



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