round, unmoving eyes. She was conscious of a slice of bread and jam in
his hand, and that his mouth and cheeks were smeared with red. A woman
called out: “Jacky! Come on, now!” and he was hauled away, still looking
back, and holding out his bread and jam as though offering her a bite.
She felt Summerhay’s arm slipping round her.
“It’s over, darling. Never again—I promise you!”
Ah, he might promise—might even keep that promise. But he would suffer,
always suffer, thinking of that other. And she said:
“You can only have me as I am, Bryan. I can’t make myself new for you; I
wish I could—oh, I wish I could!”
“I ought to have cut my tongue out first! Don’t think of it! Come home
to me and have tea—there’s no one there. Ah, do, Gyp—come!”
He took her hands and pulled her up. And all else left Gyp but the joy
of being close to him, going to happiness.
IX
Fiorsen, passing Markey like a blind man, made his way out into the
street, but had not gone a hundred yards before he was hurrying back.
He had left his hat. The servant, still standing there, handed him that
wide-brimmed object and closed the door in his face. Once more he moved
away, going towards Piccadilly. If it had not been for the expression
on Gyp’s face, what might he not have done? And, mixed with sickening
jealousy, he felt a sort of relief, as if he had been saved from
something horrible. So she had never loved him! Never at all?
Impossible! Impossible that a woman on whom he had lavished such passion
should never have felt passion for him—never any! Innumerable images of
her passed before him—surrendering, always surrendering. It could not
all have been pretence! He was not a common man—she herself had said
so; he had charm—or, other women thought so! She had lied; she must have
lied, to excuse herself!
He went into a cafe and asked for a fine champagne. They brought him
a carafe, with the measures marked. He sat there a long time. When he
rose, he had drunk nine, and he felt better, with a kind of ferocity
that was pleasant in his veins and a kind of nobility that was pleasant
in his soul. Let her love, and be happy with her lover! But let him get
his fingers on that fellow’s throat! Let her be happy, if she could keep
her lover from him! And suddenly, he stopped in his tracks, for there
on a sandwich-board just in front of him were the words: “Daphne Wing.
Pantheon. Daphne Wing. Plastic Danseuse. Poetry of Motion. To-day at
three o’clock. Pantheon. Daphne Wing.”
Ah, SHE had loved him—little Daphne! It was past three. Going in, he
took his place in the stalls, close to the stage, and stared before him,
with a sort of bitter amusement. This was irony indeed! Ah—and here
she came! A Pierrette—in short, diaphanous muslin, her face whitened to
match it; a Pierrette who stood slowly spinning on her toes, with arms
raised and hands joined in an arch above her glistening hair.
Idiotic pose! Idiotic! But there was the old expression on her face,
limpid, dovelike. And that something of the divine about her dancing
smote Fiorsen through all the sheer imbecility of her posturings. Across
and across she flitted, pirouetting, caught up at intervals by a Pierrot
in black tights with a face as whitened as her own, held upside down, or
right end up with one knee bent sideways, and the toe of a foot pressed
against the ankle of the other, and arms arched above her. Then, with
Pierrot’s hands grasping her waist, she would stand upon one toe
and slowly twiddle, lifting her other leg toward the roof, while the
trembling of her form manifested cunningly to all how hard it was; then,
off the toe, she capered out to the wings, and capered back, wearing
on her face that divine, lost, dovelike look, while her perfect legs
gleamed white up to the very thigh-joint. Yes; on the stage she was
adorable! And raising his hands high, Fiorsen clapped and called out:
“Brava!” He marked the sudden roundness of her eyes, a tiny start—no
more. She had seen him. ’Ah! Some don’t forget me!’ he thought.
And now she came on for her second dance, assisted this time only by
her own image reflected in a little weedy pool about the middle of the
stage. From the programme Fiorsen read, “Ophelia’s last dance,” and
again he grinned. In a clinging sea-green gown, cut here and there
to show her inevitable legs, with marguerites and corn-flowers in her
unbound hair, she circled her own reflection, languid, pale, desolate;
then slowly gaining the abandon needful to a full display, danced with
frenzy till, in a gleam of limelight, she sank into the apparent water
and floated among paper water-lilies on her back. Lovely she looked
there, with her eyes still open, her lips parted, her hair trailing
behind. And again Fiorsen raised his hands high to clap, and again
called out: ’Brava!’ But the curtain fell, and Ophelia did not reappear.
Was it the sight of him, or was she preserving the illusion that she was
drowned? That “arty” touch would be just like her.
Averting his eyes from two comedians in calico, beating each other
about the body, he rose with an audible “Pish!” and made his way out. He
stopped in the street to scribble on his card, “Will you see me?—G. F.”
and took it round to the stage-door. The answer came back:
“Miss Wing will see you m a minute, sir.”
And leaning against the distempered wall of the draughty corridor, a
queer smile on his face, Fiorsen wondered why the devil he was there,
and what the devil she would say.
When he was admitted, she was standing with her hat on, while her
“dresser” buttoned her patent-leather shoes. Holding out her hand above
the woman’s back, she said:
“Oh, Mr. Fiorsen, how do you do?”
Fiorsen took the little moist hand; and his eyes passed over her,
avoiding a direct meeting with her eyes. He received an impression of
something harder, more self-possessed, than he remembered. Her face was
the same, yet not the same; only her perfect, supple little body was
as it had been. The dresser rose, murmured: “Good-afternoon, miss,” and
went.
Daphne Wing smiled faintly.
“I haven’t seen you for a long time, have I?”
“No; I’ve been abroad. You dance as beautifully as ever.”
“Oh, yes; it hasn’t hurt my dancing.”
With an effort, he looked her in the face. Was this really the same girl
who had clung to him, cloyed him with her kisses, her tears, her appeals
for love—just a little love? Ah, but she was more desirable, much more
desirable than he had remembered! And he said:
“Give me a kiss, little Daphne!”
Daphne Wing did not stir; her white teeth rested on her lower lip; she
said:
“Oh, no, thank you! How is Mrs. Fiorsen?”
Fiorsen turned abruptly.
“There is none.”
