll 
 never go to chapel again with you, Mary, as long as I 
 live I You're unkind, and it's your chapel-going that 
 makes you so I You'd no business to call me in to tell 
 me things of this kind. After to-day, please don't 
 mention Mr. Ackroyd's name ; you know nothing at a]l 
 about him.' 
 
 Without waiting for a reply she left the parlour and 
 went on her way. Mary was rather pale, but she felt 
 convinced of the truth of what she had reported, and 
 she had done her plain duty in drawing the lesson. 
 Whether Lydia would acknowledge that seemed doubt- 
 ful. The outburst of anger confirmed Mary in strange 
 suspicions which had for some time lurked in her mind.
 
 2o6 THYRZA 
 
 The sisters had perhaps never spent so dull a day 
 together as this. Thyrza spoke but a few sentences 
 all the afternoon ; Lydia was sewing by the window 
 or pretending to do so, also silent. Just after tea 
 Thyrza said : 
 
 ' Will you do something very kind for me, 
 Lyddy?' 
 
 'What, dear?' 
 
 ' Will you take a note to Totty Nancarrow's ? I 
 should like to see her, and she might come whilst you're 
 at chapel to-morrow.' 
 
 ' I don't like her to come here, Thyrza,' the sister 
 said, with a sudden change of voice. 
 
 ' I'm sure I don't see why she shouldn't, Lyddy.' 
 
 ' You'll be able to go out soon. If you must see 
 her, I'm sure you can wait till then.' 
 
 To Lydia's surprise, Thyrza answered nothing, and 
 refrained from conversation for a long time. It was 
 gi'owing dusk, and Lydia even at the window could 
 scarcely see to ply her needle. She bent her head 
 lower, and a few tears fell upon her work. 
 
 On Sunday evening she dressed as if to go to 
 chapel, and left the house at the usual hour. She had 
 heard nothing from Mary Bower, and her resentment 
 was yet warm. She did not like to tell Thyrza what 
 had happened, but went out to spend the time as best 
 she could. 
 
 Almost as soon as her sister was gone Thyrza paid 
 a little attention to her dress and went downstairs. She
 
 TEMPTING FORTUNE 207 
 
 knocked at the Grails' parlour ; it was Grilbert's voice 
 that answered. 
 
 ' Isn't Mrs. Grail in ? ' she asked timidly, looking 
 about the room. 
 
 ' Yes, she's in, Miss Trent, but she doesn't feel very 
 well. She went to lie down after tea.' 
 
 * Oh, I'm sorry.' 
 
 She hesitated, just within the door. 
 
 ' Would you like to go to her room ? ' Gilbert 
 asked. 
 
 ' Perhaps she's asleep ; I mustn't disturb her. 
 Would you lend me another book, Mr. Grail ? ' 
 
 * Oh, yes ! Will you come and choose one ? ' 
 
 She closed the door and went forward to the book- 
 case, on her way glancing at Gilbert's face, to see 
 whether he was annoyed at her disturbing him. It was 
 scarcely that, yet unmistakably his countenance was 
 troubled. This made Thyrza nervous ; she did not 
 look at him again for a few moments, but carried her 
 eyes along the shelves. Poor little one, the titles 
 were no help to her. Gilbert knew that well enough, 
 but he was watching her by stealth and forgot to 
 speak. 
 
 ' What do you think would do for me, Mr. Grail ? ' 
 she said at length. * It mustn't be anything very hard, 
 you know.' 
 
 Saying that, she met his eyes. Tliere was a smile 
 in them, and one so reassuring, so — she knew not what — 
 that she was tempted to add :
 
 2o8 THYRZA 
 
 ' You know best what I want. I shall trust you.' 
 
 Something shook the man from head to foot. The 
 words which came from him were involuntary ; he heard 
 them as if another had spoken. 
 
 * You trust me ? You believe that I would do my 
 best to please you ? ' 
 
 Thyrza felt a strangeness in his words, but replied 
 to them with a frank smile : 
 
 ' I think so, Mr. Grail.' 
 
 He was holding his hand to her ; mechanically she 
 gave hers. But in the doing it she became frightened; 
 his face had altered, it was as if he suffered a horrible 
 pain. Then she heard : 
 
 ' Will you trust your life to me, Thyrza ? ' 
 
 It was like a flash, dazzling her brain. Xever in 
 her idlest moment had she strayed into a thought of 
 this. He had always seemed to her comparatively an 
 old man, and his gravity would in itself have prevented 
 her from viewing him as a possible suitor. He seemed 
 so buried in his books ; he was so unlike the men who 
 had troubled her with attentions hitherto. Yet he 
 held her hand, and surely his words could have but one 
 meaning. 
 
 G-ilbert saw how disconcerted, how almost shocked, 
 she was. 
 
 ' I didn't mean to say that at once,' lie continued 
 hurriedly, releasing her hand. 'I've been too hasty. 
 You didn't expect that. It isn't fair to you. Will you 
 sit down ?
 
 TEMPTING FORTUNE 209 
 
 He still spoke without guidance of his tongue. He 
 was impelled by a vast tenderness ; the startled look on 
 her face made him reproach himself; he sought to 
 soothe her, and was incoherent, awkward. As if in 
 implicit obedience, she moved to a chair. He stood 
 gazing at her, and the love which had at length burst 
 from the dark depths seized upon all his being. 
 
 'Mr. Grail ' 
 
 She began, but her voice failed. She looked at him. 
 and he was smitten to the heart to see that there were 
 tears in her eyes. 
 
 ' If it gives you pain,' he said in a low voice, draw- 
 ing near to her, ' forget that I said anything. I 
 wouldn't for my life make you feel unhappy.' 
 
 Thyrza smiled through her tears. She saw how 
 gentle his expression had become ; his voice touched 
 her. The reverence which she had always felt for him 
 grew warmer under his gaze, till it was almost the affec- 
 tion of a child for a father. 
 
 ' But should I be the right kind of wife for you, 
 Mr. Grrail ? ' she asked, with a strange simplicity and 
 diffidence. ' I know so little.' 
 
 ' Can you think of being my wife ? ' he said, in tones 
 that shook with restrained emotion. ' I am so much 
 older than you, but you are the first for whom I have 
 ever felt love. And ' — here he tried to smile — ' it is 
 very sure that I shall love you as long as I live.' 
 
 Her breast heaved ; she held out both her bauds to 
 him and said quickly : 
 
 VOL. I. r
 
 2IO THYRZA 
 
 ' Yes, I will marry you, Mr. Grail. I will try my 
 best to be a good wife to you.' 
 
 He stood as if doubting. Both her hands were to- 
 gether in his; he searched her blue eyes, and their 
 depths rendered to him a sweetness and purity before 
 which his heart bowed in worship. Then he leaned 
 forward and kissed her forehead. 
 
 Thyrza reddened and kept her eyes down. 
 
 ' May I go now ? ' she said, when, after kissing her 
 hands, he had released them at the first feeling that 
 they were being drawn away. 
 
 * If you wish to, Thyrza.' 
 
 ' I'll stay if you like, Mr. Grail, but— I think ' 
 
 She had risen. The warmth would not pass from 
 her cheeks, and the sensation prevented her from look- 
 ing up ; she desired to escape and be alone. 
 
 ' Will you come down and speak to mother in the 
 morning ? ' Gilbert said, relieving her from the neces- 
 sity of adding more. 'She will have something to 
 tell you.' 
 
 ' Yes, I'll come. Good-night, Mr. Grail.' 
 
 Both had forgotten the book that was to have been 
 selected. Thyrza gave her hand as she always did 
 when taking leave of him, save that she could not 
 meet his eyes. He held it a little longer than usual, 
 then saw her turn and leave the room hurriedly. 
 
 An hour later, Mrs. Grail came into the parlour. 
 She did not wish to disturb her son, and took a seat 
 by the fire. Gilbert, after turning a page, asked :
 
 TEMPTING FORTUNE 211 
 
 ' Your bead better, motber ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, my dear. I've dozed a little.' 
 
 * Do you feel able to read a letter ? ' 
 
 Sbe took ber spectacles from tbe mantel-piece. 
 Gilbert drew from its envelope and banded to ber tbe 
 letter be bad received from Egremont on Cbristmas 
 Eve. Sbe read it, and turned round to bim witb 
 astonisbment. 
 
 ' Wby didn't you tell me tbis, cbild ? Well now, 
 if I didn't tldnh tbere was sometbing tbat nigbt ! 
 Have you answered? Ob no, you're not to answer 
 for a week.' 
 
 ' Wbat's your advice ? ' 
 
 ' Eb, bow tbat reminds me of your fatber ! ' tbe old 
 lady exclaimed. ' I've beard bim speak just witb tbat 
 voice and tbat look many a time. Well, well, my 
 dear, it's only waiting, you see ; sometbing comes soon 
 or late to tbose tbat deserve it. I'm glad I've lived to 
 see tbis, Gilbert.' 
 
 He said, wben tbey bad talked of it for a few 
 minutes : 
 
 'Will you sbow tbis to Tbyrza to-morrow morn- 
 ing?' 
 
 She fixed ber eyes on bim, over tbe top of ber 
 spectacles, keenly. 
 
 ' To be sure I will. Yes, yes, of course I will.' 
 
 ' Sbe's been bere for a few minutes since tea. I 
 told ber if sbe'd come down in tbe morning yuu'd bave 
 something to tell her.'
 
 212 THYRZA 
 
 « She's been here ? But why didn't you call me ? 
 I must go up and speak.' 
 
 'Not to-night, mother. It was better that you 
 weren't here. I had something to say to her — some- 
 thing I wanted to say before she heard of this. Now 
 she has a right to know.' 
 
 Lydia returned shortly after eight o'clock. She 
 had walked about aimlessly for an hour and a half, 
 avoiding the places where she was likely to meet any- 
 one she knew. She was chilled and wretched. Thyrza 
 could not but observe this at the first glance. 
 
 'How cold you look, Lyddy!' she said, coming 
 forward in a mood much changed from that in which 
 her sister had left her. ' What's the matter with you ? 
 Have you come straight from chapel ? ' 
 
 'There's a bitter wind,' Lydia answered, moving 
 away and kneeling before the fire. 
 
 ' But your cheeks are like lumps of ice ! Poor old 
 Lyddy ! Feel how warm mine are.' 
 
 She pressed her face against her sister's, kneeling 
 by her, and her arms about her. Lydia turned with a 
 little laugh. 
 
 ' Why are you so fond of me all at once ? You've 
 scarcely spoken a word to me all day.' 
 
 'But you haven't spoken to me, neither. We've 
 both of us been very sulky, haven't we ? Won't you 
 tell me what you've been thinking about ? ' 
 
 ' There's nothing to tell, dear.'
 
 TEMPTING FORTUNE 213 
 
 ' But I'm sure there is. Lyddy, I always tell you 
 my secrets, but you won't tell me yours.' 
 
 Lydia continued to warm her hands; as the fire 
 softened them, she kept putting first one, then the 
 other, against her cheeks. She made no reply ; Thyrza 
 rose and stood looking down at her. 
 
 ' That means you confess there is a secret, but you 
 won't tell it.' 
 
 ' Oh, Thyrza, what are you talking about secrets ! ' 
 Lydia exclaimed impatiently. ^ AVhat nonsense ! ' 
 
 Thyrza said nothing more till her sister, having 
 taken off her hat and jacket, had sat down in evident 
 weariness. Then she knelt by her side again. 
 
 ' WTien did you see Mr. Ackroyd last ? ' she in- 
 quired. 
 
 ' I'm sure I don't know,' was the reply. ' I passed 
 him in the Walk about a week ago.' 
 
 ' But, I mean, when did you speak to him ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, not for a long time,' said Lydia, smoothing 
 the hair upon her forehead. ' Why ? ' 
 
 ' He seems to have forgotten all about me, Lyddy. 
 
 The other looked down into the speaker's face with 
 eyes that were almost startled. 
 
 ' Why do you say that, dear ? ' 
 
 ' Do you think he has ? ' 
 
 'He may have done,' replied Lydia, averting her 
 eyes. ' I don't know. You said you wanted him to, 
 Thyrza.' 
 
 * Yes, I did — in that way. But I asked him to be
 
 214 THYRZA 
 
 friends with us. I don't see why he should keep away 
 from us altogether.' 
 
 ' But it's only what you had to expect,' said Lydia, 
 rather coldly. In a moment, however, she had altered 
 her voice to add : ' He couldn't be friends with us in 
 the way you mean, dear. Have you been thinking 
 about him ? ' 
 
 She showed some anxiety. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Thyrza, ' I often think about him — but 
 not because I'm sorry for what I did. I shall never be 
 sorry for that. Shall I tell you why ? It's something 
 you'd never guess if you tried all night. You could no 
 more guess it than you could — I don't know what ! ' 
 
 Lydia looked inquiringly. 
 
 ' Put your arm round me and have a nice face. As 
 soon as you'd gone to chapel, I thought I'd go down 
 and ask Mr. Grail to lend me a book. I went and 
 knocked at the door, and Mr. Grrail was there alone. 
 And he asked me to come and choose a book, and We 
 began to talk, and — Lyddy, he asked me if I'd be his 
 wife.' 
 
 Lydia's astonishment was for the instant little less 
 than that which had fallen upon Thyrza when she felt 
 her hand in Grail's. Her larger experience, however, 
 speedily brought her to the right point of view ; in less 
 time than it would have taken her to express surprise, 
 her wits had arranged a number of little incidents 
 which remained in her memory, and had reviewed 
 them all in the light of this disclosm-e. This was the
 
 TEMPTING FORTUNE 215 
 
 meaning of Mr. Grail's reticence, of his apparent cold- 
 ness at times. Sm'ely she was very dull never to have 
 surmised it. Yet he was so much older than Thyrza ; 
 he was so confirmed a student ; no, she had never sus- 
 pected this feeling. 
 
 All this in a flash of consciousness, whilst she pressed 
 her sister closer to her side. Then : 
 ' And what did you say, dear ? ' 
 'I said I would, Lyddy.' 
 
 The elder sister became very grave. She bit first 
 her lower, then her upper lip. 
 
 ' You said that at once, Thyrza ? ' 
 ' Yes. I felt I must.' 
 ' You felt you must ? ' 
 
 Thyrza could but inadequately explain what she 
 meant by this. The words involved a truth, but one of 
 which she had no conscious perception. Gilbert Grail 
 was a man of strong personality, and in no previous 
 moment of life had his being so uttered itself in look 
 and word as when involuntarily he revealed his love. 
 More, the vehemence of his feeling went forth in that 
 subtle influence with which forcible natures are able to 
 affect now an individual, now a crowd. Thyrza was 
 very susceptible of such impression ; the love which 
 had become all-potent in Gilbert's heart sensibly moved 
 her own. Ackroyd had had no power to touch her so ; 
 his ardour had never appealed to her imagination with 
 such constraining reality. Grail was th-^ first to make 
 her conscious of the meaning of passion. It was not
 
 3i6 THYRZA 
 
 passion which rose within her to reply to hi?, but the 
 childlike security in which she had hitherto lived was 
 at an end ; love was henceforth to be the preoccupa- 
 tion of her soul. 
 
