A SONG WITHOUT WORDS
Whilst the repairs were going on in the house behind the school, the
old caretaker still lived there. Egremont found that she had in truth
nowhere else to go, and as it was desirable that someone should remain
upon the premises, he engaged her to do so until the Grails entered
into possession.
As soon as painters, plasterers, and paperhangers were out of the way,
Grail and Thyrza went to the house to decide what furniture it would be
necessary to buy. The outlay was to be as little as possible, for
indeed there was but little money to spend. Mrs. Butterfield--that was
the old woman's name--admitted them, but without speaking; when Gilbert
made some kindly-meant remark about its being disagreeable for her to
live in such a strong odour of paint, she muttered inarticulately and
withdrew into the kitchen. Thyrza presently peeped into that room. The
old woman was sitting on a low stool by the fire, her knees up to her
chin, her grizzled hair unkempt; she looked so remarkably like a witch,
and, on Thyrza's appearance, turned with a gaze of such extreme
malignity, that the girl drew back in fear.
'I suppose she takes it ill that the old state of things has been
disturbed,' Gilbert said. 'Mr. Egremont tells me he has found that she
is to have a small weekly allowance from the chapel people, so I don't
suppose she'll fall into want, and we know he wouldn't send her off to
starve; that isn't his way.'
The removal of such things as were to be brought from Walnut Tree Walk,
and the housing of the new furniture, would take only a couple of days.
This was to be done immediately before the wedding; then Lydia and Mrs.
Grail would live in the house whilst the husband and wife were away.
Egremont found that the large school-room would be ready sooner than he
had anticipated. When it was cleaned out, there was nothing to do save
to fix shelves, a small counter, and two long tables. For some time he
had been making extensive purchases of books, for the most part from a
secondhand dealer, who warehoused his volumes for him till the library
should be prepared to receive them. He had drawn up, too, a skeleton
catalogue, but this could not be proceeded with before the books were
in some sort of order upon the shelves. He was nervously impatient to
reach this stage. Since his last visit to Eastbourne he had seen no
friends in civilised London, and now that he had no longer lectures to
write, his state of mind grew ever more unsatisfactory. Loneliness,
though to so great an extent self-imposed, weighed upon him
intolerably. He believed that he was going through the dreariest time
of his life.
How often he thought with envy of the little parlour in Walnut Tree
Walk! To toil oneself weary through a long day in a candle factory, and
then come back to the evening meal, with the certainty that a sweet
young face would be there to meet one with its smile, sweet lips to
give affectionate welcome--that would be better than this life which he
led. He wished to go there again, but feared to do so without
invitation. The memory of his evening there made drawing-rooms
distasteful to him.
He had a letter from Mrs. Ormonde, in which a brief mention was made of
Thyrza's visit. He replied:
'Why do you not tell me more of the impression made upon you by Miss
Trent? It was a favourable one, of course, as you kept her with you
over the Sunday. You do not mention whether Annabel saw her. She is
very fond of music; it would have been a kindness to ask Annabel to
play to her. But I have Miss Newthorpe's promise that she and her
father will come and see the library as soon as it is open; then at all
events they will make the acquaintance of Mrs. Grail.
'She interests me very much, as you gather from my way of writing about
her. I hope she will come to think of me as a friend. It will be
delightful to watch her mind grow. I am sure she has faculties of a
very delicate kind; I believe she will soon be able to appreciate
literature. Has she not a strange personal charm, and is it not
impossible to think of her becoming anything but a beautiful-natured
woman? You too, now that you know her, will continue to be her
friend--I earnestly hope so. If she could be for a little time with you
now and then, how it would help to develop the possibilities that are
in her!'
To the letter of which this was part, Mrs. Ormonde quickly responded:
'With regard to Miss Trent,' she said, 'I beg you not to indulge your
idealistic habits of thought immoderately. I found her a pretty and
interesting girl, and it is not unlikely that she may make a good wife
for such a man as Mr. Grail--himself, clearly, quite enough of an
idealist to dispense with the more solid housewifely virtues in his
life-mate. But I add this, Walter: It certainly would not be advisable
to fill her head too suddenly with a kind of thought to which she has
hitherto been a stranger. If I had influence with Mr. Grail, I should
hint to him that he is going to marry a very young wife, and that,
under the circumstances, the balance of character to be found in sober
domestic occupation will, for some time, be what she most needs to aim
at. You see, I am _not_ an idealist, and I think commonplace domestic
happiness of more account than aspirations which might not improbably
endanger it. Forgive me for these remarks, which you will say have a
slight odour of the kitchen, or, at best, of the store-room. Never
mind; both are places without which the study could not exist.'
