Thyrza

She could not argue as an educated person might have done. Egremont's zeal in his various undertakings made no plea for his character, in her mind. To be sure, a more subtle reasoner might have given it as little weight, but that would have been the result of conscious wisdom. Lydia could only argue from her predisposition regarding the class of 'gentlemen.' We know how she had shrunk from meeting Egremont. Guided by Gilbert and Thyrza, she had taught herself to think well of him, but, given the least grounds of suspicion, class-instinct was urgent to condemn.

Only one way recommended itself to her, and that the way of love. She must lead Thyrza to confide in her, must get at the secret by constraint of tenderness. She might seem to suspect, but the grounds of her suspicion must be hidden.

Having resolved this, she leaned nearer and spoke gentle words such as might soothe. Thyrza made no response, save that she raised her lids and looked wofully.

'Dear one, what is it you're keeping from me?' Lydia pleaded. 'Is it kind, Thyrza, is it kind to me? It isn't enough to tell me you're poorly; there's more than that. Do you think I can look at you and not see that you have a secret from me?'

Thyrza had closed her eyes again, and was mute.

'Dear, how can you be afraid of me, your old Lyddy? When there's anything you're glad of, you tell me; oughtn't I to know far more when you're in trouble? Speak to me, dear sister! I'll put my head near yours; whisper it to me! How can I go on in this way? Every day I see you getting worse. I'm miserable when I'm away at work; I haven't a minute's peace. Be kind to me, and say what has happened.'

There was silence.

'Do you think there's anything in me but love for you, my dearest, my Thyrza? Do you think I could say a cruel word, tell me whatever you might? Do you think I shan't love you only the better, the more unhappy you are? Perhaps I half know what it is, perhaps—'

Thyrza started and gazed with the same wildness as when she first came in.

'You know? What do you know? Tell me at once, Lyddy!'

'I don't really know anything, love—it's only that I can't help thinking—I've noticed things.'

Thyrza raised herself upon one arm. She was terror-stricken.

'What have you noticed? Tell me at once! You've no right to say things of that kind! Can't I be poorly without you talking as if I'd done something wrong? What have I done? Nothing, nothing! Leave me alone, Lyddy! Go downstairs, and leave me to myself!'

'But you don't understand me,' pleaded the other. 'I don't think you've done anything, but I know you're in trouble—how can I help knowing it?'

'But you said you've noticed things. What do you mean by that? You'd no right to say it if you don't mean anything! You're trying to frighten me! I can't bear you sitting there! I want to be alone! If you must stay in the room, go away and sit by the fire. Haven't you no sewing to do? You've always got plenty at other times. Oh, you make me feel as if I should go mad!'

Lydia withdrew from the bedside. She sat down in a corner of the room and covered her face with her hands.

Thyrza fell back exhausted. She had wrought herself almost to hysteria, and, though she could not shed tears, the dry sobs seemed as if they would rend her bosom.

Minutes passed. She turned and looked at her sister. Lydia was bent forward, propping her forehead.

'Lyddy, I want you.'

Lydia came forward. She had been crying. She fell on her knees by the bed.

'Lyddy, what did you mean? It's no good denying it, you meant something. You said you'd noticed things You've no right to say that and say no more.

'You won't tell me what your secret is without me saying what I've thought?'

'I've got no secret! I don't know what you mean by secret!'

'Thyrza—have you—have you seen Mr. Egremont tonight?'

They looked at each other. Thyrza's lips were just parted; she drew herself back, as if to escape scrutiny. The arm with which she supported herself trembled violently.

'Why do you ask that?' she said, faintly.

'That's what I meant, Thyrza,' the other whispered, with a face of fear.

'Have I seen Mr. Egremont? I don't know what you're thinking of? Why should I see Mr. Egremont? What have I to do with him?'

Lydia put her hand forward and touched her sister.

'Thyrza!' she cried, passionately. 'Tell me! Tell me everything! I can't bear it! If you have ever so little love for me in your heart—tell me!'

Thyrza could no longer keep her raised position. She fell back. Then with one hand she caught the railing at the head of the bed and held it convulsively, whilst she buried her face in the pillow.