 8he answered her sister : 
 
 ' I couldn't refuse him. He said he should love me 
 as long as he lived, and I felt that it was true. He 
 didn't try to persuade me, Lyddy. When I showed 
 how surprised I was, he spoke very kindly, and wanted 
 me to have time to think.' 
 
 * But, dearest, you say you were surprised. You 
 hadn't thought of such a thing — I'm sure I hadn't. 
 How could you say " yes " at once ? ' 
 
 * But have I done wrong, Lyddy ? ' 
 
 Lydia was again busy with conjecture, in woman's 
 way rapidly reading secrets by help of memory and 
 intuition. She connected this event with what Mary 
 Bower had reported to her of Ackroyd. If it were in- 
 deed true that Ackroyd no longer made pretence of 
 loyalty to his old love, would not Grrail's knowledge of 
 that change account for his sudden abandonment of 
 disguise ? The two were friends ; Grrail might well 
 have shrunk from entering into rivalry with the younger 
 man. She felt a convincing clearness in this. Then it 
 was true that Ackroyd had begun to show an interest in 
 Totty Nancarrow ; it was true, she added bitterly, con- 
 nectiug it closely with the other fact, that he haunted 
 public-houses. Something of that habit she had heard 
 formerly, but thought of it as long abandoned. How
 
 TEMPTING FORTUNE 217 
 
 would he hear of Thyrza's having pledged herself ! For 
 he had not forgotten her, he had not forgotten her. 
 She knew him ; he could not forget so lightly ; it was 
 Thyrza's disregard that had driven him into folly. 
 
 Her sister was repeating the question. 
 
 ' Oh, why couldn't you feel in the same way to — to 
 the other, Thyrza ? ' burst from Lydia. ' He loved you 
 and he still loves you. Why didn't you try to feel for 
 him ? You don't love Mr. Grail.' 
 
 Thyrza drew a little apart, but kept her hands clasped 
 on her sister's lap. 
 
 ' 1 feel I bhall be glad to be his wife,' she said, firmly. 
 ' I felt I must say " yes," and I don't think I shall ever be 
 sorry. I could never have said " yes " to ^Ir. Ackroyd, 
 Lyddy I ' She sprang forward and held her sister 
 again. ' You know why I couldn't ! You can't keep 
 secrets from me, though you could from anyone else. 
 You know why I could never have wished to marry 
 him I' 
 
 They held each other in that unity of perfect love 
 which had hallowed so many moments of their lives. 
 Lydia's face was hidden. But at length she raised it, 
 to ask solemnly : 
 
 ' It was not because you thought this that you pro- 
 mised Mr. Grail ? ' 
 
 * No, no, no ! ' 
 
 ' Blue-eyes, nobody'll ever love me but you. And I 
 don't think I shall ever liave a sad minute if I see that 
 you're happy. I do hope you've done right.'
 
 2i8 THYRZA 
 
 ' I'm sure I have, Lyddy. You must tell Mary to- 
 morrow. And grandad — think how surprised they'll 
 be ! Of course, everybody'll know soon. I shall go to 
 work to-morrow, you know ; I'm quite well again. And 
 Lyddy, when I'm Mrs. Grail, of course, Mr. Ackroyd 11 
 come and see us.' 
 
 Lydia made no reply to this. She could not tell 
 what had happened between herself and Mary Bower, 
 and the mention of Ackroyd's name was now a distress 
 to her. She moved from her seat, saying that it was 
 long past supper-time. 
 
 Thyrza went down to see Mrs. G-rail next morning 
 just before setting out for work. The piece of news 
 was communicated to her, and she hastened with it to 
 her sister. But Gilbert had requested that they would 
 as yet speak of it to no one ; it was better to wait till 
 INIr. Egremont had himself made the fact known among 
 the members of his class. Lydia was much impressed 
 with Gilbert's behaviour in keeping that good fortune 
 a secret in the interview with Thyrza. It heightened 
 her already high opinion of him, and encouraged her to 
 look forward with hope. Yet hope would not come 
 without much bidding ; doubts and anxieties knocked 
 only too freely at her heart. 
 
 For three days she did not see Mary Bower. When 
 she went to tell Mr. Boddy what had come to pass, 
 Mary was out. They met at length, by chance, between 
 Walnut Tree Walk and Paradise Street. It was mid- 
 day, and Lydia had little time to spare.
 
 TEMPTING FORTUNE 219 
 
 ' They've told you about Thyrza ? ' she said, without 
 meeting the other's look. 
 
 ' Yes,' was the quiet answer. 
 
 ' Will you come and see her to-night ? ' 
 
 ' I can't to-night. Perhaps to-morrow.' 
 
 * I shall be glad if you can. Good-bye, Mary.' 
 ' Good-bye, Lydia.' 
 
 Heavy-hearted both of them, but Lydia found it 
 harder to bear. Her affectionate nature suffered deeply 
 when woimded by someone she loved. Mary had the 
 consolation of feeling that Lydia was being taught a 
 truth. 
 
 The same night Lydia, returning from making a 
 purchase for Mrs. Grail, met Ackroyd. It was at the 
 Kennington Road end of Walnut Tree Walk. He 
 seemed to be waiting. He raised his hat ; Lydia bent 
 her head and walked past ; but a quick step sounded 
 behind her. 
 
 ' Miss Trent ! Will you stop a minute ? ' 
 
 She turned. Luke held out his hand. 
 
 * It's a long time since we spoke a word,' he said, 
 with friendliness. ' But we're not always going to pass 
 each other like that, are we ? ' 
 
 Lydia smiled; it was all she could do. She did 
 not know for certain that he had yet heard the news. 
 
 ' I want you,' he continued, ' to give your sister my 
 good wishes. Will you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I will, Mr. Ackroyd.' 
 
 * Grail came and told me all about it. It wasn't
 
 220 THYRZA 
 
 pleasant to bear, but be's a good fellow and I'm not 
 surprised at bis luck. I baven't felt I wanted to quarrel 
 witb bim, and I tbink better of myself for tbat. And 
 yet it means a good deal to me — more tban you tbink, 
 I dare say.' 
 
 ' You'll soon forget it, Mr. Ackroyd,' Lydia said, in 
 a clear, steady voice. 
 
 * Well, you'll see if I do. I'm one of tbe unlucky 
 fellows tbat can never sbow wbat tbey feel. It all comes 
 out in tbe wrong way. It doesn't matter mucb now.' 
 
 Lydia bad a feeling tbat tbis was not wbolly sincere. 
 He seemed to take a pleasure in representing bimself 
 as luckless. Combined witb wbat sbe bad beard, it 
 belped ber to say : 
 
 ' A man doesn't sufier mucb from tbese tbings. 
 You'll soon be cbeerful again. Good-bye, Mr. Ackroyd.' 
 
 Sbe did not wait for anything more from bim.
 
 221 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE. 
 
 Mr. Dalmaine first turned his attention to politics at 
 the time when the question of popular education was to 
 the front in British politics. It was an excellent oppor- 
 tunity for would-be legislators conscious of rhetorical 
 gifts and only waiting for some safe, simple subject 
 whereon to exercise them. Both safe and oimple was 
 the topic which all and sundry were then called upon to 
 discuss ; it was impossible not to have views on educa- 
 tion (have we not all been educated ?), and delightfully 
 easy to support them by prophecy. Xever had the vati- 
 cinating style of oratory a greater vogue. Xever was a 
 richer occasion for the utterance of wisdom such as re- 
 commends itself to the British public. 
 
 Mr. Dalmaine understood the tastes and habits of 
 that public as well as most men of his standing. After 
 one abortive attempt to enter Parliament, he gained his 
 seat for Vauxhall at the election of 1874, and from 
 the day of his success he steadily applied himself to the 
 political profession. He was then two-and-tliirty ; for 
 twelve years he had been actively engaged in commerce,
 
 222 THYRZA 
 
 and now held the position of senior partner in a firm 
 owning several factories in Lambeth. Such a training 
 was valuable ; politics he viewed as business on a larger 
 scale, and business, the larger its scale the better, was 
 his one enthusiasm. His education had not been liberal ; 
 he saw that that made no difference, and wisely pursued 
 the bent of his positive mind where another man might 
 have wasted his time in the attempt to gain culture. 
 He saw that his was the age of the practical. Let who 
 would be an idealist, the practical man in the end got 
 all that was worth having. 
 
 He worked. You might have seen him, for instance, 
 in his study one Sunday morning in the January which 
 the story has now reached ; a glance at him showed 
 that he was no idler in the fields of art or erudition ; 
 blue-books were heaped about him, books bound in law 
 calf lay open near his hand, newspapers monopolised 
 one table. He is interested in all that concerns the 
 industrial population of Great Britain ; he is making 
 that subject his speciality ; he means to link his name 
 with factoryActs, with education Acts, with Acts for the 
 better housing of the work-folk, with what not of the 
 kind. And the single working man for whom he veri- 
 tably cares one jot is Mr. James Dalmaine. 
 
 He is rather a good-looking fellow, a well-built, 
 sovmd red-bearded Englishman. His ears are not quite 
 so close against his head as they should be ; his lips 
 might have a more urbane expression ; his hand might 
 be a trifle less weighty ; but when he stands up with his
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 223 
 
 back to the fire and looks musingly along the cornice of 
 the room, you admit that his appearance on a platform 
 will conciliate those right-thinking electors who desire 
 that Parliament should represent the comely, beef-fed 
 British breed. He is fairly well-to-do, though some 
 hold that he has speculated a little rashly of late ; he 
 feels very strongly, however, that his pedestal must be 
 yet more solid before he can claim the confidence of 
 his countrymen with the completeness that he desires. 
 Of late he has given thought to a particular scheme, 
 and not at all a disagreeable one, for enhancing his 
 social, and therefore political, credit. He is thinking 
 of her — the scheme, I would say — at present. 
 
 These chambers of his are in Westminster ; they are 
 spacious, convenient ; he has received deputations from 
 his constituents here. Lambeth is only just over the 
 water ; he likes to be near, for it is one of his hobbies, 
 one of the very few that he allows himself, to keep 
 thoroughly cognisant of the afi'airs of his borough — 
 which, as you are aware, includes the district of Lambeth 
 — even of its petty affairs. Some day, he says to himself, 
 he will in this way overlook Great Britain, will have 
 her statistics at his finger-ends, will change here, con- 
 firm there, guide everywhere. In the meantime he 
 satisfies himself with this section. He knows what is 
 going on in workmen's clubs, in places of amusement, 
 in the market streets. There is a pleasure in surveying 
 from a height the doing and driving of ordinary mortals ; 
 a member for Vauxhall studying his borongli in this
 
 224 THYRZA 
 
 gpirit naturally comes to feel himself a sort of Grand 
 Duke. 
 
 It was one o'clock. There came a knock at the 
 door, followed by the appearance of a middle-aged man 
 who silently proclaimed himself a secretary. This was 
 Mr. Tasker ; he had served Mr. Dalmaine thus for three 
 years, prior to which he had been employed as a clerk 
 at the works in Lambeth. Mr. Dalmaine first had his 
 attention drawn to Tasker eight or nine years before, by 
 an instance of singular shrewdness in the latter's dis- 
 charge of his duties. From that day he kept his eye 
 on him, took opportunities of advancing him. Tasker 
 was born with a love of politics and with a genius for 
 detail ; Mr. Dalmaine discovered all this, and, when 
 the due season came, raised him to the dignity of his 
 private scribe. Tasker regarded his employer as his 
 earthly Providence, was devoted to him, served him ad- 
 mirably. It was the one instance of Mr. Dalmaine's 
 having interested himself in an individual ; he had no 
 thought of anything but his own profit in doing so, but 
 none the less he had made a mortal happy. You observe 
 the beneficence that lies in practicality. 
 
 Before going to luncheon on a Sunday it was Mr. 
 Dalmaine's practice to talk of things in general with his 
 secretary. To-day, among other questions, he asked, 
 with a meaning smile : 
 
 * What of young Egremont's lectures ? Has he re- 
 commenced ? ' 
 
 ' The first of the new course is to-night,' replied
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 225 
 
 Mr. Tasker, who sat bending a paper-cutter over his 
 leg. Mr. Dalmaine, knowing his secretary, encouraged 
 him to be on easy terms. In truth, he had a liking 
 for Tasker. Partly it reciprocated the other's feeling, 
 no doubt ; and then one generally looks with indulgence 
 on a man whom one has discovered and developed. 
 
 ' Does he go on with his literature ? ' 
 
 ' Xo. The title is, " Thoughts for the Present." ' 
 
 Mr. Dalmaine leaned back and laughed. It was 
 a hearty laugh. 
 
 ' I foresaw it, I foresaw it I And how many hearers 
 has he ? ' 
 
 ' Six only.' 
 
 ' To be sure.' 
 
 ' But there is something more. Mr. Egremont i< 
 going to present Lambeth with a free public library. 
 He has taken a building.' 
 
 ' A fact ? How do you know that, Tasker ? ' 
 
 ' I heard it at the club last night. He has informed 
 the members of his class.' 
 
 ' Ha ! He is really going to bleed himself to prove 
 his sincerity ? ' 
 
 They discussed the subject a little longer. Then 
 Mr. Dalmaine dictated a letter or two that he wished to 
 have off his mind, and after that bade Tasker good-day. 
 
 At half-past four in the afternoon he drove up to 
 a house at Lancaster Gate, where he had recently been 
 a not infrequent visitor. The servant preceded him 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 THYRZA 
 
 with becoming stateliness to the drawing-room, and 
 announced his name in the hearing of three ladies, who 
 were pleasantly chatting in the aroma of tea. The 
 eldest of them was Mrs. Tyrrell ; her companions were 
 Miss Tyrrell and a young married lady paying a call. 
 
 Mrs. Tyrrell was one of those excellently preserved 
 matrons who testify to the wholesome placidity of 
 woman's life in wealthy English homes. Her existence 
 had taken for granted the perfection of the universe ; 
 probably she had never thought of a problem which did 
 not solve itself for the pleasant trouble of stating it in 
 refined terms, and certainly it had never occurred to 
 her that social propriety was distinguishable from the 
 Absolute Good. She was not a dull woman, and the 
 opposite of an unfeeling one, but her wits and her 
 heart had both been so subdued to the social code, that 
 it was very difficult for her to entertain seriously any 
 mode of thought or action for which she could not 
 recall a respectable precedent. By nature she was in- 
 dulgent, of mild disposition, of sunny intelligence ; so 
 endowed, circumstances had bidden her regard it as the 
 end of her being to respect conventions, to check her 
 native impulse if ever it went counter to the opinion 
 of Society, to use her intellect for the sole purpose of 
 discovering how far it was permitted to be used. And 
 she was a happy woman, had always been a happy 
 woman. She had known a little trouble in relation to 
 her favourite sister's marriage with Mr. Newthorpe, for 
 she foresaw that it could net turn out very well, and
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 227 
 
 she had been obliged to censure her sister for excessive 
 devotion to the pleasures of Society ; it grieved her, on 
 the other hand, to think of her poor niece being brought 
 up in a way so utterly opposed to all the traditions. 
 But these were only little ripples on the smooth flowing 
 surface. You knew that she would never be smitten 
 down with a great sorrow : she was of those whom fate 
 must needs respect, so gracefully and sweetly do they 
 accept happiness as their right. 
 