Egremont bit his lips over this; for the first time he was dissatisfied
with Mrs. Ormonde. He wondered on what terms she had received Thyrza.
He had imagined the girl as treated with every indulgence at The
Chestnuts, but the tone of this letter made him fear lest Mrs. Ormonde
had deemed it a duty to refrain from too much kindness. It was very
unlike her; what had she observed that made her so disagreeably prudent
all at once?
It added to his mental malaise. What change was befalling his life? Was
he about to find himself actually sundered from the friends he had made
in the sphere which his birth gave him no claim to enter? It all meant
that he was reverting to the condition wherein he was born. His attempt
to become a member of Society (with a capital) was proving itself a
failure. Very well, he would find his friends in the working world.
When he needed society of an evening, he would find it with Gilbert
Grail and his wife. He would pursue his work more earnestly than ever;
he would get his club founded, as soon as the library was ready for a
rallying-place; he would seek diligently for the working men of hopeful
character, and by force of sincerity win their confidence. Let the
wealthy and refined people go their way.
And at this point he veritably experienced a great relief. For two days
he went about almost joyously. His task was renewed before him, and his
energy at the same time had taken new life. Doubt, he said to himself,
was once more vanquished--perchance finally.
Then came another letter from Mrs. Ormonde, asking him to come and
drink the air of these delicious spring days by the shore. He replied
that it was impossible to leave London. That very day he had despatched
seven packing-cases full of volumes to the library, and he was going to
begin the work of setting the books on the shelves.
That was a Monday; a week remained before Thyrza's marriage-day. Thyrza
had not been to the new house since she went with Gilbert to see about
the furniture. Her curiosity was satisfied; her interest in the place
had strangely lessened. More than that: in walking by herself she never
chose that direction, whereas formerly she had always liked to do so.
It seemed as if she had some reason for avoiding sight of the building.
This Monday her mind changed again. She frequently went to meet her
sister at the dinner-hour, and to-day, having set forth somewhat too
early, she went round by way of Brook Street. No positive desire
impelled her; it was rather as if her feet took that turning
independently of her thoughts. On drawing near to the library she was
surprised to see a van standing before the door; two men were carrying
a wooden box into the building. She crossed to the opposite side of the
way, and went forwards slowly. The men came out, mounted to the
box-seat of the van, and drove away.
That must be a delivery of books. Who was there to receive them?
She crossed the street again, and approached the library door. She
walked past it, stopped, came back. She tried the handle, and the door
opened. There was no harm in looking in.
Amid a number of packing-oases stood Egremont. His head was uncovered,
and he had a screw-driver in his hand, as if about to open the chests.
At sight of Thyrza he came forward with a look of delight and shook
hands with her.
'So you have discovered what I'm about. I didn't wish anyone to know.
You see, the shelves are all ready, and I couldn't resist the
temptation of having books brought. Will you keep the secret?'
'I won't say a word, sir.'
Warmth on Thyrza's cheeks answered the pleasure in his eyes as he
looked at her. Perhaps neither had fully felt how glad it would make
them to meet again. When Thyrza had given her assurance, Egremont's
face showed that he was going to say something in a different tone.
'Miss Trent, will you speak to me in future as you do to your friends?
I want very much to be one of your friends, if you will let me.'
Thyrza kept her eyes upon the ground. She could not find the fitting
words for reply. He continued:
'Grail is my friend, and we always talk as friends should. Won't you
cease to think of me as a stranger?'
'I don't think of you in that way, Mr. Egremont.'
'Then let us shake hands again in the new way.'
Thyrza gave hers. She just met his eyes for a moment her own had a
smile of intense happiness.
'Yes, keep this a secret,' Egremont went on, quickly resuming his
ordinary voice. 'I'll surprise Grail in a few days, by bringing him in.