“Oh, has she divorced you?”
“No. Stop talking of her; stop talking, I say!”
Daphne Wing, still motionless in the centre of her little crowded
dressing-room said, in a matter-of-fact voice:
“You are polite, aren’t you? It’s funny; I can’t tell whether I’m glad
to see you. I had a bad time, you know; and Mrs. Fiorsen was an angel.
Why do you come to see me now?”
Exactly! Why had he come? The thought flashed through him: ’She’ll help
me to forget.’ And he said:
“I was a great brute to you, Daphne. I came to make up, if I can.”
“Oh, no; you can’t make up—thank you!” A shudder ran through her, and
she began drawing on her gloves. “You taught me a lot, you know. I ought
to be quite grateful. Oh, you’ve grown a little beard! D’you think that
improves you? It makes you look rather like Mephistopheles, I think.”
Fiorsen stared fixedly at that perfectly shaped face, where a faint,
underdone pink mingled with the fairness of the skin. Was she mocking
him? Impossible! She looked too matter of fact.
“Where do you live now?” he said.
“I’m on my own, in a studio. You can come and see it, if you like.”
“With pleasure.”
“Only, you’d better understand. I’ve had enough of love.”
Fiorsen grinned.
“Even for another?” he said.
Daphne Wing answered calmly:
“I wish you would treat me like a lady.”
Fiorsen bit his lip, and bowed.
“May I have the pleasure of giving you some tea?”
“Yes, thank you; I’m very hungry. I don’t eat lunch on matinee-days; I
find it better not. Do you like my Ophelia dance?”
“It’s artificial.”
“Yes, it IS artificial—it’s done with mirrors and wire netting, you
know. But do I give you the illusion of being mad?” Fiorsen nodded. “I’m
so glad. Shall we go? I do want my tea.”
She turned round, scrutinized herself in the glass, touched her hat
with both hands, revealing, for a second, all the poised beauty of her
figure, took a little bag from the back of a chair, and said:
“I think, if you don’t mind going on, it’s less conspicuous. I’ll meet
you at Ruffel’s—they have lovely things there. Au revoir.”
In a state of bewilderment, irritation, and queer meekness, Fiorsen
passed down Coventry Street, and entering the empty Ruffel’s, took a
table near the window. There he sat staring before him, for the sudden
vision of Gyp sitting on that oaken chest, at the foot of her bed, had
blotted the girl clean out. The attendant coming to take his order,
gazed at his pale, furious face, and said mechanically:
“What can I get you, please?”
Looking up, Fiorsen saw Daphne Wing outside, gazing at the cakes in the
window. She came in.
“Oh, here you are! I should like iced coffee and walnut cake, and some
of those marzipan sweets—oh, and some whipped cream with my cake. Do you
mind?” And, sitting down, she fixed her eyes on his face and asked:
“Where have you been abroad?”
“Stockholm, Budapest, Moscow, other places.”
“How perfect! Do you think I should make a success in Budapest or
Moscow?”
“You might; you are English enough.”
“Oh! Do you think I’m very English?”
“Utterly. Your kind of—” But even he was not quite capable of finishing
that sentence—“your kind of vulgarity could not be produced anywhere
else.” Daphne Wing finished it for him:
“My kind of beauty?”
Fiorsen grinned and nodded.
“Oh, I think that’s the nicest thing you ever said to me! Only, of
course, I should like to think I’m more of the Greek type—pagan, you
know.”
She fell silent, casting her eyes down. Her profile at that moment,
against the light, was very pure and soft in line. And he said:
“I suppose you hate me, little Daphne? You ought to hate me.”
Daphne Wing looked up; her round, blue-grey eyes passed over him much as
they had been passing over the marzipan.
“No; I don’t hate you—now. Of course, if I had any love left for you, I
should. Oh, isn’t that Irish? But one can think anybody a rotter without
hating them, can’t one?”
Fiorsen bit his lips.
“So you think me a ’rotter’?”
Daphne Wing’s eyes grew rounder.
“But aren’t you? You couldn’t be anything else—could you?—with the sort
of things you did.”
“And yet you don’t mind having tea with me?”
Daphne Wing, who had begun to eat and drink, said with her mouth full:
“You see, I’m independent now, and I know life. That makes you
harmless.”
Fiorsen stretched out his hand and seized hers just where her little
warm pulse was beating very steadily. She looked at it, changed her fork
over, and went on eating with the other hand. Fiorsen drew his hand away
as if he had been stung.
“Ah, you HAVE changed—that is certain!”
“Yes; you wouldn’t expect anything else, would you? You see, one doesn’t
go through that for nothing. I think I was a dreadful little fool—” She
stopped, with her spoon on its way to her mouth—“and yet—”
“I love you still, little Daphne.”
She slowly turned her head toward him, and a faint sigh escaped her.
“Once I would have given a lot to hear that.”
And turning her head away again, she picked a large walnut out of her
cake and put it in her mouth.
“Are you coming to see my studio? I’ve got it rather nice and new. I’m
making twenty-five a week; my next engagement, I’m going to get thirty.
I should like Mrs. Fiorsen to know—Oh, I forgot; you don’t like me to
speak of her! Why not? I wish you’d tell me!” Gazing, as the attendant
had, at his furious face, she went on: “I don’t know how it is, but I’m
not a bit afraid of you now. I used to be. Oh, how is Count Rosek? Is
he as pale as ever? Aren’t you going to have anything more? You’ve had
hardly anything. D’you know what I should like—a chocolate eclair and a
raspberry ice-cream soda with a slice of tangerine in it.”
