TEMPTING FORTUNE
Thyrza continued 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.
Lydia pursued her course with the usual method and contentment, yet, in
these days just before Christmas, 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.
On Christmas 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 ease, 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.'
'I'll 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 impatiently.
'I only say what I think, dear.'
Lydia for once succeeded in choosing wiser silence. 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 furnished 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 any thing?'
'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.'
'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 announced 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 muffler 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
exercise 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 him,
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 see, after tea.'
They made much of him, 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.
Mary Bower 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.
'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 'ad 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 cure me of my
sharp temper and you of grumbling, grandad; and I know which 'll 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 _we_ 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 forgotten 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.
'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 Saturday Lydia
had no work to go to, and the hours dragged. In the course of the
morning she went out to make some purchases. She was passing Mrs.
Bower's without intention of entering, when Mary appeared in the
doorway 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?'
'I 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. Raggles
saw him in a public-house somewhere 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 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. 'Now wasn't I right, Lydia?'
Lydia looked up with hot cheeks.
'I don't believe it!' she said vehemently. 'Who's Mr. Raggles? 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 persistency.
'And I say the same still, and I always will say it? 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! You're unkind, and it's your chapel-going that makes you so!
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
all 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 doubtful. The outburst of
anger confirmed Mary in strange suspicions which had for some time
lurked in her mind.
On Sunday evening Lydia 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 knocked at the Grails' parlour; it
was Gilbert'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 bookcase, 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. There was a smile in them, and one so
reassuring, so--she knew not what--that she was tempted to add:
'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. Never 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.
Gilbert saw how disconcerted, how almost shocked, she was.
'I didn't mean to say that at once,' he 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?'
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, drawing 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 affection of
a child for a father.
'But should I be the right kind of wife for you, Mr. Grail?' 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 hands to him and said quickly:
'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 together 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 looking 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 necessity 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, when Mrs. Grail came into the parlour, Gilbert drew from
its envelope and handed to her the letter he had received from Egremont
on Christmas Eve. She read it, and turned round to him with
astonishment.
'Why didn't you tell me this, child? Well now, if I didn't _think_
there was something that night! Have you answered? Oh no, you're not to
answer for a week.'
'What's your advice?'
'Eh, how that reminds me of your father!' the old lady exclaimed. 'I've
heard him speak just with that voice and that look many a time. Well,
well, my dear, it's only waiting, you see; something comes soon or late
to those that deserve it. I'm glad I've lived to see this, Gilbert.'
He said, when they had talked of it for a few minutes:
'Will you show this to Thyrza to-morrow morning?'
She fixed her eyes on him, over the top of her spectacles, keenly.
'To be sure I will. Yes, yes, of course I will.'
'She's been here for a few minutes since tea. I told her if she'd come
down in the morning you'd have something to tell her.'
'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--something 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 anyone she knew. She was chilled and wretched.
Thyrza said nothing till her sister had taken off her hat and jacket
and seated herself.
'When did you see Mr. Ackroyd last?' she inquired.
'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 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. Grail 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 disclosure. This was the
meaning of Mr. Grail's reticence, of his apparent coldness at times.
Surely 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
suspected 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 the first to make her conscious of
the meaning of passion. It was not passion which rose within her to
reply to his, but the childlike security in which she had hitherto
lived was at an end; love was henceforth to be the preoccupation of her
soul.
She 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 indeed true
that Ackroyd no longer made pretence of loyalty to his old love, would
not Grail's knowledge of that change account for his sudden abandonment
of disguise? The two were friends; Grail 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,
connecting 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 would he hear of Thyrza's having
pledged herself! Assuredly 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.
'I feel I shall 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 Mr. Ackroyd, Lyddy!' 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 any one else. You know why I could never have
wished to marry him!'
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 promised Mr. Grail?'
'No, no, no!'
'Blue-eyes, nobody 'll ever love me but you. And I don't think I shall
ever have a sad minute if I see that you're happy. I do hope you've
done right.'
'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 'll 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. Grail 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 Mr. 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.
One evening 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 pleasant to hear, but
he's a good fellow and I'm not surprised at his luck. I haven't felt I
wanted to quarrel with him, and I think better of myself for that. And
yet it means a good deal to me--more than you think, 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 the unlucky fellows that can
never show what they feel. It all comes out in the wrong way. It
doesn't matter much now.'
Lydia had a feeling that this was not wholly sincere. He seemed to take
a pleasure in representing himself as luckless. Combined with what she
had heard, it helped her to say:
'A man doesn't suffer much from these things. You'll soon be cheerful
again. Good-bye, Mr. Ackroyd.'
She did not wait for anything more from him.