Lydia bent over her, and said in low, quick tones:

'I think no harm of you! Perhaps you've got to like him too much, and he's persuaded you to go to meet him. It's only what I've thought to myself. Tell me, and let me be a sister to you; let me help you! No one else shall hear a word of it, Thyrza. Only Lyddy! We'll talk about it, and see what can be done. You shall tell me how it began—tell me all there is in your heart, poor child. It'll comfort you to speak of it. The secret is killing you, my darling. There's no harm—none—none! You couldn't help it. Only let us both know, and talk to each other about it, like sisters!'

Thyrza's grasp of the iron loosened, and her hand fell. She turned her face to the light again.

'Lyddy, how do you know this?'

'I thought it. You've been out every morning. You spoke of him in a way—'

'Has any one said anything to you? Has Gilbert?'

'No, no! Gilbert hasn't such a thought. It's all myself. Oh, what has he been saying to you, Thyrza?'

A change was coming about in the sufferer. What had at the first suggestion been a terror now grew upon her as an assuagement of pain. She clung to her sister's hand.

'I don't know how it began,' she whispered. 'It seems so sudden; but I think it's been coming for a long time. Ever since I saw him that day at the library—the first time I ever saw him. Ever since, there hasn't been a day I haven't thought of him. I never saw any one else that made me think like that. Day and night, Lyddy! But it didn't trouble me at first. It was only after I came back from Eastbourne. I seemed to think of everything in a different way after that. I dreamt of him every night, and I did so want to see him. I don't know why. Then I saw him at last—on Monday—at the library.'

'You hadn't met him—alone—before then?'

'No, never since that first time.'

'But why did you go there on Monday?'

'Oh, I can't—can't think! Something seemed to tell me to go there. I found there was some books come, and he was putting them on the shelves. He said he didn't want Gilbert to know—just for fun—and I promised not to say anything.'

'You mean last Monday? This week?'

'Yes. Not before then. And it seems—oh, it seems a month ago, Lyddy!'

She lay back, pressing Lydia's hand against her heart.

'But did he ask you to go again, dear?'

'No, he didn't. It was all myself. Lyddy, I couldn't keep away. I couldn't. Will you believe I'm telling the truth? I tried—I did try so hard! I knew I oughtn't to go, because I wanted to so much. I knew it was wrong. I don't think I should have gone if Mrs. Grail hadn't forced me to go out for a walk, because she said it would take my headache away. I was holding myself back all the morning. And when I got out—I couldn't help it—I was drawn there! And then I asked him if I might come again to-day. He said I might, but I could see he thought it was wrong of me. And, Lyddy, he never came. I stayed there waiting. Oh, do you know what I suffered? I can't tell you!'

'My dearest, I know, I feel with you! But it will be better now you've told me. And to-night? Didn't you see him to-night?'

'How do you know? Who told you?' she asked, nervously.

'No one, dear. I only think it. The way you came in—'

Thyrza suddenly bent forward, listening.

'Can any one hear us?' she whispered. 'Go and see any one's outside.'

'There's no one, dear.'

'Go and look. I'm afraid.'

Lydia went and opened the door. She closed it again, and came back shaking her head.

'I didn't think I should see him,' Thyrza continued. 'I was waiting in Totty's room, and he came to see Mr. Bunce. I heard his voice. When he went away, I followed him. I couldn't help myself. I would have given my life for a word from him. I wanted to know why he hadn't come this morning. I followed him, and walked with him over the bridge. Then he told me he was going away, somewhere out of England, and I shouldn't see him again till after—after I was married.'

She choked. Lydia soothed her again, and she continued, with growing agitation:

'Then he said good-bye—he went away very quickly, after just saying he hoped I should be happy. Happy! How can I be happy? And when he was gone, I went somewhere and fell down and cried—somewhere where nobody could see me. He's gone, Lyddy! How am I to live without him?'

They held each other. Thyrza sobbed out her anguish until strength failed, then lay in her sister's arms, pale as a corpse.

When there had been utter silence for a while, Lydia asked:

'And he has never said anything to you that—that he oughtn't to have said!'

'Said? What did you think? You thought he—he loved me?'

'I didn't know, dearest.'

'Oh, if he did! He asked me not to call him 'sir,' and to be his friend—never more than that. You thought he loved me? How could he love a girl like me, Lyddy?'

