Thyrza | Page 8

enterprise promising greatly. In a short time he had
established the firm of Egremont & Pollard, with extensive works in
Lambeth. His wife died before him; his son received a liberal education,
and in early manhood found himself, as far as he knew, without a living
relative, but with ample means of independence. Young Walter
Egremont retained an interest in the business, but had no intention of
devoting himself to a commercial life. At the University he had made
alliances with men of standing, in the academical sense, and likewise
with some whose place in the world relieved them from the necessity of
establishing a claim to intellect. In this way society was opened to him,
and his personal qualities won for him a great measure of regard from
those whom he most desired to please.
Somebody had called him 'the Idealist,' and the name adhered to him.
At two-and-twenty he published a volume of poems, obviously derived
from study of Shelley, but marked with a certain freshness of
impersonal aspiration which was pleasant enough. They had the note of
sincerity rather than the true poetical promise. The book had no
successor. Having found this utterance for his fervour, Egremont began
a series of ramblings over sea, in search, he said, of himself. The object
seemed to evade him; he returned to England from time to time, always
in appearance more restless, but always overflowing with ideas, for
which he had the readiest store of enthusiastic words. He was able to
talk of himself without conveying the least impression of egotism to
those who were in sympathy with his intellectual point of view; he was
accused of conceit only by a few who were jealous of him or were too

conventional to appreciate his character. With women he was a
favourite, and their society was his greatest pleasure; yet, in spite of his
fervid temperament--in appearance fervid, at all events--he never
seemed to fall in love. Some there were who said that the self he went
so far to discover would prove to have a female form. Perhaps there
was truth in this; perhaps he sought, whether consciously or no, the
ideal woman. None of those with whom he companioned had a charge
of light wooing to bring against him, though one or two would not have
held it a misfortune if they had tempted him to forget his speculations
and declare that he had reached his goal. But his striving always
seemed to be for something remote from the world about him. His
capacity for warm feeling, itself undeniable, was never dissociated
from that impersonal zeal which was the characteristic of his
expressions in verse. In fact, he had written no love-poem.
Annabel and her father observed a change in him since his last visit.
This was the first time that he had come without an express invitation,
and they gathered from his speech that he had at length found some
definite object for his energies. His friends had for a long time been
asking what he meant to do with his life. It did not appear that he
purposed literary effort, though it seemed the natural outlet for his
eager thought; and of the career of politics he at all times spoke with
contempt. Was he one of the men, never so common as nowadays, who
spend their existence in canvassing the possibilities that lie before them
and delay action till they find that the will is paralysed? One did not
readily set Egremont in that class, principally, no doubt, because he
was so free from the offensive forms of self-consciousness which are
wont to stamp such men. The pity of it, too, if talents like his were
suffered to rust unused; the very genuineness of his idealism made one
believe in him and look with confidence to his future.
Having dined, all went forth to enjoy the evening upon the lawn. The
men smoked; Annabel had her little table with tea and coffee. Paula had
brought out a magazine, and affected to read. Annabel noticed,
however, that a page was very seldom turned.
'Have you seen Mrs. Ormonde lately?' Mr. Newthorpe asked of
Egremont.
'I spent a day at Eastbourne before going to Jersey.'
'She has promised to come to us in the autumn,' said Annabel; 'but she

seems to have such a difficulty in leaving her Home. Had she many
children about her when you were there?'
'Ten or twelve.'
'Do they all come from London?' asked Annabel.
'Yes. She has relations with sundry hospitals and the like. By-the-by,
she told me one remarkable story. A short time ago out of eight
children that were in the house only one could read--a little girl of
ten--and this one regularly received letters from home. Now there came
for her