 Mr. Dalmaine joined these ladies with the manner 
 of the sturdy Briton who would make himself agreeable 
 yet dreads the jpetit maitre. His voice would have been 
 better if a little more subdued ; he seated himself with 
 perhaps rather more of ease than of grace ; but on the 
 whole Society would have let him pass muster as a 
 well-bred man. 
 
 ' You are interested in all that concerns your con- 
 stituency, Mr. Dalmaine,' said ^Irs. Tyrrell ; ' we were 
 speaking of Mr. Egremont's plan of founding a library 
 in Lambeth. You have heard of it ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes.' 
 
 'Do you think it will be a good thing ? ' 
 
 ' I am very doubtful. One doesn't like to speak un- 
 kindly of such admirable intentions, but I really think 
 that in this he is working on a wrong principle, I so 
 strongly object to givmg anything when it's in the 
 power of people to win it for themselves with a little 
 wholesome exertion. Now, there's the Free Library 
 Act ; if the people of Lambeth really want a library, let
 
 228 THYRZA 
 
 them tax themselves and adopt the statutory scheme. 
 Sincerely, I believe that Mr. Egremont will do more 
 harm than good. We must avoid anything that tends 
 to pauperise the working classes.' 
 
 ' How amusing ! ' exclaimed Paula. ' It's almost 
 word for word what mamma's just been saying.' 
 
 Paula was dressed in the prettiest of tea-gowns ; she 
 looked the most exquisite of conservatory flowers. Her 
 smile to Mr. Dalmaine was very gracious. 
 
 ' That really is how I felt,' said Mrs. Tyrrell. 'But 
 ^Ir. Egremont will never be persuaded of that. He 
 is so whole-hearted in his desire to help these poor 
 people, yet, I'm afraid, so very, very impractical.' 
 The young married lady observed : 
 ' Oh, no one ought ever to interfere with philanthropy 
 unless they have a very practical scheme. Canon 
 Brougham was so emphatic on that point this morning. 
 So much harm may be done, when we mean everything 
 for the best.' 
 
 *Ye3, I feel that very strongly,' said Dalmaine, 
 his masculine accent more masculine than ever after 
 the plaintive piping. ' I even fear that Mr. Egremont 
 is doing wrong in making his lectures free. We may 
 be sure they are well worth paying to hear, and it's 
 an axiom in all dealing with the working class that 
 they will never value anything that they don't pay for.' 
 'Oh, but Mr. Dalmaine,' protested Paula, 'you 
 couldn't ask Mr. Egremont to take money at the door ! ' 
 ' It sounds shocking, Mis?. Tyrrell, but if ]\Ir.
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 229 
 
 Egremont stands before them as a teacher, he ought 
 to charge for his lessons. I assure you they would put 
 a far higher ralue on his lectures. I grieve to hear 
 that his class has fallen otf. I could have foreseen that. 
 The basis is not sound. To put it in plain, even 
 coarse, language, all social reform must be undertaken 
 on strictly commercial principles.' 
 
 ' How I should like to hear you say that to Mr. 
 Egremont I ' remarked Paula. 'Oh, his face I ' 
 
 ']\Ir. Egremont is an idealist,' said Mrs. Tyrrell, 
 smiling. 
 
 ' Surely the very last kind of person to attempt 
 social reform I ' exclaimed the young married lady. 
 
 The conversation drew off into other channels. ]Mr. 
 Dalmaine was supplied with the clearest opinions on 
 every topic, and he had a way of delivering them which 
 was most effective with persons of ]Mrs. Tyrrell's com- 
 position. In everything he affected sobriety. If he 
 had to express a severe judgment, it was done with 
 gentlemanly regret. If he commended anything, he 
 did so with a judicial air. In fact, it would not have 
 been easy to imagine Mr. Dalmaine speaking with an 
 outburst of natural fervour on any topic whatsoever. 
 His view was the view of common sense, and he 
 enunciated the barrenest convictions in a tone which 
 would have suited the profound originality. 
 
 A week later there was a dinner-party at the 
 TyrreUs', and Egremont was among the bidden.
 
 230 THYRZA 
 
 He had persisted in his tendency to hold aloof from 
 general society, in spite of many warnings from Mrs. 
 Ormonde, but he could not, short of ingratitude, wholly 
 absent himself from his friends at Lancaster Gate. 
 Mrs. Tyrrell was no exception to the rule in her 
 attitude to Egremont ; as did all matronly ladies, 
 she held him in very warm liking, and sincerely hoped 
 that a young man so admirably fitted for the refinements 
 of social life would in time get rid of his extravagant 
 idealism. A little of that was graceful; Society was 
 beginning to view it with favour when confined within 
 the proper bounds ; but to carry it into act, and waste 
 one's life in wholly unpractical — nay, in positively 
 ]i armful — enterprise was a sad thing. She had 
 reasoned with him, but he showed himself so perverted 
 in his sense of the fitness of things that the task had 
 to be abandoned as hopeless. And yet the good lady 
 liked him. She had hoped, and not so long ago, that 
 he might some day desire to stand in a nearer relation 
 to her than that of a friend, but herein again she felt 
 that her wish was growing futile. Paula indulged in 
 hints with reference to her cousin Annabel, and Mrs. 
 Tyrrell began to fear that the strangely educated girl 
 might be the cause of Walter's extreme aberrations. 
 
 Egremont arrived early on the evening of the 
 dinner. Only one guest had preceded him. With 
 Mrs. Tyrrell and Paula were Mr. Tyrrell and the son 
 of the house, Mr. John, the Jack Tyrrell of sundry 
 convivial clubs in town. Mr. Tyrrell senior was a
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 
 
 2^1 
 
 high-coloured jovial gentleman of three score, great in 
 finance, practical to the backbone, yet with wit and 
 tact which put him at ease with all manner of men, 
 even with social reformers. These latter amused him 
 vastly ; he failed to see that the world needed any re- 
 forming whatever, at all events beyond that which is 
 constitutionally pro\aded for in the proceedings of the 
 British Parliament. He had great wealth ; he fared 
 sumptuously every day ; things shone to him in a rosy 
 after-dinner light. Not a gross or a selfish man, for he 
 was as good-natured as he was contented, and gave very 
 freely of his substance ; it was simply his part in the 
 world to enjoy the product of other men's labour and 
 to set an example of glorious self-satisfaction. Egre- 
 mont, in certain moods, had tried to despise ^Ir. 
 Tyrrell, but he never quite succeeded. Nor indeed 
 was the man contemptible. Had you told him with 
 frank conviction that you deemed him a poor sort of 
 phenomenon, he would have shaken the ceiling with 
 laughter and have admired you for your plain-speaking. 
 For there was a large and generous vigour about him, 
 and adverse criticism could only heighten his satisfac- 
 tion in his own stability. 
 
 Something of the cold dignity in which she had 
 taken refuge at Ulls water was still to be remarked in 
 Paula's manner as she received Egremont. She held 
 her charming head very erect, and let her eyelids droop 
 a little, and the few words which she addressed to him 
 were rather absently spoken. With others, as they
 
 232 THYRZA 
 
 arrived, she was sportively intimate. Her bearing had 
 gained a little in maturity during the past half year, 
 but it was still with a blending of naivete and capricious 
 affectation that she wrought her spell. Her dress was 
 a miracle, and inseparably a part of her ; it was impos- 
 sible to picture her in any serious situation, so entirely 
 was she a child of luxury and frivolous concern. Ex- 
 quisite as an artistic product of Society, she affected 
 the imagination not so much by her personal charm as 
 tlu'ough the perfume of luxury which breathed about 
 lier. Egremont, with his radical tendencies of thought, 
 found himself marvellino^ as he reofarded her ; what a life 
 was hers ! Compare it with that of some little work- 
 girl in Lambeth, such as he saw in the street — what 
 spaces between those two worlds ! Was it possible that 
 this dainty creation, this thing of material omnipotence, 
 would suffer decay of her sweetness and in the end die ? 
 The reason took her side and revolted against law ; it 
 would be an outrage if time or mischance laid hold 
 upon her. 
 
 Yet there was something in Paula which he did not 
 recognise. Since she could formulate desires, few had 
 found impression on her lips which were not at once 
 gratified ; an exception caused her at first rather 
 astonishment than impatience. Such astonishment 
 fell upon her when she understood that Egremont's 
 coming to Ullswater was not on her account. In truth, 
 she wished it had been, and from that moment the 
 fates were kind enough to notice Paula's poor little
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 233 
 
 existence, and bid her remember she was mortal. She 
 took the admonition ill, and certainly it was impertinent 
 from her point of view. She had slight philosophy, 
 but out of that disappointment Paula by degrees drew 
 an understanding that she had had a glimpse of a 
 strange world, that something of moment had been at 
 stake. 
 
 Egremont, standing in the rear of a chatting group, 
 had all but dreamed himself into oblivion of the pre- 
 sent when he heard loud announcement of ' Mr. Dal- 
 maine.' It was some time since he had met the Member 
 for Vauxhall. Looking upon the politician's well-knit 
 frame, his well-coloured face with its expression ot 
 shrewd earnestness, he for a moment seemed to himself 
 to shrink into insignificance. After sitting opposite 
 Dalmaine for an hour at the dinner-table, he was able 
 to regard the man again in what he deemed a true 
 light. But the impression made upon one by an object 
 suddenly presented when the thought is busy with far 
 other things will as a rule embody much essential truth. 
 As a force, Egremont would not have weighed in the 
 scale against Dalmaine. Putting himself in conscious 
 opposition to such a man, he had but his due in a 
 sense of nullity. 
 
 ]Mr. Tyrrell was kind to him in the assignment of 
 a partner. A pretty, gentle, receptive maiden, anxious 
 to show interest in things of the mind — with such a 
 one Walter was at his best, because his simplest and 
 happiest. He put away thought of Lambeth — which
 
 234 THYRZA 
 
 in truth was beginning to trouble his mind like a fixed 
 idea — and talked much as he would have done a couple 
 of years ago, with bright intelligence, with natural en- 
 joyment of the hour. It was greatly his charm in such 
 conversation that had made him a favourite with plea- 
 sant people of the world. In withdrawing himself 
 from the sphere of these amenities he was opposing the 
 free growth of his character, which in consequence 
 suffered. He was cognisant of that ; he knew that he 
 was more himself to-night than he had been for some 
 months. But the fixed idea waited in the background. 
 
 When the ladies were gone, he saw Dalmaine rise 
 and come round the table towards him. 
 
 ' I'm glad to see you again,' Dalmaine began, de- 
 positing his wine-glass and refilling it. ' Pray tell me 
 something about your lectm'es. You have resumed 
 since Christmas, I think ? ' 
 
 Egremont had no mind to speak of these things. 
 It cost him an effort to find an answer. 
 
 ' Yes, I still have a few hearers.' 
 
 And at once he was angry with himself for falling 
 into this confession of failure. Dalmaine was the last 
 man before whom he would affect humility. 
 
 ' I am sure,' observed the politician, ' everyone who 
 has the good of the w^orking classes at heart must feel 
 indebted to you. It's so very seldom that men of culture 
 care to address audiences of that kind. Yet it must 
 be the most effectual way of reaching the people. 
 You address them on English Literature, I think ? '
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 235 
 
 Egremont did not care to explain that he had now 
 a broader subject. He murmured an affirmative. 
 Dalmaine had hoped to elicit some of the ' Thoughts 
 for the Present,' and felt disappointment. 
 
 ' An excellent choice, it seems to me,' he continued, 
 making his glass revolve on the table-cloth. ' They 
 are much too ig-norant of the best wealth of their 
 country. They have so few inducements to read the 
 great historians, for instance. If you can bring them 
 to do so, you make them more capable citizens, abler 
 to form a judgment on the questions of the day.' 
 
 Egi'emont smiled. 
 
 ' My one aim,' he remarked, ' is to persuade them 
 to forget that there are such things as questions of the 
 day.' 
 
 Dalmaine also smiled, and with a slight involuntary 
 curling of the lip. 
 
 ' Ah, I remember our discussions on the Atlantic. 
 I scarcely thought you would apply those ideas in their 
 — their fulness, when you began practical work. You 
 surely will admit that, in a time when their interests 
 are engaging so much attention, working men should — 
 for instance — go to the polls with intelligent prepara- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' I'd rather they didn't go to the polls at all,' 
 Walter replied. He knew that this was exaggera- 
 tion, but it pleased him to exaggerate. He enjoyed 
 the effect on the honourable member's broad counte- 
 nance.
 
 236 THYRZA 
 
 * Come, come ! ' said Dalmaine, laughing with ap- 
 pearance of entering into the joke. 'At that rate, 
 English freedom would soon be at an end. One, might 
 as well abolish newspapers.' 
 
 ' In my opinion, the one greatest boon that could be 
 granted the working class. I do my best to dissuade 
 them from the reading of newspapers.' 
 
 Dalmaine turned the whole matter into a jest. 
 Secretly he believed that Egremont was poking .con- 
 temptuous fun at him, but it was his principle to receive 
 everything with good humour. They drew apart again, 
 each feeling more strongly than ever the instinctive 
 opposition between their elements. It amounted to a 
 reciprocal dislike, an irritation provoked by each other's 
 presence. Dalmaine was beginning to suspect Egre- 
 mont of some scheme too deep for his fathoming ; 
 it was easier for him to belie\'e anything, than that 
 idealism pure and simple was at the bottom of such 
 behaviour. Walter, on the other hand, viewed the 
 politician's personality with something more than con- 
 tempt. Dalmaine embodied those forces of philistinism, 
 that essence of the vulgar creed, which Egremont had 
 undertaken to attack, and which, as he already felt, 
 were likely to yield as little before his efforts as a 
 stone wall under the blow of a naked hand. Two such 
 would do well to keep apart. 
 
 On returning to the drawing-room, Egremont kept 
 watch for a vacant place by Paula. Presently he was 
 able to move to her side. She spread her fan upon her
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 237 
 
 lap, and, ruffling its edge of white fur, said negli- 
 gently : 
 
 ' So you decided to waste an evening, Mr. Egremont - 
 
 ' I decided to have an evening of rest and enjoy- 
 ment.' 
 
 ' I suppose you are working dreadfully hard. When 
 do you open your library ? ' 
 
 'Scarcely in less than four or five months.' 
 