Now, how am I to get this lid off? How tremendously firm it is! I
suppose I ought to have got the men to do it, but I brought a
screw-driver in my pocket, thinking it would be easy enough. Ah,
there's a beginning! I ought to have a hammer.'
'Shall I go and ask Mrs. Butterfield if she has one?'
'Oh no, I'll go myself.'
'I'll run--it won't take me a minute!'
She went out by the door that led into the house. In the dark passage
she was startled by coming in contact with someone.
'Oh, who is that?'
A muttered reply informed her that it was the old woman. They went
forward into the nearest room. There was a disagreeable smile on Mrs.
Butterfield's thin lips.
'If you please, have you got a hammer?' Thyrza asked. 'Mr. Egremont
wants one.'
The old woman went apart, and returned with a hammer which was used for
breaking coals.
'Oh, could you just wipe it?' Thyrza said. 'The handle's so very black.'
It was done, ungraciously enough, and Thyrza hastened back. Egremont
was standing as she had left him.
'Ah, now I can manage! Thank you.'
With absorbed interest Thyrza watched the process.
'I saw them bringing the last box in,' she said; 'that's why I came to
look.'
'That was a risk I foresaw--that someone would notice the cart. But
perhaps you are the only one.'
'I hope so--as you don't want any one to know.'
She paused, then added:
'I was going to meet Lyddy--my sister. I don't go to work myself now,
Mr. Egremont. Perhaps Gilbert has told you?'
'No, he hasn't mentioned it. But I am glad to hear it.'
'I don't much like my sister going alone, but she doesn't really mind.'
'I hope I shall soon know your sister.'
He had suspended the work, and stood with one foot upon the case.
Thyrza reflected, then said:
'I hope you will like her, Mr. Egremont.'
'I am sure I shall. I know that you are very fond of your sister.'
'Yes.' Her voice faltered a little. 'I couldn't have gone to live away
from her.'
Egremont bent to his task again, and speedily raised the lid. There was
a covering of newspapers, and then the books were revealed.
'Now,' he said, 'it shall be your hand that puts the first on the
shelf.'
He took out the first volume of a copy of Gibbon, and walked with it to
the wall.
'This shall be its place, and there it shall always stay.'
'Will you tell me what the book is about, Mr. Egremont?' Thyrza asked,
timidly taking it from him. 'I should like to remember it.'
He told her, as well as he could. Thyrza stood in thought for a moment,
then just opened the pages. Egremont watched her.
'I wonder whether I shall ever be able to read that?' she said, in an
under-voice.
'Oh yes, I'm sure you will.'
'And I've to stand it here?'
'Just there. You shall put all the volumes in their place, one after
the other. There are eight of them.'
He brought them altogether, and one by one she took them from him. Then
they went back to the case again, and there was a short silence.
'Gilbert's going to take me to a concert to-night, Mr. Egremont,'
Thyrza said, looking at him shyly.
'Is he? You'll enjoy that. What concert?'
'It's at a place called St. James's Hall.'
'Oh yes! You'll hear admirable music.'
'I've never been to a concert before. But when I was at Eastbourne I
heard a lady play the piano. I _did_ enjoy that!'
Egremont started.
'Was it Miss Newthorpe?' he asked, looking at her without a smile.
'Yes, that was her name.'
She met his look. Walter half turned away, then bent down to the books
again.
'I know her,' he said. 'She plays well.'
He took a couple of volumes, and went with them to the shelves, where
he placed them, without thought, next to the Gibbon. But in a moment he
noticed the title, and moved them to another place. He had become
absent. Thyrza, remaining by the case, followed his movements with her
eyes. As he came back, he asked:
'Did you like Mrs. Ormonde?'
'Yes. She was very kind to me.'
To him it seemed an inadequate reply, and strengthened his fear that
Mrs. Ormonde had not shown all the warmth he would have desired. Yet,
as it proved, she had asked Annabel to play for Thyrza. Thyrza, too,
felt that she ought to say more, but all at once she found a difficulty
in speaking. Her thoughts had strayed.
'I think I must go now,' she said, 'or I shall miss my sister.'
'In that case, I won't delay you. I shall open one or two more of these
boxes, then go somewhere for lunch. Good-bye!'
Thyrza said good-bye rather hurriedly, and without raising her face.