When she had slowly sucked up that beverage, prodding the slice of
tangerine with her straws, they went out and took a cab. On that journey
to her studio, Fiorsen tried to possess himself of her hand, but,
folding her arms across her chest, she said quietly:
“It’s very bad manners to take advantage of cabs.” And, withdrawing
sullenly into his corner, he watched her askance. Was she playing with
him? Or had she really ceased to care the snap of a finger? It seemed
incredible. The cab, which had been threading the maze of the Soho
streets, stopped. Daphne Wing alighted, proceeded down a narrow passage
to a green door on the right, and, opening it with a latch-key, paused
to say:
“I like it’s being in a little sordid street—it takes away all
amateurishness. It wasn’t a studio, of course; it was the back part of a
paper-maker’s. Any space conquered for art is something, isn’t it?” She
led the way up a few green-carpeted stairs, into a large room with a
skylight, whose walls were covered in Japanese silk the colour of yellow
azaleas. Here she stood for a minute without speaking, as though lost in
the beauty of her home: then, pointing to the walls, she said:
“It took me ages, I did it all myself. And look at my little Japanese
trees; aren’t they dickies?” Six little dark abortions of trees were
arranged scrupulously on a lofty window-sill, whence the skylight
sloped. She added suddenly: “I think Count Rosek would like this room.
There’s something bizarre about it, isn’t there? I wanted to surround
myself with that, you know—to get the bizarre note into my work. It’s so
important nowadays. But through there I’ve got a bedroom and a bathroom
and a little kitchen with everything to hand, all quite domestic; and
hot water always on. My people are SO funny about this room. They
come sometimes, and stand about. But they can’t get used to the
neighbourhood; of course it IS sordid, but I think an artist ought to be
superior to that.”
Suddenly touched, Fiorsen answered gently:
“Yes, little Daphne.”
She looked at him, and another tiny sigh escaped her.
“Why did you treat me like you did?” she said. “It’s such a pity,
because now I can’t feel anything at all.” And turning, she suddenly
passed the back of her hand across her eyes. Really moved by that,
Fiorsen went towards her, but she had turned round again, and putting
out her hand to keep him off, stood shaking her head, with half a tear
glistening on her eyelashes.
“Please sit down on the divan,” she said. “Will you smoke? These are
Russians.” And she took a white box of pink-coloured cigarettes from a
little golden birchwood table. “I have everything Russian and Japanese
so far as I can; I think they help more than anything with atmosphere.
I’ve got a balalaika; you can’t play on it, can you? What a pity! If
only I had a violin! I SHOULD have liked to hear you play again.” She
clasped her hands: “Do you remember when I danced to you before the
fire?”
Fiorsen remembered only too well. The pink cigarette trembled in his
fingers, and he said rather hoarsely:
“Dance to me now, Daphne!”
She shook her head.
“I don’t trust you a yard. Nobody would—would they?”
Fiorsen started up.
“Then why did you ask me here? What are you playing at, you little—” At
sight of her round, unmoving eyes, he stopped. She said calmly:
“I thought you’d like to see that I’d mastered my fate—that’s all. But,
of course, if you don’t, you needn’t stop.”
Fiorsen sank back on the divan. A conviction that everything she said
was literal had begun slowly to sink into him. And taking a long pull at
that pink cigarette he puffed the smoke out with a laugh.
“What are you laughing at?”
“I was thinking, little Daphne, that you are as great an egoist as I.”
“I want to be. It’s the only thing, isn’t it?”
Fiorsen laughed again.
“You needn’t worry. You always were.”
She had seated herself on an Indian stool covered with a bit of Turkish
embroidery, and, joining her hands on her lap, answered gravely:
“No; I think I wasn’t, while I loved you. But it didn’t pay, did it?”
Fiorsen stared at her.
“It has made a woman of you, Daphne. Your face is different. Your
mouth is prettier for my kisses—or the want of them. All over, you are
prettier.” Pink came up in Daphne Wing’s cheeks. And, encouraged by that
flush, he went on warmly: “If you loved me now, I should not tire of
you. Oh, you can believe me! I—”
She shook her head.
“We won’t talk about love, will we? Did you have a big triumph in Moscow
and St. Petersburg? It must be wonderful to have really great triumphs!”
Fiorsen answered gloomily:
“Triumphs? I made a lot of money.”
Daphne Wing purred:
“Oh, I expect you’re very happy.”
Did she mean to be ironic?
“I’m miserable.”
He got up and went towards her. She looked up in his face.
“I’m sorry if you’re miserable. I know what it feels like.”
“You can help me not to be. Little Daphne, you can help me to forget.”
He had stopped, and put his hands on her shoulders. Without moving
Daphne Wing answered:
“I suppose it’s Mrs. Fiorsen you want to forget, isn’t it?”
“As if she were dead. Ah, let it all be as it was, Daphne! You have
grown up; you are a woman, an artist, and you—”
Daphne Wing had turned her head toward the stairs.
“That was the bell,” she said. “Suppose it’s my people? It’s just their
time! Oh, isn’t that awkward?”
Fiorsen dropped his grasp of her and recoiled against the wall. There
with his head touching one of the little Japanese trees, he stood biting
his fingers. She was already moving toward the door.
“My mother’s got a key, and it’s no good putting you anywhere, because
she always has a good look round. But perhaps it isn’t them. Besides,
I’m not afraid now; it makes a wonderful difference being on one’s own.”
She disappeared. Fiorsen could hear a woman’s acid voice, a man’s,
rather hoarse and greasy, the sound of a smacking kiss. And, with a
vicious shrug, he stood at bay. Trapped! The little devil! The little
dovelike devil! He saw a lady in a silk dress, green shot with beetroot
colour, a short, thick gentleman with a round, greyish beard, in a grey
suit, having a small dahlia in his buttonhole, and, behind them, Daphne
Wing, flushed, and very round-eyed. He took a step, intending to escape
without more ado. The gentleman said:
“Introduce us, Daisy. I didn’t quite catch—Mr. Dawson? How do you do,
sir? One of my daughter’s impresarios, I think. ’Appy to meet you, I’m
sure.”
Fiorsen took a long breath, and bowed. Mr. Wagge’s small piggy eyes had
fixed themselves on the little trees.
“She’s got a nice little place here for her work—quiet and
unconventional. I hope you think well of her talent, sir? You might go
further and fare worse, I believe.”
Again Fiorsen bowed.
“You may be proud of her,” he said; “she is the rising star.”
Mr. Wagge cleared his throat.