 ' And will you stand at the counter and give out 
 books, like the young men at Mudie's ? ' 
 
 'Sometimes, I dare say. But I have found a 
 librarian.' 
 
 'Who is he?' 
 
 'A working man in Lambeth. One of the most 
 sympathetic natures I have ever met; a man who 
 might have gone on all his life making candles — that 
 is how things are arranged.' 
 
 ' Making candles ? What a funny change of occu- 
 pation ! And you really think you are doing good in 
 that disagreeable place ? ' 
 
 ' I can only hope.' 
 
 ' You are quite sure you are not doing harm ? ' 
 
 ' Does it seem to you that I am ? ' 
 
 Paula assumed an air of wisdom. 
 
 ' Of course I have no right to speak of such things, 
 but it is my opinion that you are destroying their 
 sense of self-respect. I don't think they ought to liavf 
 things given them; they should be encouraged to help 
 themselves.'
 
 238 THYRZA 
 
 He examined her face. It was obvious that this 
 profound sentiment had not taken birth in Paula's 
 charming little head, and he guessed from whom she 
 had derived it. 
 
 ' I have no doubt Mr. Dalmaine would agree with 
 you,' he said, smiling. ' I believe I have heard him 
 say something of the kind.' 
 
 ' I'm glad to hear it. Mr. Dalmaine is an authority 
 in such matters.' 
 
 ' And I, the very reverse of one ? ' 
 
 ' Well, I really do think, Mr. Egremont, that you 
 are taking up things for which you are not — not exactly 
 suited, you know.' 
 
 She said it with the prettiest air of patronage, 
 looking at him for a moment, then as usual, letting 
 lier eyes wander about the room. 
 
 'Miss Tyrrell,' he replied with gravity that was 
 half genuine, ' tell me for t^ hat I oati exactly suited, 
 and you will do me a vast kindness.' 
 
 She reflected. 
 
 ' Oh, there are lots of things you do very nicely 
 indeed. I've seen you play croquet beautifully. But 
 I've always thought it a pity you weren't a clergyman.' 
 
 Walter laughed. 
 
 ' Well, a local preacher is next to it.' 
 
 Both were at once carried back to the evening at 
 UUswater. Paula kept silence ; her eyes were directed 
 towards Dalmaine, who almost at the same moment 
 looked towards her. She played with her fan.
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 239 
 
 '" You know that my uncle has been ill ? ' she said. 
 
 ' No, I have heard nothing of that.' 
 
 Paula looked surprised 
 
 ' Don't you hear from — from them ? ' 
 
 ' I have a letter from Mr. Newthorpe very occa- 
 sionally. But surely the illness has not been serious ? ' 
 
 ' Mamma heard this morning about it. I don't know 
 what's been the matter. I shouldn't wonder if they 
 come to London before long.' 
 
 Egremont shortly changed his place, and saw that 
 Dalmaine took the vacant seat by Paula. The two 
 seemed to get on very well together. Paula was evi- 
 dently exerting herself to be charming ; Dalmaine was 
 doing his best to trifle. 
 
 He sought more information from ^Irs. Tyrrell re- 
 garding Mr. Newthorpe. She seemed to fear that her 
 brother-in-law might have been in more danger than 
 Annabel in her letter admitted. 
 
 ' They certainly must come south,' she said. ' They 
 are having a terrible winter, and it has evidently tried 
 Mr. Newthorpe beyond his strength. You have in- 
 fluence with him, I believe, ^Ir. Egremont. Pray join 
 me in my efforts to bring there both back to civilisation.* 
 
 ' I fear my influence will effect nothing if yours 
 fails,' said Walter. ' But Mr. Newthorpe should cer- 
 tainly not risk his health.' 
 
 He next had a chat with Mr. John Tyrrell junior. 
 Paula's brother was two-and-twenty, a frankly sensual 
 youth, of admirable temper, great in turf matters, witli
 
 240 THYRZA 
 
 a genius for conviviality. Jack's health was perfect, for 
 he had his father's habit of enjoying life without excess, 
 and his stamina allowed a wide limit to the term 
 moderation. Like the rest of his family, he had the 
 secret of conciliating good-will ; there was no humbug 
 in him, and one respected him as a fine specimen of 
 the young male developed at enormous expense. P^or 
 Egremont he had a certain reverence ; a man who 
 habitually thought was clearly, he admitted, of a higher 
 grade than himself, and he had no objection whatever 
 to proclaim his own inferiority. Egremont, talking 
 with him, was half disposed to envy Jack Tyrrell. 
 What a simple thing life was with limitless cash, a 
 perfect digestion, and good humour in the place of 
 brains ! 
 
 His room seemed very cold and lonely when he got 
 back to it shortly before midnight. The fire had been 
 let out ; the books round the walls had a musty ap- 
 pearance ; there was stale tobacco in the air. He paced 
 the floor, thinking of Annabel, wondering whether she 
 would soon be in London, longing to see her. And 
 before he went to bed, he wrote a letter to ^Ir. New- 
 thorpe, expressing the anxiety with which he had heard 
 of his illness. Of himself he said little ; the few words 
 that came to his pen concerning the Lambeth crusade 
 were rather lifeless. 
 
 He was being talked of meanwhile in the Tyrrells' 
 drawing-room. The last guest being gone, there was
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 241 
 
 chat for a few minutes between the menabers of the 
 family. 
 
 ' Egremont isn't looking quite up to the mark,' said 
 ]\Ir. Tyrrell, as he stood before the fire, hands in 
 pockets. 
 
 'I thought the same,' said his wife. 'He seems 
 worried. What a deplorable thing it is, to think that he 
 will spend large sums of money on this library scheme I 
 
 Mr. Tyrrell made inarticulate noises, and at length 
 laughed. 
 
 ' He must amuse himself in his own way.' 
 
 * But after all, papa,' said Paula, whose advocacy 
 went much by the rule of contraries, 'it must be « 
 good thing to give people books to read. I dare say U- 
 prevents them from going to the public-house.' 
 
 'Shouldn't wonder if it does, Paula,' he replied, with 
 a benevolent gaze. 
 
 ' Then what's your objection ? ' 
 
 'I don't object to the library in particular. It's 
 only that Egremont isn't the man to do these kind of 
 things. It is to be hoped that he'll get tired of it, and 
 find something more in his line.' 
 
 ' What is his line ? ' 
 
 ' Ah, that's the question ! Very likely he hasn't 
 one at all. It seems to me there's a good many young 
 fellows in that case nowadays. They have education, 
 they have money, and they don't know what the deuce 
 to do with either one or the other. Tliey're a cut 
 above you, Mr. Jack ; it isn't enough for them to live 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 242 THYRZA 
 
 and enjoy themselves. So they get it into their heads 
 that they're called upon to reform the world — a nice 
 handy little job, that'll keep them going. The girls, 
 I notice, are beginning to have the same craze. I 
 shouldn't wonder if Paula gets an idea that she'll be a 
 hospital-nurse, or go district-visiting in Bethnal Green.' 
 ' I certainly should if I thought it would amuse me,' 
 said Paula. ' Bat why shouldn't Mr. Egremont do 
 work of this kind ? He's in earnest ; he doesn't only 
 do it for fun.' 
 
 ' Of course he's in earnest, and there's the absurdity 
 of it. Social reform, pooh I Why, who are the real 
 social reformers ? The men who don't care a scrap for 
 the people, but take up ideas because they can make 
 capital out of them. It isn't idealists who do the work 
 of the world, but the hard-headed, practical, selfish men. 
 A big employer of labour '11 do more good in a day, just 
 because he sees profit '11 come of it, than all the moon- 
 ing philanthropists in a hundred years. Nothing solid 
 ]ias e\er been gained in this world that wasn't pureued 
 out of self-interest. Look at Dalmaine. How mucli 
 do you think he cares for the factory-hands he's always 
 talking about ? But he'll do them many a good turn ; 
 he'll make many a life easier ; and just because it's his 
 business to do so, because it's the way of advancing 
 himself. He aims at being Home Secretary one of 
 these days, and I shouldn't wonder if he is. There's 
 your real social reformer. Egremont's an amateur, 
 a dilettante. In many ways he's worth a hundred of
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 243 
 
 Dalmaine, but Dalmaine will benefit the world, and it's 
 well if Egremont doesn't do harm.' 
 
 In all which it is not impossible that Mr. John Tyrrell 
 bit the nail on the head. Much satisfied with his little 
 oration, he went off to don a jacket and enjoy a cigar 
 by his smoking-room fire. 
 
 A couple of days later, Mr. Dalmaine called at 
 the house before luncheon. After speaking with Mrs. 
 Tyrrell, he had a private interview with Paula. The 
 event was referred to in a letter Paula addressed to her 
 cousin Annabel in the course of the ensuing week. 
 
 ' Dear Bell, — We are much relieved by your letter. 
 It is of course impossible to stay among these 
 mountains for the rest of the winter ; I hope uncle will 
 very soon be well enough to come south. The plan of 
 living at Eastbourne for a time is no doubt a good one. 
 You'll have Mrs. Ormonde to talk to. She is very nice, 
 though I've generally found her a little serious ; but 
 then she's like you in that. I think it's a pity people 
 trouble themselves about things that only make them 
 gloomy. 
 
 ' I have a little piece of news for you. It really 
 looks as if I was going to be married. In fact, I've 
 said I would be, and I think it likely I shall keep my 
 word. My name will be Mrs. Dalmaine. Dun't you 
 remember Mr. Egremont speaking of Mr, Dalmaine 
 and calling him names ? From that moment I made 
 up my mind that he muat be a very nice man, and 
 
 B 2
 
 2j,4 THYRZA 
 
 when we made his acquaintance I found that I wasn't 
 s> far wrong. You see, poor Mr. Egremont so hates 
 everything and everybody that's practical. Now I'm 
 practical, as you know, so it's right I should marry a 
 practical man. Papa has the highest opinion of Mr. 
 Dalmaine's abilities ; he thinks he has a gi eat future in 
 politics. Wouldn't it be delighful if one's husband really 
 became Prime Minister or something of the kind I And, 
 to tell you a secret, Mr. Dalmaine is firmly convinced 
 that I'm the cleverest girl he's ever known ; of course 
 he likes me for other things as well that we needn't 
 talk about, but he's made up his mind that I'm just 
 the wife for a man who has social and political ambi- 
 tions. You know I didn't really think that I was 
 clever at all. Of course it isn't in ;?/our way, but I 
 shouldn't w^onder if I surprise myself and everybody 
 else when I liave a salon and receive people of im- 
 portance. 
 
 ' We shall be married, I dare say, before the begin- 
 ning of the season. You will probably be at Eastbourne 
 then. I'm awfully afraid to hint at such a thing, but 
 you know one must have bridesmaids, and there's a certain 
 cousin of mine who would look very sweet and distin- 
 guished on such an occasion. But she might shudder 
 at such frivolities. 
 
 ' Do you know, Bella mia, it really is a pity that 
 Mr. Egremont is going on in this way I He's going to 
 spend enormous sums of money in establishing a library 
 in Lambeth. It's very good of him, of course, but we
 
 A MAN WITH A FUTURE 245 
 
 are all so sure it's a mistake. Shall I tell you ray 
 ovjn view ? Mr. Egremont is an idealist, and idealists 
 are not the people to do serious work of this kind. 
 The real social reformers are the hard-headed, practical 
 men, who at heart care only for their own advance- 
 ment. If you think, I'm sure you'll find this is true. 
 You see that I am beginning to occupy myself with 
 serious questions. It will be necessary in the wife of 
 an active politician. But if you could hint to ]Mr. 
 Egremont that he is going shockingly astray. He 
 dined with us the other night, and doesn't look at all 
 well. I am so afraid lest he is doing all this just 
 because you tell hira to. Is it so ? 
 
 ' But I have fifty other letters to write. My best 
 love to uncle ; tell him to get well as quickly as possible. 
 I wonder that dreadful lonely place hasn't killed you 
 both. I shall be so glad to see you again, for I do 
 really like you. Bell, and I know you are awfully wise 
 and good. Think of me sometimes and hope that I 
 shall be happy. — Yours affectionately, 
 
 ' Paula Tyrrell.'
 
 !46 THYRZA 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 
 
 Egremont's face, it was true, showed that things were 
 not altogether well with him. It was not ill-health, 
 but mental restlessness, which expressed itself in the 
 lines of his forehead and the diminished brightness of 
 his eyes. During the last two months of the year he 
 had felt a constant need of help, and help such as 
 would alone stead him he could not find. 
 
 It was no mere failing of purpose. He prepared his 
 lectures as thoroughly as ever, and delivered them with 
 no less zeal than in the first weeks ; indeed, if anything, 
 his energy grew, for, since his nearer acquaintance 
 with Gilbert Grrail, the latter's face before him was 
 always an incentive. Tliere was much to discourage 
 him. ^lore than half his class fell from lukewarmness 
 to patent indifference ; they would probably present 
 themselves until the end of the course, but it was little 
 likely that they would recommence with him after 
 Clu-istmas. He was obliged to recognise the utter 
 absence of idealism from all save Grrail — unless Bunco 
 might be credited with glimmerings of the true light.
 
 LIGHTS AXD SHADOWS 247 
 
 Yet intellectually he held himself on firm ground. To 
 have discovered one man such as Grrail was compensation 
 for failure with many others, and the project of the 
 library was at all times a vista of hope. But Egremont 
 was not of those who can live on altruism. His life of 
 loneliness irked him, irked him as never yet. The 
 dawn was a recurrence of weariness ; the long nights 
 were cold and blank. 
 
 The old unrest, which he had believed at an end 
 when once ' the task of his life ' was discovered, troubled 
 him through many a cloud-enveloped day. Had he 
 been free, it would have driven him on new travels. 
 Yet that was no longer a real resource. He did not 
 desire to see other lands, but to make a home in his own. 
 And no home was promised him. The longer he kept 
 apart from Annabel, the dimmer did the vision of her 
 become ; he held it a sign that he himself was seldom if 
 ever in her mind. Did he still love her ? Eather he 
 would have said that there lay in him great faculty of 
 love, which Annabel, if she willed it, coidd at a moment 
 bring into life ; she, he believed, in preference to any 
 woman he had known. It was not passion, and the 
 consciousness that it was not often depressed him. 
 r)ne of his ideals was tliat of a passion nurtured to be 
 the crowning glory of life. He did not love Annabel 
 in that way ; would that he could have done I 
 
 This purely personal distress could not but affect his 
 work. A month before the end of the year lie came to 
 the resolve to choose a new subject for the succeeding
 
 24S THYRZA 
 
 course of lectures. Forgetting all the sound arguments 
 by which he had been led to prefer the simple teaching 
 of a straightforward subject to any more ambitious 
 prophecy, he was now impelled to think out a series of 
 discourses on — well, on things in general. He got hold 
 of the title, 'Thoughts for the Present,' and the 
 temptation to make use of it proved too great. English 
 literature did not hold the average proletarian mind. It 
 had served him to make an aquaintance with a little 
 group of men ; now he must address them in a bolder 
 way, reveal to them his personality. Had he not 
 always contemplated such revelation in the end ? 
 Yes, when he found his class fit for it. But he was 
 growing impatient with this slow progress — if indeed it 
 could be called progress at all. He would strike a more 
 significant note. 
 
