Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.
THYRZA
by
GEORGE GISSING
CONTENTS
I AMONG THE HILLS
II THE IDEALIST
III A CORNER OF LAMBETH
IV THYRZA SINGS
V A LAND OF TWILIGHT
VI DISINHERITED
VII THE WORK IN PROGRESS
VIII A CLASP OF HANDS
IX A GOLDEN PROSPECT
X TEMPTING FORTUNE
XI A MAN WITH A FUTURE
XII LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
XIII THYRZA SINGS AGAIN
XIV MISTS
XV A SECOND VISIT TO WALNUT TREE WALK
XVI SEA MUSIC
XVII ADRIFT
XVIII DRAWING NEARER
XIX A SONG WITHOUT WORDS
XX RAPIDS
XXI MISCHIEF AFOOT
XXII GOOD-BYE
XXIII CONFESSION
XXIV THE END OF THE DREAM
XXV A BIRD OF THE AIR
XXVI IDEALIST AND HIS FRIEND
XXVII FOUND
XXVIII HOPE SURPRISED
XXIX TOGETHER AGAIN
XXX MOVEMENTS
XXXI AN OLD MAN'S REST
XXXII TOTTY'S LUCK
XXXIII THE HEART AND ITS SECRET
XXXIV A LOAN ON SECURITY
XXXV THREE LETTERS
XXXVI THYRZA WAITS
XXXVII A FRIENDLY OFFICE
XXXVIII THE TRUTH
XXXIX HER RETURN
XL HER REWARD
XLI THE LIVING
CHAPTER I
AMONG THE HILLS
There were three at the breakfast-table--Mr. Newthorpe, his daughter
Annabel, and their visitor (Annabel'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 bookcases held overflowings
from the library; volumes in disorder, clearly more for use than
ornament. The casements were open to let in the air of a July morning.
Between the thickets of the garden the eye caught glimpses of
sun-smitten lake and sheer hillside; for the house stood on the shore
of Ullswater.
Of the three breakfasting, Miss Tyrrell was certainly the one whose
presence would least allow itself to be 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 her companions. Though it
was not apparent in her demeanour, this young lady was suffering under
a Calamity; her second 'season' had been ruined at its very culmination
by a ludicrous _contretemps_ in the shape of an attack of measles. Just
when she flattered herself that she had never looked so lovely, an
instrument of destiny 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 Piccadilly.
Mr. Newthorpe seldom interrupted his niece's monologue, but his eye
often rested upon her, seemingly 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?'
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 is in London--at least, he was a month ago.'
'Not much of a guarantee that he is there now,' Mr. Newthorpe rejoined.
'I'll drop him a line and see,' said Paula. 'I meant to do so
yesterday, but forgot. I'll write and tell him to send me a full
account of himself. Isn't it too bad that people don't write to me?
Everybody forgets you when you're out of town in the season. Now you'll
see I shan't have a single letter again this morning; it is the
cruellest thing!'
'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! 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 likes, 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' when we were there in
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 entirely.'
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 egg.
'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, Russell Street. Don't you know?'
'No 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 Tyrrell, also as usual, prepared for three hours of
letter-writing. Annabel, after a brief Consultation with Mrs. Martin,
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 something less than twenty, and bore herself with grace
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 regarded you with a pure intelligence,
disconcerting if your word uttered less than sincerity.
When her mother died Annabel was sixteen. Three months after that event
Mr. Newthorpe left London for his 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, and the
intellectual 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.' No 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 the 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.' 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
was set under shadowing leafage; in front two skiffs were moored on the
strand. The sky was billowy with slow-travelling shapes of whiteness; a
warm wind broke murmuring wavelets along the pebbly margin. The
opposite slopes glassed themselves in the deep dark water--Swarth Fell,
Hallin Fell, Place Fell--one after the other; above the southern bend
of the lake rose noble summits, softly 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.
This morning Annabel had no inclination to read, yet her face was not
expressive of the calm reflection 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 Mr. Newthorpe'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 his hand. At sight of her he took off his cap
and approached her bare-headed.
'I saw from a quarter of a mile away,' he said, 'that someone was
sitting here, and I 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.'
'Ah! I have been in Jersey for a month; I have heard nothing.'
'You were able to tear yourself from London in mid-season?'
'But when was I a devotee of the Season, Miss Newthorpe?'
'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 Buskin's 'Sesame and Lilies.'
'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 who finds his joy in the
life of Society. His clean-shaven face was rather bony, and its lines
expressed independence of character. His forehead was broad, his eyes
glanced quickly and searchingly, or widened themselves into an absent
gazing which revealed the imaginative temperament. His habitual cast of
countenance was meditative, with a tendency to sadness. In talk he
readily became vivacious; his short sentences, delivered 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 enthusiasm in speaking
of the book he had recommended to her when last at Ullswater. 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. Mr.
Newthorpe was writing; he looked up absently, but light 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.'
'Oh, 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 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 serious head?' she said,
merrily. 'It's only my fun, you know.'
Annabel nodded, smiling.
'But it is only my fun. Say you believe me. I shall be cross with you
if you put on that look.'
They 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 without having known of
your illness,' he said.
'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 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 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.
'Reading.'
'Novels?'
'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. 'Did you ever calculate
how many miles you have travelled since you left Oxford?'
'I have been a restless fellow,' he admitted, regarding 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 preoccupation 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
other 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.
'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 hint that
employers of labour will do wisely to increase the intelligence of
their hands in view of foreign competition. 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; Egremont continued to speak of Mr. Dalmaine, a
rising politician, whose acquaintance he had made on the voyage home
from New 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 scorn, his eyes flashing and his nostrils trembling. Mr.
Newthorpe 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 to Pooley Bridge for
his bag this afternoon; he 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 say we
shall hear all about it to-night.'