“Ow,” he said; “ye’es! From a little thing, we thought she had stuff
in her. I’ve come to take a great interest in her work. It’s not in my
line, but I think she’s a sticker; I like to see perseverance. Where
you’ve got that, you’ve got half the battle of success. So many of these
young people seem to think life’s all play. You must see a lot of that
in your profession, sir.”
“Robert!”
A shiver ran down Fiorsen’s spine.
“Ye-es?”
“The name was not DAWson!”
There followed a long moment. On the one side was that vinegary woman
poking her head forward like an angry hen, on the other, Daphne Wing,
her eyes rounder and rounder, her cheeks redder and redder, her lips
opening, her hands clasped to her perfect breast, and, in the centre,
that broad, grey-bearded figure, with reddening face and angry eyes and
hoarsening voice:
“You scoundrel! You infernal scoundrel!” It lurched forward, raising a
pudgy fist. Fiorsen sprang down the stairs and wrenched open the door.
He walked away in a whirl of mortification. Should he go back and
take that pug-faced vulgarian by the throat? As for that minx! But his
feelings about HER were too complicated for expression. And then—so dark
and random are the ways of the mind—his thoughts darted back to Gyp,
sitting on the oaken chest, making her confession; and the whips and
stings of it scored him worse than ever.
X
That same evening, standing at the corner of Bury Street, Summerhay
watched Gyp going swiftly to her father’s house. He could not bring
himself to move while there was still a chance to catch a glimpse of her
face, a sign from her hand. Gone! He walked away with his head down. The
more blissful the hours just spent, the greater the desolation when they
are over. Of such is the nature of love, as he was now discerning. The
longing to have her always with him was growing fast. Since her husband
knew—why wait? There would be no rest for either of them in an existence
of meetings and partings like this, with the menace of that fellow.
She must come away with him at once—abroad—until things had declared
themselves; and then he must find a place where they could live and
she feel safe and happy. He must show he was in dead earnest, set his
affairs in order. And he thought: ’No good doing things by halves.
Mother must know. The sooner the better. Get it over—at once!’ And,
with a grimace of discomfort, he set out for his aunt’s house in Cadogan
Gardens, where his mother always stayed when she was in town.
Lady Summerhay was in the boudoir, waiting for dinner and reading a book
on dreams. A red-shaded lamp cast a mellow tinge over the grey frock,
over one reddish cheek and one white shoulder. She was a striking
person, tall and well built, her very blonde hair only just turning
grey, for she had married young and been a widow fifteen years—one of
those women whose naturally free spirits have been netted by association
with people of public position. Bubbles were still rising from her
submerged soul, but it was obvious that it would not again set eyes
on the horizon. With views neither narrow nor illiberal, as views in
society go, she judged everything now as people of public position
must—discussion, of course, but no alteration in one’s way of living.
Speculation and ideas did not affect social usage. The countless
movements in which she and her friends were interested for the
emancipation and benefit of others were, in fact, only channels for
letting off her superfluous goodwill, conduit-pipes, for the directing
spirit bred in her. She thought and acted in terms of the public good,
regulated by what people of position said at luncheon and dinner. And it
was surely not her fault that such people must lunch and dine. When her
son had bent and kissed her, she held up the book to him and said:
“Well, Bryan, I think this man’s book disgraceful; he simply runs his
sex-idea to death. Really, we aren’t all quite so obsessed as that. I do
think he ought to be put in his own lunatic asylum.”
Summerhay, looking down at her gloomily, answered:
“I’ve got bad news for you, Mother.”
Lady Summerhay closed the book and searched his face with apprehension.
She knew that expression. She knew that poise of his head, as if butting
at something. He looked like that when he came to her in gambling
scrapes. Was this another? Bryan had always been a pickle. His next
words took her breath away.
“The people at Mildenham, Major Winton and his daughter—you know. Well,
I’m in love with her—I’m—I’m her lover.”
Lady Summerhay uttered a gasp.
“But—but—Bryan—”
“That fellow she married drinks. He’s impossible. She had to leave him
a year ago, with her baby—other reasons, too. Look here, Mother: This is
hateful, but you’d got to know. I can’t talk of her. There’s no chance
of a divorce.” His voice grew higher. “Don’t try to persuade me out of
it. It’s no good.”
Lady Summerhay, from whose comely face a frock, as it were, had slipped,
clasped her hands together on the book.
Such a swift descent of “life” on one to whom it had for so long been
a series of “cases” was cruel, and her son felt this without quite
realizing why. In the grip of his new emotions, he still retained enough
balance to appreciate what an abominably desolate piece of news this
must be to her, what a disturbance and disappointment. And, taking her
hand, he put it to his lips.
“Cheer up, Mother! It’s all right. She’s happy, and so am I.”
Lady Summerhay could only press her hand against his kiss, and murmur:
“Yes; that’s not everything, Bryan. Is there—is there going to be a
scandal?”
“I don’t know. I hope not; but, anyway, HE knows about it.”
“Society doesn’t forgive.”
Summerhay shrugged his shoulders.
“Awfully sorry for YOU, Mother.”
“Oh, Bryan!”
This repetition of her plaint jarred his nerves.
“Don’t run ahead of things. You needn’t tell Edith or Flo. You needn’t
tell anybody. We don’t know what’ll happen yet.”
But in Lady Summerhay all was too sore and blank. This woman she had
never seen, whose origin was doubtful, whose marriage must have soiled
her, who was some kind of a siren, no doubt. It really was too hard! She
believed in her son, had dreamed of public position for him, or, rather,
felt he would attain it as a matter of course. And she said feebly:
“This Major Winton is a man of breeding, isn’t he?”
“Rather!” And, stopping before her, as if he read her thoughts, he
added: “You think she’s not good enough for me? She’s good enough for
anyone on earth. And she’s the proudest woman I’ve ever met. If you’re
bothering as to what to do about her—don’t! She won’t want anything of
anybody—I can tell you that. She won’t accept any crumbs.”
“That’s lucky!” hovered on Lady Summerhay’s lips; but, gazing at her
son, she became aware that she stood on the brink of a downfall in his
heart. Then the bitterness of her disappointment rising up again, she
said coldly:
“Are you going to live together openly?”