Lydia had followed the unfolding of the tale with growing surprise. It was impossible to doubt Thyrza's truthfulness. Yet there must be more on Egremont's part than appeared. Why did he exact secrecy about those meetings in the library? There was little doubt that Thyrza had betrayed herself to him. True, he had refrained from keeping the appointment for this morning, and it seemed he was going away till after the marriage. But all this was too late.

Still he was innocent of the guilt she had suspected. Thyrza had not come to the dreaded harm. Though heartbroken, she was saved. Lydia felt almost joyous for an instant. Bower's gossip might yet be deprived of its sting, for Mr. Egremont would be gone, and—Monday was so near.

It was the reaction from her terror. She could think of nothing for the moment but that Thyrza must be preserved from future risk by marriage.

Thyrza was lying exhausted. Lydia, deep in thought, was surprised to see a faint smile on the beautiful pale face.

'You thought he loved me?' was whispered. 'Oh, if he did! If he did!'

Lydia was still kneeling. New fears were making themselves heard. Was it possible for Thyrza to marry Gilbert under such circumstances, and within five days? What if Gilbert heard Bower's story? Nay, in any case, what of the future? Egremont would be constantly at the library.

'Thyrza, do you never think of Gilbert?'

Thyrza raised herself, again the look of wild dread in her eyes.

'Lyddy, I can't marry him! You know now that I can't, don't you? It would be wrong. I shall love him as long as ever I live—love him and think of him every minute. I can't marry Gilbert.'

There was silence. Lydia looked up with tearful, appealing eyes.

My dearest, think—think what that means? How can you break your word to him—now, when the day's almost here? Think what it'll mean to him. You'll have to tell him the reason, and then—'

'I'll tell him everything. I'll bear it. Can I help it, Lyddy? Am I happy?'

'But you haven't thought, Thyrza. It means that Gilbert will have to go on with his work at the factory.'

'Why? His mother will go and live with him at the library.'

Her voice sank. She began to understand.

'Do you suppose he can take that place from Mr. Egremont after he knows this, Thyrza?'

Thyrza was mute for a little. Then she said, under her breath:

'He needn't know the reason. He must think it's something else.'

'That's impossible. What a cruel thing it'll be to him! You know how he's looked forward. And then he loves you; he loves you more than you think. It will be dreadful! Thyrza, I don't think you'll make poor Gilbert suffer in that way. You couldn't do that, dear! You know what love means; have some pity for him!'

'I cant! He shan't know the reason; he shall go to the library just the same. We'll say it's only put off. I can't marry him on Monday! I'd sooner kill myself!'

There was a ring of terrible earnestness in the words. Lydia was afraid to plead any more at present. She affected to admit that there was no help. Yes, the marriage should be postponed; perhaps that would be a way.

The hour was late. After her sister's acquiescence Thyrza had fallen into brooding. She moved constantly. There was fire in her cheeks.

Only a few words were exchanged whilst Lydia undressed and lay down by her sister. Sleep was impossible to either of them. Yet Thyrza had not closed her eyes the night before. She was very feverish, could not lie in one position for more than a few minutes. When neither had spoken for nearly an hour, she said of a sudden:

'Lyddy, I want you to promise me that you'll never tell Gilbert nor Mrs. Grail one word of this. I want you to promise.'

'I promise you, dear. How could I think of doing so without your leave?'

There was a pause, then Thyrza resumed:

'I think you'll do as you say. Kiss me, and promise again.'

'I will keep your secret, dearest. I promise you.'

The other sighed deeply, and after that lay still.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE END OF THE DREAM

Gilbert did not go to work next morning. Though Lydia had disguised her sister's strange condition as well as she could, he knew that something was being kept from him, and his mind, ever ready to doubt the reality of the happiness that had been granted him, was at length so beset with fears that he could no longer pay attention to the day's business. He rose at the usual time, but with a word at his mother's door made known his intention not to go out till after breakfast. Having lit a fire in the parlour, he sat down and tried to read.

He had purposed working till Saturday. To-night and to-morrow night (Thursday and Friday) Thyrza and he were to go and purchase such articles of furniture and the like as would be needed for the new house (the list was long since carefully made out, and the places of purchase decided upon), and these would be taken in by Mrs. Butterfield. On Saturday afternoon the contents of Gilbert's own room were to be removed; on that and the following night he would sleep under the new roof, and by Monday morning would have things in sufficient order to allow of Mrs. Grail and Lydia coming, for these two were to keep each other company whilst he and his wife were away. By this scheme he might work on to the end of the week, and suffer no loss of wages.