It happened that just then Mr. Bower was coming along Brook Street. He
did not usually leave the works at mid-day, but to-day an exceptional
occasion took him to Paradise Street in the dinner-hour. Thyrza came
forth from the library just as he neared the corner; she did not see
him, but Bower at once observed her. There was nothing singular in her
having been there; possibly the furnishing of the house had begun. In
passing the windows of the future library, Bower looked up at them with
curiosity. Egremont stood there, gazing into the street. He recognised
Bower, nodded, and drew back.
Bower did not care to overtake Thyrza. He avoided her by crossing the
street. She in the meantime was not going straight to meet her sister;
after walking slowly for a little distance, she turned in a direction
the opposite of that she ought to have taken. Then she stopped to look
into a shop-window.
A clock showed her that by this time Lydia would be at home. Yet still
she walked away from her own street. She said to herself that
five-and-twenty minutes must pass before Gilbert would leave the house
to return to his work. The way in which she now was would bring her by
a long compass into Kennington Road. Rain threatened, and she had no
umbrella; none the less, she went on.
At home they awaited her in surprise at her unpunctuality. Mrs. Grail
could not say when she had left the house. All the morning Thyrza had
sat upstairs by herself. Just when Gilbert was on the point of
departure, the missing one appeared.
'Where _have_ you been, child?' cried Lydia. 'Why, it's begun to rain;
you're all wet!'
'I went further than I meant to,' Thyrza replied, throwing off her hat,
and at once taking a seat at the table. 'I hope you didn't wait for me.
I forgot the time.'
'That was with thinking of the concert to-night,' said Gilbert,
laughing.
'I shouldn't wonder,' assented Lydia.
Thyrza smiled, but offered no further excuse. Gilbert and Lydia left
the room and the house together. Their directions were opposite, but
Gilbert went a few steps Lydia's way.
'I want you to alter your mind and go with us to-night,' he said.
'No, really! It isn't worth the expense, Gilbert. I don't care so much
for music.'
'The expense is only a shilling. And Thyrza won't be quite happy
without you. I want her to enjoy herself without _any_ reserve. You'll
come?'
'Well. But--'
'All right. Be ready both of you by half-past six.'
They nodded a good-bye to each other.
Thyrza was making believe to eat her dinner. Mrs. Grail saw what a
pretence it was.
'Was there ever such an excitable child!' she said, affectionately.
'Now do eat something more, dear! I shall tell Gilbert he must never
let you know beforehand when he's going to take you anywhere.'
But Thyrza had no appetite. She helped the old lady to clear the table,
then ran upstairs.
It was an unspeakable relief to be alone. She had never known such a
painful feeling of guilt as whilst she sat with Gilbert and Lydia
regarding her. Yet why? Her secret, she tried to assure herself, was
quite innocent, trivial indeed. But why had she been unable to come
straight home? What had held her away, as forcibly as if a hand had
lain upon her?
She moved aimlessly about the room. It was true that these last two
days she had agitated herself with anticipation of the concert, but it
was something quite different which now put confusion into her thought,
and every now and then actually caught her breath. She did not feel
well. She wished Liddy could have remained at home with her this
afternoon, for she had a need of companionship, of a sort of help.
There was Mrs. Grail; but no, she had rather not be with Mrs. Grail
just now.
On the table were a few articles of clothing which Lydia and she had
made during the last fortnight, things she was going to take away with
her. This morning she had given them a few finishing touches of
needlework, now they could be put away. She went to the chest of
drawers. Of the two small drawers at the top, one was hers, one was
Lydia's; the two long ones below were divided in the same way. She drew
one out and turned over the linen. How some young lady about to be
married--Miss Paula Tyrrell, suppose--would have viewed with pitying
astonishment the outfit with which Thyrza was more than content. But
Thyrza had never viewed marriage as an opportunity of enriching her
wardrobe.
Having put her things away, she opened another drawer, and looked over
some of Lydia's belongings. She stroked them lightly, and returned each
carefully to its place, saying to herself, 'Lyddy wants such and such a
thing. She'll have more money to spend on herself soon. And she shall
have a really nice present on her next birthday. Gilbert 'll give me
money to buy it.'
Then she went to the mantel-piece, and played idly with a little
ornament that stood there. The trouble had been lighter for a few
minutes, now it weighed again. Her heart beat irregularly. She leaned
her elbows on the mantel-piece, and covered her face with her hands.