“Yes; if she will.”
“You don’t know yet?”
“I shall—soon.”
Lady Summerhay got up, and the book on dreams slipped off her lap with a
thump. She went to the fireplace, and stood there looking at her son. He
had altered. His merry look was gone; his face was strange to her. She
remembered it like that, once in the park at Widrington, when he lost
his temper with a pony and came galloping past her, sitting back, his
curly hair stivered up like a little demon’s. And she said sadly:
“You can hardly expect me to like it for you, Bryan, even if she is what
you say. And isn’t there some story about—”
“My dear mother, the more there is against her, the more I shall love
her—that’s obvious.”
Lady Summerhay sighed again.
“What is this man going to do? I heard him play once.”
“I don’t know. Nothing, I dare say. Morally and legally, he’s out of
court. I only wish to God he WOULD bring a case, and I could marry her;
but Gyp says he won’t.”
Lady Summerhay murmured:
“Gyp? Is that her name?” And a sudden wish, almost a longing, not a
friendly one, to see this woman seized her. “Will you bring her to see
me? I’m alone here till Wednesday.”
“I’ll ask her, but I don’t think she’ll come.” He turned his head away.
“Mother, she’s wonderful!”
An unhappy smile twisted Lady Summerhay’s lips. No doubt! Aphrodite
herself had visited her boy. Aphrodite! And—afterward? She asked
desolately:
“Does Major Winton know?”
“Yes.”
“What does he say to it?”
“Say? What can anyone say? From your point of view, or his, it’s rotten,
of course. But in her position, anything’s rotten.”
At that encouraging word, the flood-gates gave way in Lady Summerhay,
and she poured forth a stream of words.
“Oh, my dear, can’t you pull up? I’ve seen so many of these affairs go
wrong. It really is not for nothing that law and conventions are what
they are—believe me! Really, Bryan, experience does show that the
pressure’s too great. It’s only once in a way—very exceptional people,
very exceptional circumstances. You mayn’t think now it’ll hamper you,
but you’ll find it will—most fearfully. It’s not as if you were a writer
or an artist, who can take his work where he likes and live in a desert
if he wants. You’ve got to do yours in London, your whole career is
bound up with society. Do think, before you go butting up against it!
It’s all very well to say it’s no affair of anyone’s, but you’ll find
it is, Bryan. And then, can you—can you possibly make her happy in the
long-run?”
She stopped at the expression on his face. It was as if he were saying:
“I have left your world. Talk to your fellows; all this is nothing to
me.”
“Look here, Mother: you don’t seem to understand. I’m devoted—devoted so
that there’s nothing else for me.”
“How long will that last, Bryan? You mean bewitched.”
Summerhay said, with passion:
“I don’t. I mean what I said. Good-night!” And he went to the door.
“Won’t you stay to dinner, dear?”
But he was gone, and the full of vexation, anxiety, and wretchedness
came on Lady Summerhay. It was too hard! She went down to her lonely
dinner, desolate and sore. And to the book on dreams, opened beside her
plate, she turned eyes that took in nothing.
Summerhay went straight home. The lamps were brightening in the
early-autumn dusk, and a draughty, ruffling wind flicked a yellow leaf
here and there from off the plane trees. It was just the moment when
evening blue comes into the colouring of the town—that hour of fusion
when day’s hard and staring shapes are softening, growing dark,
mysterious, and all that broods behind the lives of men and trees and
houses comes down on the wings of illusion to repossess the world—the
hour when any poetry in a man wells up. But Summerhay still heard his
mother’s, “Oh, Bryan!” and, for the first time, knew the feeling that
his hand was against everyone’s. There was a difference already, or so
it seemed to him, in the expression of each passer-by. Nothing any more
would be a matter of course; and he was of a class to whom everything
has always been a matter of course. Perhaps he did not realize this
clearly yet; but he had begun to take what the nurses call “notice,” as
do those only who are forced on to the defensive against society.
Putting his latch-key into the lock, he recalled the sensation with
which, that afternoon, he had opened to Gyp for the first time—half
furtive, half defiant. It would be all defiance now. This was the end
of the old order! And, lighting a fire in his sitting-room, he began
pulling out drawers, sorting and destroying. He worked for hours,
burning, making lists, packing papers and photographs. Finishing at
last, he drank a stiff whisky and soda, and sat down to smoke. Now
that the room was quiet, Gyp seemed to fill it again with her presence.
Closing his eyes, he could see her there by the hearth, just as she
stood before they left, turning her face up to him, murmuring: “You
won’t stop loving me, now you’re so sure I love you?” Stop loving her!
The more she loved him, the more he would love her. And he said aloud:
“By God! I won’t!” At that remark, so vehement for the time of night,
the old Scotch terrier, Ossian, came from his corner and shoved his long
black nose into his master’s hand.
“Come along up, Ossy! Good dog, Oss!” And, comforted by the warmth of
that black body beside him in the chair, Summerhay fell asleep in front
of the fire smouldering with blackened fragments of his past.
XI
Though Gyp had never seemed to look round she had been quite conscious
of Summerhay still standing where they had parted, watching her into the
house in Bury Street. The strength of her own feeling surprised her,
as a bather in the sea is surprised, finding her feet will not touch
bottom, that she is carried away helpless—only, these were the waters of
ecstasy.
For the second night running, she hardly slept, hearing the clocks of
St. James’s strike, and Big Ben boom, hour after hour. At breakfast, she
told her father of Fiorsen’s reappearance. He received the news with a
frown and a shrewd glance.
“Well, Gyp?”
“I told him.”
His feelings, at that moment, were perhaps as mixed as they had ever
been—curiosity, parental disapproval, to which he knew he was not
entitled, admiration of her pluck in letting that fellow know, fears for
the consequences of this confession, and, more than all, his profound
disturbance at knowing her at last launched into the deep waters of
love. It was the least of these feelings that found expression.
“How did he take it?”
“Rushed away. The only thing I feel sure of is that he won’t divorce
me.”
“No, by George; I don’t suppose even he would have that impudence!”
