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She regarded the growth of population, the crowding of mean houses where open spaces used to be, the whole change of times in fact, as deplorable. One would have fancied from her descriptions that the Lambeth of sixty years ago was a delightful rustic village. After tea Thyrza resumed the low chair and folded her hands, full of contentment. Mrs.
Bessie, a weakly, coughing child, who seemingly had but a short term of suffering before her, was at first very reticent with Thyrza, but when they were seated together in the train at Victoria, she brightened in the expectation of renewing her experiences of Mrs. Ormonde's home, and at length talked freely.
I felt as if I should like to go away, some time when you didn't know. I did, really! Lydia gazed at her anxiously. 'I don't think you'd ever have the heart to do that, Thyrza, she said, in a low voice. 'No, she shook her head, smiling. 'I couldn't do without you. And now kiss me properly, like you always do. Lydia stood behind the chair again, and the laughing caress was exchanged.
Look pleased, just to please me, will you? Both were quiet. Thyrza said it had only been a feeling of faintness; it was gone now. The fire was getting low. Lydia went to stir it. She had done so and was turning to the bed again, when Thyrza half rose, crying in a smothered voice: 'Lyddy! Come! Then she fell back.
He no longer drank, that was evident. But his face was pale, thin, and unwholesome. One would have said that just now he was more seriously unhappy than he had been throughout his boisterous period. Bower, after one or two glances at him, lowered his voice to say: 'I can't think it's altogether the right thing for Thyrza Trent to be there every morning helping him.
Thyrza may have been foolish in keeping things from me, but she's no more to blame than that. You can believe me. I would say it, if it was my life or death! He took her hand and pressed it. 'And you think Mr. Bower is telling everyone? she asked, her voice wonderfully changed, for all at once she became a woman, and felt her need of a strong man's aid. 'I'm afraid so.
And when the three drew chairs about the fire, Gilbert had something of moment to communicate, something upon which he had resolved since Thyrza's departure. 'Lyddy, he began, 'mother and I think Thyrza had better not go to work again. As she is going to miss to-morrow morning, it'll be a good opportunity for making the change. Isn't it better? Lydia did not reply at once.
'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.
The reading was good; Gilbert's voice gave life to description and conversation, and supplied an interest even where the writer was in danger of growing dull. When the end was reached, Thyrza recovered herself with the sigh which follows strained attention.
But if debarred by his limitations from a resounding or popular success, he will remain exceptionally dear to the heart of the recluse, who thinks that the scholar does well to cherish a grievance against the vulgar world beyond the cloister; and dearer still, perhaps, to a certain number of enthusiasts who began reading George Gissing as a college night-course; who closed Thyrza and Demos as dawn was breaking through the elms in some Oxford quadrangle, and who have pursued his work patiently ever since in a somewhat toilsome and broken ascent, secure always of suave writing and conscientious workmanship, of an individual prose cadence and a genuine vein of Penseroso:
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