There was a strange heat in her blood, her breath was hot.
Was it raining still? No, the pavement had dried, and there was no very
dark cloud in the sky. She could not sit here all through the
afternoon. A short walk would perhaps remove the headache which had
begun to trouble her.
She descended the stairs very lightly, and hastened almost on tip-toe
along the passage; the front door she closed as softly as possible
behind her, and went in the direction away from Mrs. Grail's parlour
window. To be sure she was free to leave the house as often as she
pleased, but for some vague reason she wished just now not to be
observed. Perhaps Gilbert would think that she went about too much; but
she could not, she could not, sit in the room.
Without express purpose, she again walked towards Brook Street. No, she
was not going to the library again; Mr. Egremont might still be there,
and it would seem so strange of her. But she went to a point whence she
could see the building, and for some minutes stood looking at it. Was
he still within--Mr. Egremont? Those books would take him a long time
to put on the shelves. As she looked someone came out from the door;
Mr. Egremont himself. She turned and almost ran in her desire to escape
his notice.
He was going home. Even whilst hurrying, she tried to imagine how he
was going to spend his evening. From Gilbert's description she had made
a picture of his room in Great Russell Street. Did he sit there all the
evening among his books, reading, writing? Not always, of course. He
was a gentleman, he had friends to go and see, people who lived in
large houses, very grand people. He talked with ladies, with such as
Miss Newthorpe. (Thyrza did not trouble to notice where she was. Her
feet hurried her on, her head throbbed. She was thinking, thinking.)
Such as Miss Newthorpe. Yes, he knew that lady; knew her very well, as
was evident from the way in which he spoke of her. Of what did they
talk, when they met? No doubt she had often played to him, and when she
played he would look at her, and she was very beautiful.
She would not think of Miss Newthorpe. Somehow she did not feel to her
in the same way as hitherto.
When she was married, she would of course see him very often--Mr.
Egremont. He would be at the library constantly, no doubt. Perhaps he
would come sometimes and sit in their room. And when he began his
lectures in the room upstairs, would it not be possible for her to hear
him? She would so like to, just once. She could at all events creep
softly up and listen at the door. How beautiful his lectures must be!
Gilbert could never speak strongly enough in praise of them. They would
be a little hard to understand, perhaps; but then she was going to read
books more than ever, and get knowledge.
She was in the part of Lambeth Walk farthest from her own street,
having come there by chance, for she had observed nothing on the way.
She did not wish to go home yet. One end of Paradise Street joins the
Walk, and into that she turned. If only there were a chance of Totty
Nancarrow's being at home! But Totty was very regular at work. Still,
an inquiry at the door would be no harm.
Little Jack Bunce was standing in the open doorway; he had a rueful
countenance, marked with recent tears.
'Do you know whether Miss Nancarrow's in?' Thyrza asked of the little
fellow.
He regarded her, and nodded silently.
'Really? She's really in?'
'Yes, she's up in her room,' was the grave answer.
Thyrza ran upstairs. A tap at the door, and Totty's
voice--unmistakable--gave admission. The girl sat sewing; on the bed
lay a child, asleep.
Totty, looking delighted at Thyrza's coming, held up her finger to
impose quietness. Thyrza took the only other chair there was, and drew
it near to her friend.
'That's Nelly Bunce,' Totty said in a low voice, nodding to the bed.
'Just when I was going back to work, what did the child do but tumble
head over heels half down stairs, running after me. It's a wonder she
don't kill herself. I don't think there's no more harm done except a
big bump on the back of the head, but Mrs. Ladds wasn't in, and I
didn't like to go and leave the little thing; she cried herself to
sleep. So there's half a day lost!
Thyrza kept silence. She had felt that she would like to talk with
Totty, yet now she could find nothing to say.
'How's things going on?' Totty asked, smiling.
'Very well, I think.'
'So the day's coming, Thyrza.'
Thyrza played with the ends of a small boa which was about her neck.
She had no reply. Her tongue refused to utter a sound.
'What's the matter?'
Thyrza's hand fell, she touched the sewing that was on Totty's lap.
Then she touched Totty's hand.
'Will you tell me about--about Mr. Ackroyd?'
Totty drew in her lips, knitted her brows, then bent to bite off an end
of cotton.