And Winton was silent, trying to penetrate the future. “Well,” he said
suddenly, “it’s on the knees of the gods then. But be careful, Gyp.”
About noon, Betty returned from the sea, with a solemn, dark-eyed,
cooing little Gyp, brown as a roasted coffee-berry. When she had been
given all that she could wisely eat after the journey, Gyp carried her
off to her own room, undressed her for sheer delight of kissing her from
head to foot, and admiring her plump brown legs, then cuddled her up
in a shawl and lay down with her on the bed. A few sleepy coos and
strokings, and little Gyp had left for the land of Nod, while her mother
lay gazing at her black lashes with a kind of passion. She was not
a child-lover by nature; but this child of her own, with her dark
softness, plump delicacy, giving disposition, her cooing voice, and
constant adjurations to “dear mum,” was adorable. There was something
about her insidiously seductive. She had developed so quickly, with the
graceful roundness of a little animal, the perfection of a flower. The
Italian blood of her great-great-grandmother was evidently prepotent in
her as yet; and, though she was not yet two years old, her hair, which
had lost its baby darkness, was already curving round her neck and
waving on her forehead. One of her tiny brown hands had escaped the
shawl and grasped its edge with determined softness. And while Gyp gazed
at the pinkish nails and their absurdly wee half-moons, at the sleeping
tranquillity stirred by breathing no more than a rose-leaf on a windless
day, her lips grew fuller, trembled, reached toward the dark
lashes, till she had to rein her neck back with a jerk to stop such
self-indulgence. Soothed, hypnotized, almost in a dream, she lay there
beside her baby.
That evening, at dinner, Winton said calmly:
“Well, I’ve been to see Fiorsen, and warned him off. Found him at that
fellow Rosek’s.” Gyp received the news with a vague sensation of alarm.
“And I met that girl, the dancer, coming out of the house as I was going
in—made it plain I’d seen her, so I don’t think he’ll trouble you.”
An irresistible impulse made her ask:
“How was she looking, Dad?”
Winton smiled grimly. How to convey his impression of the figure he had
seen coming down the steps—of those eyes growing rounder and rounder at
sight of him, of that mouth opening in an: “Oh!”
“Much the same. Rather flabbergasted at seeing me, I think. A white
hat—very smart. Attractive in her way, but common, of course. Those two
were playing the piano and fiddle when I went up. They tried not to let
me in, but I wasn’t to be put off. Queer place, that!”
Gyp smiled. She could see it all so well. The black walls, the silver
statuettes, Rops drawings, scent of dead rose-leaves and pastilles and
cigarettes—and those two by the piano—and her father so cool and dry!
“One can’t stand on ceremony with fellows like that. I hadn’t forgotten
that Polish chap’s behaviour to you, my dear.”
Through Gyp passed a quiver of dread, a vague return of the feelings
once inspired by Rosek.
“I’m almost sorry you went, Dad. Did you say anything very—”
“Did I? Let’s see! No; I think I was quite polite.” He added, with a
grim, little smile: “I won’t swear I didn’t call one of them a ruffian.
I know they said something about my presuming on being a cripple.”
“Oh, darling!”
“Yes; it was that Polish chap—and so he is!”
Gyp murmured:
“I’d almost rather it had been—the other.” Rosek’s pale, suave face,
with the eyes behind which there were such hidden things, and the lips
sweetish and restrained and sensual—he would never forgive! But Winton
only smiled again, patting her arm. He was pleased with an encounter
which had relieved his feelings.
Gyp spent all that evening writing her first real love-letter. But
when, next afternoon at six, in fulfilment of its wording, she came to
Summerhay’s little house, her heart sank; for the blinds were down and
it had a deserted look. If he had been there, he would have been at the
window, waiting. Had he, then, not got her letter, not been home since
yesterday? And that chill fear which besets lovers’ hearts at failure of
a tryst smote her for the first time. In the three-cornered garden stood
a decayed statue of a naked boy with a broken bow—a sparrow was perching
on his greenish shoulder; sooty, heart-shaped lilac leaves hung round
his head, and at his legs the old Scotch terrier was sniffing. Gyp
called: “Ossian! Ossy!” and the old dog came, wagging his tail feebly.
“Master! Where is your master, dear?”
Ossian poked his long nose into her calf, and that gave her a little
comfort. She passed, perforce, away from the deserted house and returned
home; but all manner of frightened thoughts beset her. Where had he
gone? Why had he gone? Why had he not let her know? Doubts—those hasty
attendants on passion—came thronging, and scepticism ran riot. What did
she know of his life, of his interests, of him, except that he said he
loved her? Where had he gone? To Widrington, to some smart house-party,
or even back to Scotland? The jealous feelings that had so besieged her
at the bungalow when his letters ceased came again now with redoubled
force. There must be some woman who, before their love began, had claim
on him, or some girl that he admired. He never told her of any such—of
course, he would not! She was amazed and hurt by her capacity for
jealousy. She had always thought she would be too proud to feel
jealousy—a sensation so dark and wretched and undignified, but—alas!—so
horribly real and clinging.
She had said she was not dining at home; so Winton had gone to his club,
and she was obliged to partake of a little trumped-up lonely meal. She
went up to her room after it, but there came on her such restlessness
that presently she put on her things and slipped out. She went past St.
James’s Church into Piccadilly, to the further, crowded side, and began
to walk toward the park. This was foolish; but to do a foolish thing
was some relief, and she went along with a faint smile, mocking her
own recklessness. Several women of the town—ships of night with sails
set—came rounding out of side streets or down the main stream,
with their skilled, rapid-seeming slowness. And at the discomfited,
half-hostile stares on their rouged and powdered faces, Gyp felt a
wicked glee. She was disturbing, hurting them—and she wanted to hurt.
Presently, a man, in evening dress, with overcoat thrown open, gazed
pointblank into her face, and, raising his hat, ranged up beside her.
She walked straight on, still with that half-smile, knowing him puzzled
and fearfully attracted. Then an insensate wish to stab him to the heart
made her turn her head and look at him. At the expression on her face,
he wilted away from her, and again she felt that wicked glee at having
hurt him.