 Walter was in danger, as you very well understand. 
 There is no need at this time of day to remind ourselves 
 of teachers who have fallen into the fatal springe of 
 apostolicism. ]\Ien would so fain be prophets, when 
 once they have a fellow mortal by the ear. Egremont 
 could have exposed this risk to you as well as any, 
 yet he deliberately ignored it in his own case — no 
 great novelty that. ' Have I not something veritably 
 to say ? Are not thoughts of and for the present surging 
 in my mind ? Whereto have we language if not for 
 tlie purpose of uttering the soul within us ? ' So he 
 fell to work on his introductory lecture, and for a few 
 days had peace — nay, lived in enthusiasm once more.
 
 LIGHTS AXD SHADOWS 249 
 
 His week of absence at Christmas, of which we have 
 heard, was spent again in Jersey. To the roaring 
 music of the channel breakers he built up his towers 
 and battlements of prophecy. More, he wrote a poem, 
 and for a day wondered whether it might be well to read 
 it to his audience as preface. A friendly sprite whispered 
 in his ear, and saved him from too utter folly. The 
 sprite had not yet forsaken him ; woe to him if ever it 
 should I He wrapped the poem in a letter to Mr. Xew- 
 thorpe, and had a very pleasant reply, written, as he 
 afterwards heard, only a day or two before Mr. 
 Newthorpe fell ill. Annabel sent her message ; ' the 
 verses were noble, and pure as the sea-foam.' 
 
 On returning to town, he sent a note to G-rail, 
 askincr him to come in the evenino^ to Great Russell 
 Street, or, if that were inconvenient, to appoint a 
 time for a meeting in Walnut Tree Walk. Gilbert 
 accepted the invitation, and came for tlie first time to 
 Egremont's rooms. 
 
 Things were not ill with him, Gilbert Grail. You 
 saw in the man's visage that he had put off ten years 
 of haggard life. His dark, deep eyes spoke their mean- 
 ings with the ardour of soul's joy ; his cheeks seemed to 
 have filled out, his brows to have smoothed. It was joy 
 of the purest and manliest. His life had sailed like 
 some battered, dun-coloured vessel into a fair harbour 
 of sunlight and blue, and hands were busy giving to it 
 a brave new aspect. He could scarce think of all his 
 happiness at once ; the coming release from a hateful
 
 250 THYRZA 
 
 drudgery, and the coming day which would put 
 Thyrza's hand in his, would not go into one perspective. 
 Sometimes he would all but forget the one in thinking 
 of the other. Now let the early mornings be dark and 
 chill as they would, let the sky lower in its muddy 
 gloom, let weariness of the flesh do its worst — those two 
 days were approaching. Why, was he not yet young ? 
 WTiat are five-and-thirty years behind one, when bliss 
 unutterable beckons forward ? It should all be for- 
 gotten, that gTimy past poisoned through and through 
 with the stench of candles. Books, books, and time 
 to use them, and a hearth about which love is busy — 
 what more can you offer son of man than these ? 
 
 He had written his acceptance, had endeavoured 
 to write his thanks. The words were ineffectual. 
 
 Egremont received him in his study with glad- 
 ness. This man had impressed him powerfully, was 
 winning an ever larger place in his affection. He 
 welcomed him as he would have done an old friend, 
 for whose coming he had looked with impatience. 
 
 ' Do you smoke ? ' he asked. 
 
 No, Gilbert did not smoke. The money he formerly 
 spent on this had long been saved for the purchase of 
 books. Egremont's after-dinner coffee had to suffice to 
 make cheer. It was a little time before G-rail could 
 speak freely. He had suffered from nervousness in 
 undertaking this visit, and his relief at the simplicity 
 of Egremont's rooms, by allowing him to think of what 
 lie wished to say, caused him \^ seem absent.
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 251 
 
 ' I've already begun to jot down lists of obvious 
 books,' Egremont said. ' I have a good general cata- 
 logue here, and I mean to go through it carefully.' 
 
 Grilbert was at length able to speak his thought. 
 
 ' I ought to have said far more than I did in my 
 letter, ]Mr. Egremont. I tried to thank you, but I felt 
 I might as well have left it alone. I don't know 
 whether you have any idea what this change will mean 
 to me. It's more than saving my life, it's giving me a 
 new one such as I never dared to hope for.' 
 
 ' I'm right glad to hear it I ' Walter replied, with his 
 kindest look. ' It comes to make up to me for some 
 little disappointment in other things. I'm afraid the 
 lectures have been of very slight use.' 
 
 ' I don't think that. I don't think any of the class 
 '11 forget them. It's likely they'll have their best effect 
 in a little time ; the men'll think back upon them. 
 Now Bunce has got much out of them, I believe.' 
 
 ' Ah, Bunce ! Yes, I hoped something from him. 
 By-the-by, he is rather a violent enemy of Christianity, 
 I think?' 
 
 'I've heard so. I don't know him myself, except 
 for meeting him at the lectures. Yes, I've heard he's 
 sometimes almost mad about religious subjects.' 
 
 Egremont told the story about Bunce's child, which 
 he had had from Mrs. Ormonde. And this led him on 
 to speak of his purpose in this new course of lectures. 
 After describing liis plan : 
 
 ' And that matter of religion is one I wish to speak
 
 252 THYRZA 
 
 of most earnestly. I ithink I can put forward a few 
 ideas which will help a man like Bunce. He wants to 
 be made to see the attitude of a man who retains no 
 dogma, and yet is far more a friend than an enemy of 
 Christianity. I think that lecture shall come first.' 
 
 He had not yet made ready his syllabus. As before, 
 he meant to send it to those whose names were upon his 
 list. His first evening would be at the beginning of 
 February. 
 
 ' I shall try with Ackroyd again,' he said. ' Perhaps 
 the subject this time wall seem more attractive to him.' 
 
 Gilbert looked grave. 
 
 ' I'm anxious about Ackroyd,' he replied. ' He's 
 had private trouble lately, and I begin to be afraid it's 
 driving him into the wrong road. He isn't one that 
 can easily be persuaded. I wish you might succeed in 
 bringing him to the lectures.' 
 
 Egremont tried to speak hopefully, but in secret he 
 felt that his power over men was not that which draws 
 them from the way of evil and turns them to light. 
 For that is needed more than love of the beautiful. 
 For a moment he mused in misgiving over his 
 * Thoughts for the Present.' 
 
 They began to talk of those details in the library 
 scheme which Egremont had left for subsequent dis- 
 cussion. 
 
 ' As soon as the premises are in my hands,' he said, 
 ' I shall have the house thoroughly repaired. I sliould 
 like you to see then if any alteration 'can be made
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 253 
 
 which would add to your comfort. As soon as the 
 place can be made ready, it will be yours to take 
 possession of. That should be certainly by the end of 
 April. Shall you be free to leave your present occupa- 
 tion then ? ' 
 
 ' I can at any time. But I am glad to have a date 
 fixed. I'm going to be married then/ 
 
 It was said with a curious diffidence which brought 
 a smile to the hearers face. Egremont was surprised 
 at the intelligence, glad at the same time. 
 
 * That is good news,' he said. ' Of course I had 
 thought of you living with yoiu- mother. This will be 
 better still. Your future wife must, of course, examine 
 the house ; no doubt she'll be a far better judge than you 
 of what needs doing. ^Vhy, I am delighted to hear 
 this, Grail I I tell you what we'll do. Let us wait till 
 the end of February, then we'll persuade that extra- 
 ordinary old woman to let you have an afternoon of 
 inspection. But I should think you may safely fix the 
 beginning of April. By that time I hope to have the 
 shelves up in the library, and when you are back from 
 your honeymoon we shall go to work together on 
 arranging books. That'll be a rare time I We shall 
 throw up our arms, like Dominie Sampson, and cry 
 " Prodigious I " ' 
 
 He grew mirthful, indulging the boyish humour 
 which, as a reaction from his accustomed lonely silence, 
 came upon him when he had a sympathetic companion. 
 To Gilbert this was a new phase of Egremont's character ;
 
 254 THYRZA 
 
 he, sober in happiness, answered the young man's 
 merriment with an expressive smile. 
 
 Gilbert could not stay beyond ten o'clock, for he 
 had to walk home. Egremont offered to go some part 
 of the way with him, and they set out together. In 
 continuous talk they threaded the by-ways between 
 Tottenham Court Eoad and Charing Cross. There was 
 a frosty air ; the stones rang pleasantly beneath the 
 tread. Egremont was tempted to go on as far as 
 Westminster. Under the clock-tower they shook hands 
 like men who mean something by the grip, and each 
 went his way homewards. 
 
 Grrail had merely mentioned the fact of his intended 
 marriage. As he tramped along the broad desert of 
 Whitehall, Egremont wondered much within himself 
 what kind of woman such a man might have chosen to 
 share his life. Had he contemplated marriage for some 
 time, and been prevented from it by stress of circum- 
 stances ? It was not easy to picture the suitable 
 partner for Grail. Clearly she must be another than 
 the thriftless, shiftless creature too common in working- 
 class homes. Yet it was not likely that he had met 
 with anyone who could share his inner life. Had he, 
 following the example of many a prudent man, chosen 
 a good, quiet, modest woman, whose first and last 
 anxiety would be to keep his home in order and see 
 that he lacked no comfort within her province to 
 bestow ? It was probable. She would no doubt be 
 past youth ; suppose her thirty. She would have a
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 255 
 
 face which pleased by its homely goodness ; she would 
 speak in a gentle voice, waiting upon superior wisdom. 
 
 ' Come, come I ' Walter exclaimed to himself. ' I 
 am getting too patronising. After all, Grail is a fellow 
 who might well please a young and pretty woman, 
 provided she had common sense. Why should he not 
 choose his wife as I myself should ? ' 
 
 The conclusion was that he felt really curious to 
 know the future Mrs. Grail. 
 
 A few days before that appointed for the first 
 lecture of this new course, Egremont received a letter 
 of which the address surprised him. It bore the 
 Penrith post-mark ; the writing must be Annabel's. 
 He had very recently written to ^Ir. Xewthorpe, who 
 was not yet well enough to attempt the journey south- 
 wards ; this reply by another hand might signify ill 
 news. And that proved to be the case. Annabel 
 wrote : 
 
 ' Dear Mr. Egremont, — Father desires me to answer 
 your very kind letter of a week ago. He has delayed, 
 hoping from day to day to be able to write himself. I 
 grieve to say that he is suffering more than at any 
 time in the last month. I am very anxious, full of 
 trouble. Mrs. Tyrrell wishes to come to me, and I am 
 writing by this post to say that I shall be very glad of 
 her presence. Our doctors say there is absolutely no 
 ground for fear, and gladly I give tliem my faith ; but 
 it tortures me to see my dear father so overcome with
 
 256 THYRZA 
 
 pain. The world seems to me very dark, and life a 
 dreadful penalty. 
 
 'We read with the greatest interest of what you are 
 doing and hoping. I cannot tell you how we rejoiced 
 in the happiness of Mr. Grail. That is a glorious thing 
 that you have done. I trust his marriage may be a 
 very happy one. When we are at Eastbourne and 
 father is well again, we must come to see your library 
 and no less your librarian. Do not be discouraged if 
 your lectures seem to fail of immediate results. Surely 
 good work will have fruit, and very likely in ways of 
 which you will never know. 
 
 ' The Tyrrells will have constant news of father, and 
 I am sure will gladly send it on to you. — I am, dear 
 ^Ir. Egremont, yours sincerely, 
 
 ' Annabel Newthorpe.' 
 
 It was the first letter he had received from Annabel. 
 For some days he kept it close at hand, and looked 
 over it frequently ; then it was laid away with care, not 
 again to be read until the passing of years had given 
 it both a sadder and a dearer significance.
 
 257 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THTEZA SINGS AGAIN. 
 
 Egremont had a fear that he might seem ungrateful to 
 the man Bower. It was Bower to whom he had gone 
 for help when he first sought to gather an audience, 
 and on the whole the help had been effectual. Yet 
 Bower had not borne the test of nearer acquaintance: 
 Egremont soon knew the vulgarity of his nature, and 
 had much difficulty in sustaining the show of friendly 
 intercourse with him. One evening in mid-February, 
 he called the portly man to speak with him after 
 lecture, and, with what geniality he could, explained to 
 him the details of his library project and told whom 
 he had chosen for librarian. Bower professed himself 
 highly satisfied with everything, and, as usual, afifected 
 Egremont disagreeably with his subservience. The 
 latter was not surprised to find that Grail had kept 
 silence on the subject ; but it was time now for the 
 arrangements to be made public. 
 
 From the lecture-room, Mr. Bower went to a club 
 where he was wont to relax himself of evenings ; here 
 he di?5cussed the library question with such acquaint- 
 
 \oL. I. B
 
 258 THYRZA 
 
 ances as were at hand. He reached home just after 
 the closing of the shop. Mary was gone to bed. Mrs. 
 Bower had just finished her supper, and was musing 
 over the second half of her accustomed pint of ale. 
 Her husband threw himself into a chair, with an ex- 
 clamation of scornful disgust. 
 
 ^ What's wrong now ? ' asked Mrs. Bower. 
 * Well, I don't know what yov^ll call it, but I call 
 it the damnedest bit of sneaking behaviour as I ever 
 knew ! He's given the librarianship to that fellow 
 Grail. Tnere's the 'ouse at the back for him to live 
 in, and rent free, no doubt ; and there's a good lumping 
 salary, that you may go bail. Now what do you think 
 o' that job ? ' 
 
 ' And him not as much as offering it to you ! ' 
 ' Not so much as offerin' it ! How many 'ud he 
 have got to hear his lectures without me, I'd like to 
 know ! I shouldn't have taken it ; no, of course I 
 shouldn't ; it wouldn't a' suited me to take a librarianship. 
 But it was his bounden duty to give me the first offer. 
 I never thought he'd make one of us librarian ; if it 
 had been some stranger, I shouldn't have made so much 
 of it. But to give it to Grrail in that sneaking, under- 
 handed way ! Why, I'd be ashamed 0' myself. I've a 
 rare good mind never to go near his lectures again.' 
 
 ' You'd better go,' said Mrs. Bower, prudently. 
 ' He might pay you out at the works. It 'ud be a 
 trick just like him, after this.' 
 
 ' I'll think about it,' returned the other, with
 
 THYRZA SINGS AGAIN 259 
 
 dignity, sitting very upright, and gathering his broad 
 beard into his hand. 
 