'What is there to tell?' she asked.
'Is he doing as he promised?'
'As far as I know,' said the other, in a voice which affected
indifference.
'And do you think he'll keep right till Christmas?'
'That's a good deal more than I can say, or anybody else.'
'But you'll do your best to make him?'
'I don't know that I shall bother much. It's his own lookout. I shall
know what he means if he goes wrong again.'
'But--'
'Well? What?'
'You hope he'll keep his promise?' Thyrza said, bending a little
nearer, and dropping her eyes as soon as she had spoken.
'H'm. Yes. Perhaps I do,' said Totty, putting her head on one side. And
forthwith she began to hum a tune, which however, she checked the next
moment, remembering Nelly.
'But you speak in a queer way, Totty.'
'So do you, Thyrza. What are you bothering about?'
Again she searched Thyrza's face, this time with something very curious
in her gaze, a kind of suspicion one would have said.
'I--I like to know about you,' Thyrza said, with embarrassment.
'I've told you all there is to tell.'
'But you haven't told me really whether--Do you,' she sank her voice
still lower, 'do you love him, Totty?'
A singular flush came and went upon the other girl's face. She herself
was little disposed to use sentimental words, and it was the first time
that Thyrza had done so to her. The coarseness she heard from certain
of her companions did not abash her, but this word of Thyrza's seemed
to do so strangely. She looked up in a moment. Thyrza's face was
agitated.
'What does that matter?' Totty said, in a rather hard voice. And she
added, drawing herself up awkwardly, 'You've made your own choice,
Thyrza.'
For an instant surprise held Thyrza mute; then she exclaimed:
'But, Totty, you don't think--? I was thinking of you, dear; only of
you. You never supposed I--Oh, say you didn't think that, Totty!'
Totty relaxed her muscles a little. She smiled, shook her head, laughed
uneasily.
'I meant, dear,' Thyrza continued, 'that I hope you do love him, as
you're going to marry him. I hope you love him very much, and I hope he
loves you. I'm sorry I said that. I thought you wouldn't mind.'
'I don't mind at all, old dear. If you _must_ know--I like him pretty
well.'
'But it ought to be _more_ than that--it ought, Totty--much more than
that, dear--'
She was trembling. Totty looked at her in surprise, coldly.
'Don't go on like that,' she said. 'There, you've woke the child, of
course! Now there'll be two of you crying. See which can make most
noise. Now, Nelly! Well, I call this nice!
At the sound of the child's voice, Thyrza at once restrained herself
and rose from her chair. Totty managed to quieten her little charge,
whom she took upon her lap. She did not look at Thyrza.
'Good-bye, Totty!' said the latter, holding out her hand.
'Good-bye!' Totty returned, but without appearing to notice the hand
offered. 'I hope you'll be better before next Monday, Thyrza.'
'You're unkind to-day, Totty. I wish I hadn't come in.'
There was no reply to this, so Thyrza said another farewell and left
the house.
She got back to her room, and, hopeless of otherwise passing the time
till Lydia's return, lay down on the bed. Perhaps she could close her
eyes for half an hour. But when she had turned restlessly from one side
to the other, there came a knock at the door. She knew it must be Mrs.
Grail, and made no answer. But the knock was repeated, and the door
opened. Mrs. Grail looked in, and, seeing Thyrza, came to the bedside.
'Aren't you well, my dear?' she asked, gently.
Thyrza made pretence of having just awoke.
'I thought I'd try and sleep a little,' she replied, holding her face
with one hand. 'No, I don't feel quite well.'
'Lie quiet, then. I won't disturb you. Come down as soon as you'd like
some tea.'
It was a weary time till Lydia returned, although she came back nearly
half an hour earlier than usual. Thyrza still lay on the bed. When they
had exchanged a few words, the latter said:
'I don't think I can go to-night, Lyddy. My head's bad.'
'Oh, what a pity! Can't we do something to make it better?'
Thyrza turned her face away.
'I'd altered my mind,' Lydia continued. 'I meant to go with you.'
'Really? You'll go with us?'
Thyrza felt that this would lessen the strange reluctance with which
through the afternoon she had thought of the concert. She at once rose,
and consented more cheerfully to try if a cup of tea would help her.