She crossed out into the traffic, to the park side, and turned back
toward St. James’s; and now she was possessed by profound, black
sadness. If only her lover were beside her that beautiful evening, among
the lights and shadows of the trees, in the warm air! Why was he not
among these passers-by? She who could bring any casual man to her side
by a smile could not conjure up the only one she wanted from this great
desert of a town! She hurried along, to get in and hide her longing.
But at the corner of St. James’s Street, she stopped. That was his club,
nearly opposite. Perhaps he was there, playing cards or billiards, a few
yards away, and yet as in another world. Presently he would come out,
go to some music-hall, or stroll home thinking of her—perhaps not even
thinking of her! Another woman passed, giving her a furtive glance. But
Gyp felt no glee now. And, crossing over, close under the windows of
the club, she hurried home. When she reached her room, she broke into
a storm of tears. How could she have liked hurting those poor women,
hurting that man—who was only paying her a man’s compliment, after all?
And with these tears, her jealous, wild feelings passed, leaving only
her longing.
Next morning brought a letter. Summerhay wrote from an inn on the river,
asking her to come down by the eleven o’clock train, and he would meet
her at the station. He wanted to show her a house that he had seen; and
they could have the afternoon on the river! Gyp received this letter,
which began: “My darling!” with an ecstasy that she could not quite
conceal. And Winton, who had watched her face, said presently:
“I think I shall go to Newmarket, Gyp. Home to-morrow evening.”
In the train on the way down, she sat with closed eyes, in a sort of
trance. If her lover had been there holding her in his arms, he could
not have seemed nearer.
She saw him as the train ran in; but they met without a hand-clasp,
without a word, simply looking at each other and breaking into smiles.
A little victoria “dug up”—as Summerhay said—“horse, driver and all,”
carried them slowly upward. Under cover of the light rugs their hands
were clasped, and they never ceased to look into each other’s faces,
except for those formal glances of propriety which deceive no one.
The day was beautiful, as only early September days can be—when the sun
is hot, yet not too hot, and its light falls in a silken radiance on
trees just losing the opulent monotony of summer, on silvery-gold reaped
fields, silvery-green uplands, golden mustard; when shots ring out in
the distance, and, as one gazes, a leaf falls, without reason, as it
would seem. Presently they branched off the main road by a lane past
a clump of beeches and drew up at the gate of a lonely house, built of
very old red brick, and covered by Virginia creeper just turning—a house
with an ingle-nook and low, broad chimneys. Before it was a walled,
neglected lawn, with poplars and one large walnut-tree. The sunlight
seemed to have collected in that garden, and there was a tremendous hum
of bees. Above the trees, the downs could be seen where racehorses, they
said, were trained. Summerhay had the keys of the house, and they went
in. To Gyp, it was like a child’s “pretending”—to imagine they were
going to live there together, to sort out the rooms and consecrate each.
She would not spoil this perfect day by argument or admission of the
need for a decision. And when he asked:
“Well, darling, what do you think of it?” she only answered:
“Oh, lovely, in a way; but let’s go back to the river and make the most
of it.”
They took boat at ’The Bowl of Cream,’ the river inn where Summerhay
was staying. To him, who had been a rowing man at Oxford, the river was
known from Lechlade to Richmond; but Gyp had never in her life been on
it, and its placid magic, unlike that of any other river in the world,
almost overwhelmed her. On this glistening, windless day, to drift along
past the bright, flat water-lily leaves over the greenish depths, to
listen to the pigeons, watch the dragon-flies flitting past, and the
fish leaping lazily, not even steering, letting her hand dabble in
the water, then cooling her sun-warmed cheek with it, and all the time
gazing at Summerhay, who, dipping his sculls gently, gazed at her—all
this was like a voyage down some river of dreams, the very fulfilment of
felicity. There is a degree of happiness known to the human heart which
seems to belong to some enchanted world—a bright maze into which, for a
moment now and then, we escape and wander. To-day, he was more than ever
like her Botticelli “Young Man,” with his neck bare, and his face so
clear-eyed and broad and brown. Had she really had a life with another
man? And only a year ago? It seemed inconceivable!
But when, in the last backwater, he tied the boat up and came to
sit with her once more, it was already getting late, and the vague
melancholy of the now shadowy river was stealing into her. And, with a
sort of sinking in her heart, she heard him begin:
“Gyp, we MUST go away together. We can never stand it going on apart,
snatching hours here and there.”
Pressing his hand to her cheeks, she murmured:
“Why not, darling? Hasn’t this been perfect? What could we ever have
more perfect? It’s been paradise itself!”
“Yes; but to be thrown out every day! To be whole days and nights
without you! Gyp, you must—you must! What is there against it? Don’t you
love me enough?”
She looked at him, and then away into the shadows.
“Too much, I think. It’s tempting Providence to change. Let’s go on as
we are, Bryan. No; don’t look like that—don’t be angry!”
“Why are you afraid? Are you sorry for our love?”
“No; but let it be like this. Don’t let’s risk anything.”
“Risk? Is it people—society—you’re afraid of? I thought YOU wouldn’t
care.”
Gyp smiled.
“Society? No; I’m not afraid of that.”
“What, then? Of me?”
“I don’t know. Men soon get tired. I’m a doubter, Bryan, I can’t help
it.”
“As if anyone could get tired of you! Are you afraid of yourself?”
Again Gyp smiled.
“Not of loving too little, I told you.”
“How can one love too much?”
She drew his head down to her. But when that kiss was over, she only
said again:
“No, Bryan; let’s go on as we are. I’ll make up to you when I’m with
you. If you were to tire of me, I couldn’t bear it.”
For a long time more he pleaded—now with anger, now with kisses,
now with reasonings; but, to all, she opposed that same tender,
half-mournful “No,” and, at last, he gave it up, and, in dogged silence,
rowed her to the village, whence she was to take train back. It was dusk
when they left the boat, and dew was falling. Just before they reached
the station, she caught his hand and pressed it to her breast.
“Darling, don’t be angry with me! Perhaps I will—some day.”
And, in the train, she tried to think herself once more in the boat,
among the shadows and the whispering reeds and all the quiet wonder of
the river.