 ' Why, there now I ' cried his wife, struck with a 
 sudden thought. ' If that doesn't explain something I 
 Depend upon it — depend upon it — that's how Grail got 
 Thyrza Trent to engage herself to him ! He'll a' known 
 it for some time, Grail will a' done. He's a mean 
 f:illow, or he'd never a' gone and set her against Mr. 
 Ackroyd, as it's easy to see he did. He'll a' told her 
 about the 'ouse and the salary, of course he will ! If I 
 didn't think there was something queer in that job I ' 
 
 Mr. Bower saw at once how highly probable this 
 was. 
 
 ' And that is why they've put on such hairs, her 
 an' Lydia,' Mrs. Bower pursued. ' It's all very well 
 for Mary to pretend as there's nothing altered. It's 
 my belief Mary's got to know more than she'll tell, 
 and Lydia's quarrelled with her about it. It's easy 
 enough to see as they have fell out. Lydia ain't been 
 to chapel since Christmas, an' you know yourself it 
 was just before Cbristmas as Egremont went to the 
 'ouse to see Mr. Grail. If she'd been a bit sharper, 
 she'd never a' told Mary that. I ain't surprised at 
 Thyrza doin' of under-handed things ; I've never liked 
 her over-much. But I thought better of Lydia.' 
 
 ' I've not quarrelled with them,^ said Mr. Bower, 
 magnanimously. ' And girls must look out for them- 
 selves, and do the best for themselves they can. But 
 that soft-spoken, sneaking Hegremont ! You should
 
 26o THYRZA 
 
 a* seen him when he had the cheek to tell me about 
 it ; you'd a' thought he was going to give me a five- 
 pound note.' 
 
 ' Now, you'll see,' said Mrs. Bower, ' they'll t^ke off 
 old Boddy to live with them.' 
 
 ' So much the better. He can't earn his living much 
 longer, and who was to pay us for his lodging and keep, 
 I'd like to know ? ' 
 
 Thus did the worthy pair link together conjectural 
 cause and efifect, on principles which their habit of mind 
 dictated. 
 
 On one point Mrs. Bower was right. Mary and 
 Lydia had not come together since the former's triumph 
 over her friend. Lydia still visited the shop to see Mr. 
 Boddy, but generally at the times when Mary was away 
 at prayer-meetings. ^lary never went to Walnut Tree 
 A\"alk. Though she would gladly have put an end to 
 the coldness, obstinacy of conviction held her aloof in 
 the hope that Lydia would come and acknowledge her 
 error. Lydia, on the other hand, contrary to her habit 
 of repentance after an indulgence of temper, could not 
 lake the first step in this case; she was wounded too 
 deeply, and every day that passed without a sign of con- 
 trition on Mary's part increased her resentment. More- 
 over, she knew only too well that in matter of fact 
 Mary was being daily justified ; other people had stories 
 to tell her of Ackroyd. Human nature, and perhaps 
 woman's nature in particular, was thus strongly arrayed 
 against a reconcilement. Under the circumstances, one
 
 THYRZA SINGS AGAIN 261 
 
 likes Lydia Trent none the worse for being so human 
 and so womanly. 
 
 She gave no explanation to Thyrza. Though there 
 had come that moment of confession between them, 
 Lydia could not speak of Ackroyd to her sister. On a 
 subject such as this she kept reserve even with herself. 
 A natural pride, a kind of shame, forbade her even to 
 think her thoughts to the end : when they besieged her 
 she found refuge in hard work. There was no sign that 
 she suffered at all, the good Lyddy ; the trouble of those 
 days before Christmas was lost in the anticipation of the 
 great change that was soon to come upon her sister's 
 life. To that she had resolved to look forward cheer- 
 fully, especially after something that befell between 
 her and Gilbert a day or two after the engagement. 
 She went down to the parlour in the evening and found 
 Gilbert alone. He rose and came to her with hand held 
 out. 
 
 * So you'll be my sister ? ' he said, in the voice which 
 could be so gentle. 
 
 It brought a sudden rush of tears to the girl's eyes. 
 She said, choking : 
 
 ' I shall feel I'm giving you more than half my life, 
 Mr. Grail.' 
 
 ' But you won't have any fear in giving it, Lydia ? ' 
 
 ' No — no, indeed I shan't. I know you'll be very 
 kind to her.' 
 
 He said that which made her smile and strengthened 
 her in confidence. And the better she came to know
 
 262 THYRZA 
 
 Grilbert, the warmer grew her affection for him. They 
 were made to be friends ; in both were the same absolute 
 honesty of character, the same silent depths of tender- 
 ness, the same stern self-respect. Brother and sister 
 henceforth, with the bond of a common love which time, 
 whether it brought joy or sorrow, could but knit closer. 
 
 From the first there was, of course, an understand- 
 iug that the marriage should take place as soon as the 
 house was ready for Gilbert's tenancy. Thyrza went 
 secretly and examined the dwelling from the outside, 
 more than once. That Lydia would come and live there 
 went without saying. She pretended to oppose this 
 plan at first; said she must be independent. 
 
 ' Very well,' said Thyrza, crossing her hands on her 
 lap, ' then I shan't be married at all, Lyddy, and Mr. 
 Grrail had better be told at once.' 
 
 There was laughing, and there were kind words. 
 
 * I don't think you ought still to call him Mr. G-rail, 
 said Lydia. 
 
 ' Gilbert ? I shall have to say it to myself for a few 
 days. Still, it's a nice name, isn't it ? ' 
 
 Yes, that point needed no discussion ; where Thyrza 
 abode, there abode Lydia, until — but sadness lay that 
 way. Mrs. Grail was equally clear as to the arrange- 
 ments concerning herself; she would keep two rooms 
 and continue to live in Walnut Tree Walk. Thyrza 
 thought this would be unkindness to the old lady, but 
 ]\Irs. Grail had a store of wisdom and was resolute. In 
 practice, she said, she would not at all feel the loneli-
 
 THYRZA SINGS AGAIN 263 
 
 ness ; she could often be at the house, and it had occurred 
 to her that her son in the Midlands would be glad to 
 send one of his two girls to live with her for, say, half 
 a year at a time. Gilbert understood the good sense of 
 this disposition. 
 
 The weather continued doleful, until at length, in 
 the last week of February, there came a sudden change. 
 A rioting east wind fell upon the murky vapours of tlie 
 lower sky, broke up the leaguer of rain and darkness, 
 and through one spring-heralding day drove silver fleece 
 over deeps of clear, cold blue. The streets were swept 
 of mire ; eaves ceased to distil their sooty rheum ; 
 even in the back-ways of Lambeth there was a sunny 
 gleam on windows and a clear ring in all the sounds of 
 life. 
 
 It was Saturday. Between Egremont and Grail it 
 had been decided that the latter should to-day take 
 Thyrza to inspect the house. Egremont had gained the 
 surly compliance of the caretaker — the most liberal 
 treatment made no difference in the strange old woman's 
 moroseness — and Grail, promising himself pleasure from 
 Thyrza's surprise, said nothing more than that he wished 
 to see her at three in the afternoon. 
 
 The sisters did not come home together from their 
 work. Lydia had an engagement with Mrs. Isaacs, of 
 whom we have heard, and went to snatch a pretence of 
 a dinner in a little shop to which she resorted when 
 there was need. Thyrza, leaving the work-room at 
 half-past one, did not take the direct way to Walnut
 
 264 THYRZA 
 
 Tree Walk ; the sun and the keen air filled her with a 
 spirit of glad life, and a thought that it would be nice 
 to see how her future home looked under the bright 
 sky came to her temptingly. The distance was not 
 great ; she soon came to Brook Street and, with some 
 timidity, turned up the narrow passage, meaning to get 
 a glimpse of the house and run away again. But just 
 as she reached the entrance to the rear-yard, she found 
 herself face to face with someone whom she at once 
 knew for the caretaker whom Grilbert had described to 
 her. The old woman's eye held her. She was half 
 frightened, yet in a moment found words. 
 
 ' Please,' she said —it seemed to her the only way of 
 explaining her intrusion — ' is there anyone in the school 
 now ? ' 
 
 The old woman examined her, coldly, searchingly. 
 
 ' Xo, there ain't,' she replied. ' Is it you as is a-goin' 
 to live here ? ' 
 
 This was something like witchcraft to Thyrza. 
 
 ' Yes, I am,' fell from her lips. 
 
 ' All right. You can go in and look about. I ain't 
 nothink to hide away.' 
 
 Thyrza was in astonishment, and a little afraid. 
 Yet she dearly wished to see the interior of the house. 
 The old woman turned, and she followed her. 
 
 ' There ain't no need for me to go draggin' about 
 with you,' said the caretaker, when they were within 
 the door. ' I've plenty o' work o' my own to see to.' 
 
 ' May I look into the rooms, then ? '
 
 THYRZA SINGS AGAIN 265 
 
 ' Didn't I say as you could ? What need o' so many 
 words ? ' 
 
 Thyrza hesitated; but, the old creature having 
 begun to beat a door-mat, she resolved to go forward 
 boldly. She peeped into all the cheerless chambers, 
 then returned to the door. 
 
 ' Don't you want to see the school-rooms ? ' the old 
 woman asked. ' Go along that passage, and mind the 
 step at the end. 
 
 Thyrza was bolder now. The aspect of the house 
 had not depressed her, for she knew that it was to be 
 thoroughly repaired and furnished, and she was pre- 
 disposed to like everything she saw. It would be her 
 home, hers and Lyddy's ; the dignity of occupying a 
 whole house would have compensated for many little 
 discomforts. Thanking the old woman for her direction 
 she went along the dark passage, and came into the 
 large school-room. And this was to be filled with books ! 
 She looked at the maps and diagrams for a few moments : 
 though it was so bright a day, the place still kept much 
 of its chill and gloom. Grilbert had told her of the 
 rooms up above, and she thought she might as well 
 complete her knowledge of the building by seeing them. 
 At the first landing on the staircase she came to a 
 window by which the sun streamed in brilliantly ; the 
 rays gladdened her. It was nice that the old woman 
 had remained behind; the sense of being quite alone, 
 together with tlie sudden radiance, affected her with a 
 desire to utter her happiness, and as she went on she
 
 266 THYRZA 
 
 sang in a sweet undertone, sang without words, pure 
 music of her heart. 
 
 In one of the two rooms above, Egremont happened 
 to be taking certain measurements. Impatient to get 
 his plans completed in detail, he had resolved to come 
 for half an hour on this same day which had been 
 appointed for Grail's visit. Curious as he was to see 
 the woman whom Grail was about to marry — as yet he 
 knew nothing more of her than her casually learnt 
 name — delicacy prevented him from using the oppor- 
 tunity this afternoon would give ; the two were to arrive 
 at three o'clock, and long before that time he would 
 have finished his measuring and be gone. And now he 
 was making his last notes, when the sound of as sweet 
 a voice as he had ever heard made him pause and listen. 
 The singer was approaching ; her voice grew a little 
 louder, though still in the undertone of one who sings 
 but half consciously. He caught a light footstep, then 
 the door was pushed open. 
 
 His hand fell. Even such a face as this would he 
 have desired for her whose voice had such a charm. 
 Her dress told him her position ; the greater was his 
 wonder at the features, which seemed to him of faultless 
 delicacy — more than that, of beauty which appealed to 
 him as never beauty had yet. Tbyrza stood in alarm ; 
 the murmur had died instantly upon her lips, and for a 
 moment she met his gaze with directness. Then her 
 c^yes fell ; her cheeks recovered with interest the blood 
 which they had lost. She turned to retreat.
 
 THYRZA SINGS AGAIN 267 
 
 But Egremont stepped rapidly forward, saying the 
 first words that came to him. 
 
 ' Pray don't let me be in your way I I'm this 
 moment going — this moment.' 
 
 P'rom her singing, he concluded that she was accus- 
 tomed to be here. Thyrza again met his look. She 
 guessed who this must be. The kindness of his face 
 as he stood before her caused her to speak the words she 
 was thinking : 
 
 ' Are you Mr. Egremont, sir ? ' 
 
 Then she was shocked at her boldness ; she did not 
 see the smile with which he replied : 
 
 ' Yes, that is my name.' 
 
 ' I am Miss Trent. Perhaps you have — perhaps Mr. 
 G-rail has told you ' 
 
 This, Miss Trent ? This, Gilbert Grail's wife ? His 
 astonishment scarcely allowed him to relieve her 
 promptly. 
 
 ' Oh then, we already know each other, by name at 
 least. You have come to look at the buildinof. Mr. 
 Grail is downstairs ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir. I came in alone. I thought I should like 
 to see ' 
 
 ' Of course. You have been over the house ? ' 
 
 He wondered rather at her coming alone, but sup- 
 posed that Grail was withheld by some business. 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' she answered. 
 
 ' I'm afraid you think it doesn't look very promising. 
 But I'm sure we can do a great deal to improve it.'
 
 268 THYRZA 
 
 ' I think it's very nice,' Thyrza said, not at all out 
 of politeness, but because she did indeed think so. 
 
 * I will do my best to make it so, as soon as it is 
 vacant. These two rooms,' he added, loth to take 
 leave at once, 'we shall use for lectures. Have you 
 been into the other one ? ' 
 
 He led the way, taking up his hat from the desk. 
 Thyrza was overcoming her timidity. All she had 
 ever heard of Egremont prepared her to find him full of 
 gentleness and courtesy and good humour ; already she 
 thought that far too little had been said in his praise. 
 His singular smile occupied her imagination ; she 
 wished to keep her eyes on his face, for the pleasure of 
 following its changes. Indeed, like her own, his fea- 
 tures were very mobile, and the various emotions now 
 stirring within him animated his look. She kept at a 
 little distance from him and listened with the keenest 
 interest to all he said, ^^'hen he paused, after telling 
 her the number of books he had decided to begin with, 
 she said : 
 
 ' Mr. Grrail does so look forward to it. I'm sure 
 nothing could have made him so happy.' 
 
 Egremont was pleased with a note of sincerity, of 
 self-forgetfulness in these words. He replied : 
 
 ' I am very glad. I know he'll be at home among 
 books. Are you fond of reading ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir. Mr. Grrail lends me books, and explains 
 what I don't understand. I shall be glad when I know 
 more.'
 
 THYRZA SINGS AGAIN 269 
 
 * No doubt you will find plenty of time.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir. I shan't go to work then. But of course 
 there'll be the house to look after.' 
 
 Egremont glanced towards the windows and mur- 
 mured an assent. Thyrza moved a little nearer the 
 door. 
 
 ' I think I'll go, now I've seen everything.' 
 
 ' I am going myself.' 
 
 She preceded him down the stairs. He watched 
 her ungloved hand touch place after place on the 
 railing, watched her slightly bent head with its long 
 braid of gold and the knot of blue ribbon. At the 
 turning to the lower flight, he caught a glimpse of her 
 profile, and felt that he would not readily forget its 
 perfectness. At the foot he asked : 
 
 ' Do you wish to pass through the house ? If not, 
 this door is open.' 
 
 ' I'll go this way, sir.' 
 
 She just raised her face. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Miss Trent,' he said, offering his hand. 
 