But Gilbert was not a machine, unhappily for himself. Even had nothing external occurred to trouble the order he had planned, his own mood would probably have rendered steady work impossible now that he could positively count on his fingers the days before his marriage day—before the day which would make him a free man. It was hard to believe that two such blessings could descend upon a mortal at once. It seemed to him that the very hours, as they went by, looked on him with faces of mysterious menace, foretelling a dread successor. Since Monday he had with difficulty accomplished his tasks; each time he hastened home it was with unreasoning fear lest something bad come to pass in his absence. And now it was no longer only apprehension. Thyrza was changing under his eyes. She was physically ill, and he knew that some agitation possessed her mind. She shrank from him.

The glimmer of early morning at the parlour window was cold and threatening. A faint ray of sunlight showed itself, only to fade upon a low, rain-charged sky. The sounds of labour recommencing were as wearisome to him as they always are to one who has watched through an unending night. The house itself seemed unnaturally silent.

Mrs. Grail came in at length, and looked at him anxiously. Her own eyes lacked the refreshment of sleep.

'I didn't feel able to go, mother,' he said. 'I want to hear how Thyrza is as soon as possible. Perhaps you can go up presently?'

She murmured an assent, and began to lay the table.

In a few minutes she ascended very quietly and listened at the girls' door. Her report was that she could hear no sound; they must both be sleeping.

An hour went by. Mother and son made no pretence of conversing. Gilbert kept an open book before him. Rain had begun to fall, and the sky darkened as the minutes ticked themselves away by the clock on the mantel-piece.

Then there was a sound on the stairs. Lydia came into the room, and with her Thyrza.

Lydia smiled, and tried to draw attention from her sister by lamenting their lateness at the meal.

'We were afraid you'd have gone away again,' she said to Gilbert.

'I don't think I shall go to work this morning,' he replied quietly.

She became silent. Thyrza had drawn a chair to the table. One saw that she had risen with difficulty—that she with difficulty sat upright.

Gilbert, without speaking, went and sat by her. Lydia was dreading questions, but she did injustice to the delicacy of his mind. Mrs. Grail just said: 'You're very pale still, dear,' and nothing more.

The meal was made as short as possible. Then Lydia helped Mrs. Grail to take the things to the kitchen. Thyrza, before coming down, had asked to be left alone with Gilbert for a few minutes.

Grail was at the window, watching the rain. He heard Thyrza approaching him, and turned.

'Gilbert,' she said, without raising her eyes, 'I'm behaving very unkindly to you. Will you forgive me?'

'How are you behaving unkindly, Thyrza?' he asked, with gently expressed surprise.

'I've been keeping away from you. I couldn't help it. I don't feel myself.'

'You are ill, Thyrza. Am I to forgive you for that?'

'Yes, I am ill. Gilbert, is it too late to ask you? Will you put it off for a week, one week?'

He let a minute pass before replying. Seeing that she trembled as she stood, he led her to a chair, the chair in which she always sat.

'Dear,' he said at length, 'I will do whatever you wish.'

'I shall be better by then, I think. But I'll go with you to buy the things just the same.'

'We can leave that for a few days,' he said absently.

'It wouldn't make any difference to you at the library?'

'None, I am sure, I will write and tell Mr. Egremont. He will be very sorry to hear of your illness.'

She stood up, and looked at the clock.

'I've made you late for your work.'

'I shan't go to-day.'

'You won't go?' she asked.

'I can't, Thyrza. I'm too uneasy about you.'

'Don't be that, Gilbert, I promise you to try and get better.'

Another silence, then he asked

'Will you stay here this morning?'

She just raised her face; fear and entreaty were on the features.

'I only came down for breakfast, to ask you that, and—and to tell you I was so sorry.'

'To be sure,' he replied at once. 'You are not well enough to be up. Lyddy will stay with you?'

'Yes, she is going to stay. I'll come and see you again, if I feel able.'

She offered her hand. He took it, held it a little, then said:

'Thyrza, is there anything on your mind, anything you don't wish to tell me just now, but in a day or two perhaps?'

