Thyrza | Page 4

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 on
Mr. Egremont for at least four sides--well, three.'
'But surely he is not a source of news?' said her uncle with surprise.
'Why not? He can be very jolly when he likes, and I know he'll write a
nice letter if I ask him to. You can't think how much he's improved just
lately. He was down at the Ditchleys' when we were there in February;
he and I had ever such a time one day when the others were out hunting.
Mamma won't let me hunt; isn't it too bad of her? He didn't speak a
single serious word all the morning, and just think how dry he used to
be! Of course he can be dry enough still when he gets with people like
Mrs. Adams and Clara Carr, but I hope to break him of the habit
entirely.'
She glanced at Annabel, and laughed merrily before raising her cup to
her lips. Mr. Newthorpe just cast a rapid eye over his daughter's face;
Annabel wore a look of quiet amusement.
'Has he been here since then?' Paula inquired, tapping a second egg.
'We lost sight of him for two or three months, and of course he always
makes a mystery of his wanderings.'
'We saw him last in October,' her uncle answered, 'when he had just
returned from America.'
'He said he was going to Australia next. By-the-by, what's his address?
Something, Russell Street. Don't you know?'
'No idea,' he replied, smiling.
'Never mind. I'll send the letter to Mrs. Ormonde; she always knows
where he is, and I believe she's the only one that does.'
When the meal came to an end Mr. Newthorpe went, as usual, to his
study. Miss Tyrrell, also as usual, prepared for three hours of
letter-writing. Annabel, after a brief Consultation with Mrs. Martin,