 ' Good-bye, sir.' 
 
 Then he opened the door for her. After standing 
 for a few moments in the vestibule, he went to speak a 
 word to the caretaker. 
 
 Thyrza walked home, looking neither to right nor to 
 left. There was a little spot of colour on each cheek 
 which would not melt away. Reaching the room up- 
 stairs, she sat down without taking off her things. She
 
 270 THYRZA 
 
 ought to have prepared her dinner, but did not think of 
 it, and at length she was startled by hearing a clock 
 strike three. 
 
 She ran down to the Grrails' room. Gilbert and his 
 mother had just finished their meal. The latter 
 gossiped for a moment, then went out. 
 
 ' I want you to go somewhere with me,' Grilbert 
 said. 
 
 ' Yes, I'm quite ready ; but ' 
 
 ' But ' 
 
 ' I have something to tell you, Grilbert I wonder 
 whether you'll be cross.' 
 
 ' When was I cross last, Thyrza ? ' 
 
 'Xo, but I'm not sure whether I ought to have 
 done something. As I was coming home, I thought I'd 
 walk past the house. When I got there, I thought I'd 
 just go up the passage and look. And that old woman 
 met me, and asked me if it was me that was going to 
 live there. How did she know ? ' 
 
 Gilbert laughed. 
 
 ' That's more than I can tell.' 
 
 ' But that isn't all. She said I might go in and 
 look about if I liked. And I thought I would — did I 
 do wrong?' 
 
 She saw a shade of disappointment on his face. 
 But he said : 
 
 ' Not at all. Did you go over all the rooms ? ' 
 
 'Yes. But there's something else. I went into 
 those school-rooms upstair?, never thinking there was
 
 THYRZA SINGS AGAIN 271 
 
 anyone there, because the old woman told me there 
 wasn't. But there vjas — and it was Mr. Egremont.' 
 
 ' Really ? Did he know who you were ? ' 
 
 ' I told him, Gilbert.' 
 
 He laughed again, and there was a look of pride in 
 his eyes. 
 
 ' Well, there's nothing very dreadful yet. And did 
 he speak nicely ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, very nicely. And when I went away, he shook 
 hands.' 
 
 ' It's a very queer thing that you happened to go 
 just to-day. That's exactly where I meant to take you 
 this afternoon. I'm rather disappointed.' 
 
 ' I'm very sorry. But couldn't I go with you again ? 
 We shall be alone this time : Mr. Egremont said he was 
 just going.' 
 
 ' It won't tire you?' 
 
 ' Oh, but I should like to go I I made up my mind 
 which'll be Lyddy's room. I wonder whether you'll 
 guess the same.' 
 
 ' Come along, then ! '
 
 272 
 
 THYRZA 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MISTS. 
 
 Paula Tyrrell was married at Easter. Convenience dic- 
 tated this speed — in other words, Paula resolved to com- 
 mence the season as Mrs. Dalmaine and in a house of her 
 own. Mr. Dalmaine had pointed out the advantage of 
 using the Easter recess. As there was scarcely time 
 to select and make ready an abode for permanence, 
 it was decided to take a house in Kensington, which 
 friends of the Tyrrells desired to let for the year. 
 
 Annabel was not present at the wedding. It was 
 the second week in March before Mr. Newthorpe 
 felt able to leave Ullswater, and Annabel had little 
 mind to leave him for such a purpose immediately 
 after their establishment at Eastbourne. Indeed, she 
 would rather not have attended the wedding under any 
 circumstances. 
 
 Her father had been gravely ill. There was organic 
 disease, and there was what is vaguely called nervous 
 breakdown ; it was too clear that Mr. Newthorpe must 
 count upon very moderate activity either of mind or 
 body henceforth. He himself was not quite unprepared
 
 MISTS 273 
 
 for this collapse ; he accepted it with genial pessimism. 
 Fate had said that his life was to result in nothing — 
 nothing, that is, from the point of view of his early 
 aspirations. Yet there was Annabel, and in her the 
 memory of his life's passion. As he lay in silence 
 through the days when spring combated with winter, 
 he learned acquiescence ; after all he was among the 
 happier of men, for he could look back upon a few 
 days of great joy, and forward without ignoble anxiety. 
 
 He felt that the abandonment of Ullswater was 
 final, yet would not say so to Annabel. Mrs. Ormonde 
 had made ready a house at a short distance from her 
 own, and here the two would live at all events into 
 the summer ; beyond that, all must hinge on circum- 
 stances. They broke the journey for a couple of days 
 in London, staying with their relatives. During those 
 days Paula behaved very prettily. A certain affection 
 had grown up between her and her uncle whilst she 
 was at Ullswater, and the meeting under these dolefully 
 changed conditions touched her best feelings. Yet 
 with her cousin she was reserved ; her behaviour did 
 not bear out the evidence of latent tenderness and ad- 
 miration contained in that letter of hers which we saw. 
 Ani.abel had looked for something more. Just now she 
 was longing for affection and sympathy, and Paula was 
 the only girl friend she had. But Paula would only 
 speak of Mr. Dalmaine and, absurdest thing, of politics. 
 Annabel retired into herself. She whs glad to reach at 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 THYRZA 
 
 length the quiet house by the sea, glad to be near Mrs. 
 Ormonde. 
 
 The circumstances of Annabel's early life had 
 worked happily with her inherited disposition. Her 
 father, had he been free to choose, would have planned 
 her training differently, but in all likelihood with less 
 advantage than she derived from the compromise 
 between her parents. Though at the time of her 
 mother's death she still waited for formal recognition 
 as a member of Society, being but sixteen, she was of 
 riper growth than the majority of young ladies who in 
 that season were being led forth for review and to per- 
 fect themselves in arts of civilisation. From her mother 
 she had learnt, directly or indirectly, much of that 
 little world which deems the greater world its satellite ; 
 from her father she received love of knowledge and re- 
 verence for the nobler modes of life. She was marked 
 by a happy balance of character; all that came to her 
 from without she seemed naturally to assimilate in due 
 proportions ; her tastes were those of an imaginative 
 temper, tending to joyousness but susceptible of grave 
 impressions. She relished books, yet never allowed 
 them to hold her from bodily exercise ; she knew the 
 happiness of solitude, yet could render welcomest com- 
 panionship ; at one time she conversed earnestly with 
 those older and wiser than herself, at another she was 
 the willing playmate of laughing girls. She was loved 
 by those who could by no possibility have loved one 
 ano*"her, and in tarn she seemed to discover with sure
 
 MISTS 275 
 
 insight what there was of strength and beauty in the 
 most diverse characters. With this breadth of sympathy 
 she developed a self-consciousness of the kind to which 
 most women never attain ; habitually studying herself, 
 and making comparison of herself with other, she 
 cultivated her understanding and her emotions simul- 
 taneously. 
 
 Her time of serious study only began when she 
 exchanged London for the mountain solitude. Hence- 
 forth her father's influence exerted itself freely, and 
 Annabel had just reached the age for profiting most bv 
 it. Her bringing up between a brilliant drawing-room 
 and a well-stocked library had preserved her from the 
 two dangers to which English girls of the free-boru 
 class are mainly exposed : she escaped Puritanism, yet 
 was equally withheld from frivolous worldliness. But it 
 was well that this balance, admii'ably maintained thus 
 far, should not be submitted to the risks of such a life 
 as awaited her, if there had come no change of con- 
 ditions. She would be a beautiful woman, and was not 
 unaware of it ; her social instincts, which Society would 
 straightway do its best to abuse, might outweigh her 
 spiritual tendencies. But a year of life by Ullswater 
 consolidated her womanhood. She bent herself to books 
 with eagerness. The shock of sorrow compelled her 
 to muse on problems which as yet she had either not 
 realised, or had solved in the ligiit of tradition, child- 
 wise. Her mind was ripe for those modern processes
 
 276 THYRZA 
 
 of thought which hitherto had only been implicit in 
 her education. 
 
 To her father Annabel's companionship was invalu- 
 able. She repaid richly out of the abundance of her 
 youthful life that anxious guidance which he gave to 
 ]ier thoughts. Her loving tact sweetened for him 
 many an hour which would else have been spent in 
 profitless brooding ; when the signs of which she had 
 become aware warned her that he needed to be drawn 
 from himself, she was always ready with her bright 
 converse, her priceless sympathy. Without her he 
 would seldom have exerted himself to wander far from 
 the house, but Annabel could at any time lead him 
 over hill and valley by pretending that she had need of 
 a holiday. Their communion was of a kind not fre- 
 quently existing between father and daughter ; fellow- 
 ship in study made them mental comrades, and respect 
 for each other's intellectual powers was added to their 
 natural love. What did they not discuss? From 
 classical archseology to the fire-new theories of the day 
 in a and science, something of all passed at one time 
 or another under their scrutiny. 
 
 Yet there was the limit imposed by fine feeling. 
 Mr. Newthorpe never tried to pass the sacred bound 
 which parts a father's province from that of a mother. 
 There was much in the girl's heart that he would gladly 
 have read, yet could not until she should of herself 
 reveal it to him. For instance, they did not very often 
 speak of Egremont. When a letter arrived from him,
 
 MISTS 277 
 
 Mr. Newthorpe always gave it to Annabel to read ; at 
 other tinies that was a subject on which he spoke only 
 when she introduced it. After Walter's departur*^ 
 there had been one conversation between them in which 
 Annabel told what had come to pass; she went so 
 far as to speak of a certain trouble she had on Paula's 
 account. 
 
 ' I think you must use your philosophy with regard 
 to Paula,' her father replied. ' Of course I know no- 
 thing of the circumstances, but,' he smiled not unkindly, 
 ' the child I think I know pretty well. Don't be 
 troubled. I have confidence in Egremont.' 
 
 ' I have the same feeling in truth, father,' Annabel 
 said, ' and — 1 feel nothing more than that.' 
 
 ' Then let it rest, dear. I certainly have no desire 
 to lose you.' 
 
 So much between them. Thereafter, both spoke 
 of Egremont, when at all, in an unconstrained way. 
 Annabel showed frank interest in all that concerned 
 him, but as far as Mr. Newthorpe could discern, no- 
 thing more than the interest of friendliness. As the 
 months went on, he discerned no change. Her life 
 was as cheerful and as steadily industrious as ever ; 
 nothing betrayed unsettlement of the thought. If her 
 father by chance entered the room where she studied, 
 he found her bent over books, her face beautiful in 
 calm zeal. 
 
 The first grave symptoms of illness in her father 
 opened a new chapter of Annabel's life. It was time
 
 2 78 THYRZA 
 
 to lay aside hooks for a little ; the fated scheme of her 
 existence required at this point new experiences. The 
 student's habit does not readily reconcile itself to de- 
 mands for practical energy and endurance, and it is no 
 shame to tell of Annabel that when the first strain of 
 fear-stricken love was relaxed, she fell for a few days 
 into grievous weakness of despondency. It is pleasant 
 to imagine woman as the ever-ready, all-enduring angel 
 of household help ; if the truth must be told, that 
 quality is for the most part assured at the expense of 
 intellectual development. Annabel's exercise in the 
 virtues deemed by pre-eminence womanly was of the 
 slightest ; summoned from her study to all the miseries 
 of a sick-room, it was mere nervous force that failed 
 her. At the end of a week she was herself all but 
 needing care. She would not fail utterly ; there was 
 too much of nobleness in her character. When her 
 father had his relapse, she was able to face the demand 
 upon her more sternly. But the trial through which 
 she was passing was a severe one. With the invalid 
 she could keep a bright face, and make her presence, 
 as ever, a blessing to him. Alone, she cared no longer 
 for her books, nor for the beauty that was about her 
 home. You remember that passage in her letter to 
 Egremont : ' The world seems to me very dark, and 
 life a dreadful penalty.' She could have uttered much 
 on that text to one from whom she had had no secret. 
 
 It was the time of Annabel's revolt. 
 
 One day, when Mr. Newthorpe was again recovering
 
 MJSTS 279 
 
 strength, there came a letter from ^h>. Tyrrell which 
 announced the date of Paula's marriage. Annabel 
 received the letter to read. As she was sitting with her 
 father a little later, he said, with a return of his humor- 
 ous mood : 
 
 ' I wonder on what footing Egremont will be in the 
 new household ? ' 
 
 ' I suppose,' Annabel replied, ' his acquaintance 
 with Mr. Dalmaine will continue to be of the slightest.' 
 
 He paused a little, then, quietly : 
 
 ' I am glad of this marriage.' 
 
 Annabel said nothing. 
 
 ' It proves,' he continued, ' that we did well in not 
 thinking too gravely of a certain incident.' 
 
 Annabel led the conversation away. She had 
 singular thoughts on this subject. Paula's letter, first 
 announcing the engagement, made mention of Egre- 
 mont in a curious way ; and it was at least a strange 
 hap that Paula should be about to marry the man 
 against whom Egremont had expressed such an antipathy. 
 
 Her father said no more, but Annabel had a new 
 care for her dark mood to feed upon. She felt that 
 the words ^ I am oflad of this marriao:e ' concerned her- 
 self. They meant that her father was glad of the 
 removal of what was perchance one barrier between 
 Egremont and herself. And in these long weeks in 
 which she was anguished by the spectacle of suffering, 
 it had become her first de:?ire to be of comfort to the 
 sufiferer. Her ideal of a placid life was shattered ; the
 
 28o THYRZA 
 
 things which availed her formerly now seemed weak to 
 rely upon. In so dark a world, what guidance was 
 there save by the hand of love ? 
 
 Her childhood was behind her. When she thought 
 of marriage, it was not as an untrained girl thinks. 
 Asceticism and the world's ignoble motives were equally 
 far from her ; from books and from nature she had 
 learnt to deal honestly with her heart. Mr. Xewthorpe 
 could see no good in the moral prejudice which desires 
 that a young woman should go forth into the world 
 with a bandage about her eyes and ears, and will make 
 believe that she does so, even though the contrary 
 should be flagrantly evident. The education he had 
 favoured was not that of the convent. Annabel stood 
 on an intellectual equality with the man who sought to 
 win her, and there was so much the less danger that her 
 life would fall into frustration. When Egremont bade 
 farewell to Ullswater that rainy day of summer, she 
 had asked herself : Should I have felt that all the joy 
 of my being was gone from me, if he had left without 
 speaking those words ? And for answer she could only 
 shake her head and smile. Eeplying to him, she had 
 spoken what she believed to be the very truth. 
 
 Those letters of his to her father she read with deep 
 attention. It was a very lovable nature that they 
 unconsciously revealed ; she recognised that, and her 
 kindness for the writer grew, her respect for him grew ; 
 but she did not love him. 
 