She bathed her forehead, smoothed her hair, and went down.
It was not long before Gilbert entered, he too having come away earlier
from work. In order to get a seat in the gallery of the concert hall,
they must be soon at the doors. Thyrza declared that she felt much
better. Her heavy eyes gave little assurance of this, but something of
her eagerness had returned, and for the time she had indeed succeeded
in subduing the torment within.
An omnibus took the three into Piccadilly. They were not too early at
the hall, for the accustomed crowd had already begun to assemble.
Thyrza locked her arm in her sister's, Gilbert standing behind them. He
whispered a word now and then to one or the other, but Thyrza kept
silence; her cheeks were flushed; she inspected all the faces about
her. At length, admission was gained and seats secured.
Thyrza sat between the other two, but she still kept her hold on
Lydia's arm, until the latter said laughingly:
'You're not afraid of losing me now. I expect we shall be dreadfully
hot here soon.'
She withdrew her hand. Gilbert began to talk to her. Had it not been
for the circumstances, he must have observed a difference in Thyrza's
manner to him. She scarcely ever met his look, and when she spoke it
was with none of the usual spontaneity. But she seemed to be absorbed
in observation of the people who had begun to seat themselves in other
parts of the hall. The toilettes were a wonder to her. Lydia, too, they
interested very much; she frequently whispered a comment on such as
seemed to her 'nice' or the contrary. She could not help trying to
think how Thyrza would look if 'dressed like a lady.'
Thyrza started, so perceptibly that Lydia asked her what was the matter.
'Nothing,' she answered, moving as if to seat herself more comfortably.
But henceforth her eyes were fixed in one direction, on a point down in
the body of the hall. She no longer replied to the remarks of either of
her companions. The flush remained warm upon her cheeks.
'Thyrza!' whispered Gilbert, when the musicians were in their places,
and the preliminary twanging and screeching of instruments under
correction had begun. 'There's Mr. Egremont!'
'Is he? Where?'
'Do you see that tall lady in the red cloak? No, more to the left;
there's a bald man on the other side of him.'
'Yes, I see him.'
She waited a moment, then repeated the news to Lydia, with singular
indifference. Then she began to gaze in quite other directions. The
instrumental uproar continued.
'Oh dear!' said Lydia, with a wry face. I'm sure that kind of music
won't do your head any good. Is it still better?'
'I think so--yes, yes.'
'Grandad doesn't take anything like that time to tune his fiddle,' the
other whispered, conscious that she was daring in her criticism.
Thyrza, on an impulse, conveyed the remark to Gilbert, who laughed
silently.
The concert began. Thyrza's eyes had again fixed themselves on that
point down below, and during the first piece they did not once move.
Her breathing was quick. The heart in her bosom seemed to swell, as
always when some great emotion possessed her, and with difficulty she
kept her vision unclouded. Lydia often looked at her, so did Gilbert;
she was unconscious of it.
'Did you like that?' Gilbert asked her when the piece was over.
'Yes, very much.'
She had leaned back. Lydia sought her hand; she received a pressure in
return, but the other hand did not remain, as she expected it would.
Gilbert himself was not much disposed to speak. He, too, was moved in
the secret places of his being--moved to that ominous tumult of
conflicting joy and pain which in the finer natures comes of music
intensely heard. He had been at concerts before, but had little
anticipated that he would ever attend one in such a mood as was his
to-night. It seemed to him that he had not yet realised his happiness,
that in his most rapturous moments he had rated it but poorly,
unimaginatively. The strong wings of that glorious wordless song bore
him into a finer air, where his faculties of mind and heart grew
unconditioned. If it were possible to go back into the world endowed as
in these moments! To the greatest man has come the same
transfiguration, the same woe of foreseen return to limits. But one
thing was real and would not fail him. She who sat by him was his--his
now and for ever. Why had he yet loved her so little?
The second piece began. Again Thyrza looked down into the hall. After a
while there came a piece of vocal music. The singer was not of much
reputation, but to Thyrza her voice seemed more than human. In the
interval which followed she whispered to Lydia:
'I shall never pretend to sing again.'
Egremont had risen in his place, and was looking about him. Thyrza was
yet in some doubt whether he was alone. But he had not yet spoken to
that lady next to him, and now, on sitting down, he did not speak. He
must be without companion.