'No, Gilbert, no! If you'll forgive me for behaving unkindly.'

'Dear, how can there be any forgiving, so long as I love you? There must be blame before there is need of forgiveness, and I love you too well to think a reproachful thought.'

She bent her head and sobbed.

'Thyrza, is it any happiness to you to know that I love you?'

'Yes, it is. You are very good. I know I am making you suffer.'

'But I shall see the old face again, before long?'

'Soon. I shall be myself again soon.'

She left him and went upstairs. A minute or two after. Lydia knocked at the door.

'Thyrza has gone up?' she asked.

'Yes. Come here, Lydia!'

He spoke with abruptness. Lydia drew near.

'You know that she has asked me to put off our marriage for a week?'

'I didn't know that she was going to ask you now, I thought perhaps she wished it.'

'I can't ask you to betray your sister's secrets, but—Lyddy, you won't keep anything from me that I ought to know?'

He paused, then went on again with a shaking voice.

'There are some things that I ought to know, if—You know that, Lyddy? You owe love to your sister first, but you owe something to me as well. There are some things you would have no right to keep from me. You might be doing both her and me the greatest wrong.'

Lydia could not face him. She tried to speak, but uttered only a meaningless word.

'Thyrza is ill,' he pursued. 'I can't ask her, as I feel I ought to, what has made her ill. Tell me this, as you are a good and a truthful girl. If I marry Thyrza, shall I be taking advantage of her weakness? Does she wish me to free her?'

'She doesn't! Indeed, Gilbert, she doesn't! You are her very best friend. All her life depends upon you. You won't break it off? Perhaps she will even be well enough by the end of the week, Remember how young she is, and how often she has strange fancies.'

'You tell me solemnly that Thyrza still wishes to be my wife?'

'She does. She wishes to be your wife, Gilbert.'

To Lydia her sister's fate hung in the balance. What she uttered was verbally true. Before rising, Thyrza had said: 'I will marry him.' In the possible breaking of this bond Lydia saw such a terrible danger that her instincts of absolute sincerity for once were overridden. If she spoke falsely, it was to save her sister. Thyrza once married, the face of life would be altered for her; this sudden passionate love would fall like a brief flame. Lydia had decided upon a bold step. As soon as it was possible, she would go and see Mr. Egremont, see him herself, and, if he had any heart or any honour, prevail with him that Thyrza might be spared temptation. But the marriage must first be over, and must be brought about at all costs.

In her life she had never spoken an untruth for her own advantage. Now, as she spoke, the sense that her course was chosen gave her courage. She looked Gilbert at length boldly in the face. His confidence in her was so great that, his own desires aiding, he believed her to the full. Thyrza's suffering, he said to himself, had not the grave meaning he had feared; it was something that must be sacred from his search.

So much power was there in Lydia's word, uttered for her sister's saving.

All day long it rained. Gilbert did not go from the house. He wrestled with hope, which was still only to be held by persistent effort. Sunshine would have aided him, but all day he looked upon a gloomy, wet street. At dinner-time he had all but made up his mind to go to work; the thought, however, was too hateful to him. And he felt it would be hard to meet men's faces. Perhaps there would be comfort by the morrow.

Thyrza did in fact come down for tea. She spoke only a few words, but she seemed stronger than in the morning. Lydia had a brighter face too. They went up again together after the meal.

Another night passed. Lydia slept. She believed that the worst was over, and that there might after all be no postponement of the marriage. For Thyrza had become very quiet; she seemed worn out with struggle, and resigned. Her sleep, she said, had been good. Yet her eyelids were swollen; no doubt she had cried in the night.

Lydia had no intention of leaving home. Gilbert had gone to work, reassured by her report the last thing on the previous evening.

There was no more speech between the sisters on the subject of their thoughts. Through the morning Thyrza lay so still that Lydia, thinking her asleep, now and then stepped lightly and bent over her. Each time, however, she found the sad eyes gazing fixedly upwards. Thyrza just turned them to her, but without change of expression.

'Don't look at me like that, dear,' Lydia said once. 'It's as if you didn't know me.'

The reply was a brief smile.

Thyrza got up in the afternoon. About five o'clock, when Lydia was making tea, Mrs. Jarmey came with a message. She said Mr. Boddy had sent word that he wished to see Lydia particularly; he begged she would come during the evening.