 She was in full intellectual sympathy with him, and
 
 MISTS 281 
 
 the thought of becoming his wife had no painful asso- 
 ciations ; but could she bring herself to abandon that 
 ideal of love which had developed with her own develop- 
 ment ? ^lust she relinquish the hope of a great passion, 
 and take the hand of a man whom she merely liked 
 and respected. It was a question she must decide, for 
 Egremont, when they again met, might again seek to 
 win her. The idealism which she derived from her 
 father would not allow her yet to regard life as a com- 
 promise, which women are so skilled in doing practi- 
 cally, though the better part in them to the end revolts. 
 Yet who was she, that life should bestow its highest 
 blessing upon her? What arrogance was this, that 
 made conscience of the desire for happiness ? And 
 then — how could she tell ? — was she capable of con- 
 ceiving that passionate love which had exalted others 
 to the heaven of heavens ? It might well be that 
 intellect was too predominant in her. 
 
 When at the Tyrrells' house in London, she feared 
 lest Egremont should come. Mrs. Tyrrell spoke much 
 of him the first evening, lamenting that he had so with- 
 drawn himself from his friends. But he did not come. 
 
 At Eastbourne, Mr. Xewthorpe's health began to 
 improve. Even in a week the change was very marked. 
 He seemed to have taken a resolve to restore the old 
 order of things V)y force of will. Doubtless his con- 
 versations with Mrs. Ormonde about Annabel were an 
 incentive to effort ; relieved from the weight of suffer- 
 ing, he could see that the girl was not herself. On
 
 282 THYRZA 
 
 Paula's marriage day, he said, in the course of conver- 
 sation with Annabel : 
 
 ' Your aunt desires very much to have you with her 
 for a part of the season. AYhat do you think of it ? 
 Would you care to go up in May ? ' 
 
 Annabel did not at once reject the idea. 
 
 ' It is my opinion that you need some such change,' 
 her father continued. ' The last quarter of a year has 
 done you harm. In a month I hope to be sound 
 enough.' 
 
 ' I will think of it,' she said. And there the subject 
 rested. 
 
 The town was secretly attracting her. The odour 
 of the Tyrrells' house had exercised a certain seduction. 
 Though she saw but one or two old acquaintances there, 
 the dining-room, the drawing-room, brought the past 
 vividly back to her. She was not so wholly alien to her 
 mother's blood that the stage-life of the world was 
 without appeal to her, and circumstances were favour- 
 able to a revival of that element in her character which 
 I touched upon when speaking of her growth out of 
 childhood. It is a common piece of observation that 
 studious gravity in youth is succeeded by a desire for 
 action and enjoyment. Annabel's disposition to study 
 did not return, though quietness was once more restored 
 to her surroundings. And thus, though the settlement 
 at Eastbourne seemed a relief, she soon found that it 
 did not effect all she hoped. Her father began to take 
 up his books again, though in a desultory, half-hearted
 
 MISTS 283 
 
 way. Annabel could not do even that. A portion of 
 each day she spent with Mrs. Ormonde ; often she 
 walked by herself on the shore ; a book was seldom in 
 her hand. 
 
 Two or three days before the end of ^larch, ^Ir. 
 Xewthorpe spoke of Egremont. 
 
 ' I should like to see him. May I ask him to come 
 and spend a day with us, Annabel ? ' 
 
 ' Do by all means, father,' she answered. ' Mrs. 
 Ormonde heard from him yesterday. He came into 
 possession of his library-building the other day.' 
 
 ' I will write, then.' 
 
 This was Monday ; on Wednesday morning Egre- 
 mont came. The nine months or so which had passed 
 since these three met had made an appreciable change 
 in all of them. When Egremont entered the room 
 where father and daughter were expecting him, he was 
 first of all shocked at the wasting and ageing of Mr. 
 Xewthorpe's face, then surprised at the difference he 
 found in Annabel — this too of a kind that troubled him. 
 He thought her less beautiful than she had been. With 
 no picture of her to aid him, he had for long periods 
 been unable to make her face really present to his 
 mind's eye — one of the sources of his painful debates 
 with himself. When it came, as faces do, at unantici- 
 pated moments, be saw her as she looked in walking 
 back with him from the lake-side, wlien she declared 
 that the taste of the rain was sweet. Is it not the best 
 of life, that involuntary flash of memory upon instants
 
 284 THVRZA 
 
 of the eager past? better than present joy, in which 
 there is ever a core of disappointment; better, far 
 better, than hope, which cannot warm without burning. 
 Annabel was surpassingly beautiful as he knew her in 
 that brief vision. Beautiful she still was, but it was as 
 if a new type of loveliness had come between her and 
 his admiration ; he could regard her without emotion. 
 The journey from London had been one incessant an- 
 ticipation, tormented with doubt. Would her presence 
 conquer him royally, assure her dominion, convert his 
 intellectual fealty to passionate desire ? He regarded 
 her without emotion. 
 
 Yet Annabel was not so calm as she wished to be. 
 Only by force of will could she transact the gTeetings 
 without evidence of more than friendly pleasure. This 
 irritated her, for up to an hour ago she had said that 
 his coming would in no way disturb her. WTien, after 
 an hour's talk, she left her father and the guest to- 
 gether, and went up to her room, the first feeling she 
 acknowledged to herself was one of disappointment. 
 Egremont had changed, and not, she thought, for the 
 better. He had lost something — perchance that fresh- 
 ness of purpose which had become him so well. He 
 seemed to talk of his undertakings less spontaneously, 
 and in a tone — she could not quite say what it was, but 
 liis tone perhaps suggested the least little lack of sin- 
 cerity. And her agitation when he entered the room ? 
 It had meant notliing, nothing. Her nerves were weak, 
 that was all.
 
 MISTS 285 
 
 She wished she could shed tears. There was no 
 cause for il, surely none, save a physical need Such a 
 feeling was very strange to her. 
 
 They had luncheon; then, as his custom was, Mr. 
 Xewthorpe went apart to rest for a couple of hours. 
 Mrs. Ormonde was coming to dine ; the hour of the 
 meal would be early, to allow of Egremont's return to 
 town. In the meantime the latter obtained Annabel's 
 consent to a walk. They took the road ascending to 
 Beachy Head. 
 
 ' You still have opportunity of climbing,' Egremont 
 said. 
 
 ' On a modest scale. But I am not regretting the 
 mountains. The sea, I thiok, is more to me at present.' 
 They were not quite at ease together. Conversation 
 turned about small things, and was frequently broken. 
 The day was not very bright, and mist spoiled the 
 view landwards. The sea was at ebb, and sluocrish 
 Annabel of her own accord reverted to Lambeth, 
 * You must have had many pleasures arising from 
 your work,' she said, ' but one above all I envy vou. I 
 mean that of helping poor Mr. Grail so well.' 
 
 ' Yes, that is a real happiness,' he answered, 
 thoughtfully. ' The idea of making him librarian came 
 to me almost at the same moment as that of establish- 
 ing the library. I didn't know then all that it would 
 mean to him. I was fortunate in meeting that man, 
 one out of thousands.' 
 
 ' He must be deeply grateful to you.'
 
 286 THYRZA 
 
 * We are good friends. I respect him more than I 
 can tell you. I don't think you could find a man, 
 in whatever position, of more sterling character. His 
 love of knowledge touches me as something ideal. It 
 is monstrous to think that he might have spent all his 
 life in that candle factory.' 
 
 Annabel reflected for a moment. Then a look of 
 pleasure lighted her face, and she spoke with a revival 
 of the animation which had used to appeal so strongly 
 to his sympathies. 
 
 ' See what one can do ! You become a sort of 
 providence to a man. Indeed, you change his fate ; 
 you give him a new commencement of life. What a 
 strange thought that is ? Do you feel it as I do ? ' 
 
 ' Quite, I think. And can you understand that it 
 has sometimes shamed me ? Just because I happen to 
 have money I can do this ! Isn't it a poor sordid 
 world? Not one man, but perhaps a hundred, could 
 be raised into a new existence by what in my hands is 
 mere superfluity of means. Doesn't such a thou^lit 
 make life a great foolish game ? Suppose me saying, 
 " Here is a thousand pounds ; shall I buy a yacht to 
 play with, or — shall I lift a living man's soul out of 
 darkness into light ? " ' 
 
 He broke off and laughed bitterly. Annabel glanced 
 at him. She noticed that thoughts of this cast were 
 now frequent in his mind, though formerly they had 
 been strange to him. He used to face problems with 
 simple directness, in the positive spirit or with an
 
 MISTS 287 
 
 idealist's enthusiasm ; now he leaned to scepticism, 
 though it was his endeavour to conceal the tendency. 
 She was struck with the likeness of this change in him 
 to that which she herself was suffering ; yet it did not 
 touch her sympathies, and she was anxious forthwith to 
 avoid coincidence with him. 
 
 ' You yourself offer the answer to that,' she replied. 
 ' The very fact that you have exerted such power, never 
 mind by what means, puts you in a relation to that 
 man which is anything but idle or foolish. Isn't it 
 rather a great and moving thing that one can be a 
 source of such vast blessing to another? Money is 
 only the accident. It is the kindness, the human 
 feeling, that has to be considered. You show what the 
 world might be, if aU men were human. If I could do 
 one act like that, Mr. Egremont, I should cry with 
 gratitude I ' 
 
 He looked at her, and found the Annabel of his 
 memory, ^^'ith the exception of Mrs. Ormonde, he 
 knew no woman who spoke thus from heart and in- 
 tellect at once. The fervour of his admiration was 
 rekindled. 
 
 ' It is to vou one should come for stren;;th,' he said, 
 ' when the world weighs too heavily.' 
 
 Annabel was sober again. 
 
 'Do you often go and see him at his house?' she 
 asked, speaking of Grail. 
 
 ' I am going on Friday night. I liave not been 
 since that one occasion which I mentioned in a letter
 
 288 TH YRZA 
 
 to Mr. Newthorpe. I had to write to him yesterday 
 about the repair of the house he is going to live in, 
 and in his reply this morning he asked me to come for 
 an hour's talk.' 
 
 ' You were curious, father told me, about the wife 
 he had chosen. Have you seen her yet ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. She is quite a young girl.' 
 
 He was looking at a far-off sail, and as he replied 
 his eyes kept the same direction. Annabel asked no 
 further question. Egremont laughed before he spoke 
 again. 
 
 'How absurdly one conjectures about unknown 
 people ! I suppose it was natural to think of Grrail 
 marrying someone not quite young and very grave.' 
 
 ' But I hope she is grave enough to be his fitting 
 companion ? ' 
 
 He opened his lips, but altered the words he was 
 about to speak. 
 
 ' I only saw her for a few minutes — a chance meet- 
 ing. She impressed me favourably.' 
 
 They walked in a leisurely way for about half an 
 hour, then turned. Mists were creeping westward over 
 Pevensey, and the afternoon air was growing chill. 
 There was no sound from tlie sea, which was divided 
 lengthwise into two tracts of different hue, that near 
 the land a pale green, that which spread to the horizon 
 a cold grey. 
 
 Nothing passed between them which could recall 
 their last day together, nothing beyond that one ex-
 
 MISTS 289 
 
 clamation of Egremont's, which Annabel hardly ap- 
 peared to notice. Neither desired to prolong tlie 
 conversation. Yet neither had ever more desired 
 heart-sympathy than now. 
 
 Annabel said to herself: 'It is over.' She was 
 spared anxious self-searching. The currents of their 
 lives were slowly but surely carrying them apart from 
 each other. When she came into the dra\\ ing-room to 
 otfer tea, her face was brighter^ as if she had experienced 
 some relief. 
 
 Mrs. Ormonde had not seen Egremont for some six 
 weeks. The tone of the one or two letters she had 
 received from him did not reassure her against mis- 
 givings excited at his latest visit. To her he wrote far 
 more truly than to Mr. Newthorpe, and she knew, what 
 the others did not, that he was anything but satisfied 
 with the course he had taken since Christmas in his 
 lecturing. 'After Easter,' was her advice, ' return to 
 your plain instruction. It is more fruitful of profit 
 both to your hearers and to yourself.' But Egremont 
 had begun to doubt whether after Easter he should 
 lecture at all. 
 
 ' Mr. Bunces little girl is coming to me again,' she 
 said, in the talk before dinner. ' You know the poor 
 little thing has been in hospital for three weeks ? * 
 
 ' I haven't heard of it,' Egremont replied. ' I'm 
 
 sorry that I haven't really come to know Bunce. I 
 
 had a short talk with him a month ago, and he told 
 
 me then that his children were well. But he is so 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 THYRZA 
 
 reticent that I have feared to try further to get his 
 confidence.' 
 
 ' Why, Bunce is the aggressive atheist, isn't he ? ' 
 said Mr. Newthorpe. 
 
 Mrs. Ormonde smiled and nodded. 
 
 ' I fear he is a man of misfortunes,' she said. ' My 
 friend at the hospital tells me that his wife was small 
 comfort to him whilst she lived. She left him three 
 young children to look after, and the eldest of them — 
 she is about nine — is always ill. There seems to be no 
 oae to tend them whilst their father is at work.' 
 
 'Who will bring the child here ? ' Egremont asked. 
 
 ' She came by herself last time. But I hear she is 
 still very weak ; perhaps someone will have to be sent 
 from the hospital.' 
 
 During dinner, the library was discussed. Egremont 
 reported that workmen were already busy m the school- 
 rooms and in Grrail's house. 
 
 ' I'm in coirespondence,' he said, with a man I knew 
 some years ago, a scientific fellow, who has heard some- 
 how of my undertakings, and wrote asking if he might 
 help by means of natural science. Perhaps it might be 
 well to begin a course of that kind in one of the rooms. 
 It would appeal far more to the Lambeth men than 
 what I am able to offer.' 
 
 This project passi^d under review, then Egremont 
 himself led the talk to widely different things, and 
 thereafter resisted any tendency it showed to return 
 upon his special affairs. Annabel was rather silent.
 
 MISTS 291 
 
 An hour after dinner, Egremont had to depart to 
 catch his train. He took leave of his friends very 
 quietly. 
 
 ' We shall come and see the library as soon as it is 
 open,' said Mr. Xewthorpe. 
 
 Egremont smiled merely. 
 
 Mr. Xewthorpe remarked that Egremont seemed 
 disappointed with the results of his work. 
 
 ' I should uncommonly like to hear one of these 
 new lectures,' he said. ' I expect there's plenty of 
 sound matter in them. ^ly fear is lest they are over 
 the heads of his audience.' 
 
 ' I fear,' said ^Irs. Ormonde, ' it is waste both of his 
 time and that of the men. But the library will cheer 
 him ; there is something solid, at all events.' 
 
 ' Yes, that can scarcely fail of results.' 
 
 ' I think most of Mr. Grrail,' put in x\nnabel. 
 
 'A true woman,' said Mrs. Ormonde, with a smile. 
 * Certainly, let the individual come before the crowd.' 
 
 And all agreed that in Gilbert Grail was the best 
 residt hitherto of Egremont's work. 
 
 END OF THE FIR:>T VOLUME 
 
 PRXXTED BY 
 
 5POTTISWOODE AXD Co., KEW-6TREET SQUARB 
 
 LONDON
 
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