XII
On reaching home she let herself in stealthily, and, though she had not
had dinner, went up at once to her room. She was just taking off her
blouse when Betty entered, her round face splotched with red, and tears
rolling down her cheeks.
“Betty! What is it?”
“Oh, my dear, where HAVE you been? Such a dreadful piece of news!
They’ve stolen her! That wicked man—your husband—he took her right out
of her pram—and went off with her in a great car—he and that other one!
I’ve been half out of my mind!” Gyp stared aghast. “I hollered to a
policeman. ’He’s stolen her—her father! Catch them!’ I said. ’However
shall I face my mistress?’” She stopped for breath, then burst
out again. “‘He’s a bad one,’ I said. ’A foreigner! They’re both
foreigners!’ ’Her father?’ he said. ’Well, why shouldn’t he? He’s only
givin’ her a joy ride. He’ll bring her back, never you fear.’ And I ran
home—I didn’t know where you were. Oh dear! The major away and all—what
was I to do? I’d just turned round to shut the gate of the square
gardens, and I never saw him till he’d put his great long arm over
the pram and snatched her out.” And, sitting on the bed, she gave way
utterly.
Gyp stood still. Nemesis for her happiness? That vengeful wretch, Rosek!
This was his doing. And she said:
“Oh, Betty, she must be crying!”
A fresh outburst of moans was the only answer. Gyp remembered suddenly
what the lawyer had said over a year ago—it had struck her with terror
at the time. In law, Fiorsen owned and could claim her child. She could
have got her back, then, by bringing a horrible case against him, but
now, perhaps, she had no chance. Was it her return to Fiorsen that they
aimed at—or the giving up of her lover? She went over to her mirror,
saying:
“We’ll go at once, Betty, and get her back somehow. Wash your face.”
While she made ready, she fought down those two horrible fears—of losing
her child, of losing her lover; the less she feared, the better she
could act, the more subtly, the swifter. She remembered that she had
somewhere a little stiletto, given her a long time ago. She hunted it
out, slipped off its red-leather sheath, and, stabbing the point into a
tiny cork, slipped it beneath her blouse. If they could steal her baby,
they were capable of anything. She wrote a note to her father, telling
him what had happened, and saying where she had gone. Then, in a taxi,
they set forth. Cold water and the calmness of her mistress had removed
from Betty the main traces of emotion; but she clasped Gyp’s hand hard
and gave vent to heavy sighs.
Gyp would not think. If she thought of her little one crying, she knew
she would cry, too. But her hatred for those who had dealt this cowardly
blow grew within her. She took a resolution and said quietly:
“Mr. Summerhay, Betty. That’s why they’ve stolen our darling. I suppose
you know he and I care for each other. They’ve stolen her so as to make
me do anything they like.”
A profound sigh answered her.
Behind that moon-face with the troubled eyes, what conflict was in
progress—between unquestioning morality and unquestioning belief in Gyp,
between fears for her and wishes for her happiness, between the loyal
retainer’s habit of accepting and the old nurse’s feeling of being in
charge? She said faintly:
“Oh dear! He’s a nice gentleman, too!” And suddenly, wheezing it out
with unexpected force: “To say truth, I never did hold you was rightly
married to that foreigner in that horrible registry place—no music,
no flowers, no blessin’ asked, nor nothing. I cried me eyes out at the
time.”
Gyp said quietly:
“No; Betty, I never was. I only thought I was in love.” A convulsive
squeeze and creaking, whiffling sounds heralded a fresh outburst. “Don’t
cry; we’re just there. Think of our darling!”
The cab stopped. Feeling for her little weapon, she got out, and with
her hand slipped firmly under Betty’s arm, led the way upstairs. Chilly
shudders ran down her spine—memories of Daphne Wing and Rosek, of that
large woman—what was her name?—of many other faces, of unholy hours
spent up there, in a queer state, never quite present, never comfortable
in soul; memories of late returnings down these wide stairs out to their
cab, of Fiorsen beside her in the darkness, his dim, broad-cheekboned
face moody in the corner or pressed close to hers. Once they had walked
a long way homeward in the dawn, Rosek with them, Fiorsen playing on his
muted violin, to the scandal of the policemen and the cats. Dim, unreal
memories! Grasping Betty’s arm more firmly, she rang the bell. When the
man servant, whom she remembered well, opened the door, her lips were so
dry that they could hardly form the words:
“Is Mr. Fiorsen in, Ford?”
“No, ma’am; Mr. Fiorsen and Count Rosek went into the country this
afternoon. I haven’t their address at present.” She must have turned
white, for she could hear the man saying: “Anything I can get you,
ma’am?”
“When did they start, please?”
“One o’clock, ma’am—by car. Count Rosek was driving himself. I should
say they won’t be away long—they just had their bags with them.” Gyp put
out her hand helplessly; she heard the servant say in a concerned voice:
“I could let you know the moment they return, ma’am, if you’d kindly
leave me your address.”
Giving her card, and murmuring:
“Thank you, Ford; thank you very much,” she grasped Betty’s arm again
and leaned heavily on her going down the stairs.
It was real, black fear now. To lose helpless things—children—dogs—and
know for certain that one cannot get to them, no matter what they may
be suffering! To be pinned down to ignorance and have in her ears the
crying of her child—this horror, Gyp suffered now. And nothing to
be done! Nothing but to go to bed and wait—hardest of all tasks!
Mercifully—thanks to her long day in the open—she fell at last into
a dreamless sleep, and when she was called, there was a letter from
Fiorsen on the tray with her tea.
“Gyp:
“I am not a baby-stealer like your father. The law gives me the right to
my own child. But swear to give up your lover, and the baby shall come
back to you at once. If you do not give him up, I will take her away out
of England. Send me an answer to this post-office, and do not let your
father try any tricks upon me.
“GUSTAV FIORSEN.”
Beneath was written the address of a West End post-office.
When Gyp had finished reading, she went through some moments of such
mental anguish as she had never known, but—just as when Betty first told
her of the stealing—her wits and wariness came quickly back. Had he
been drinking when he wrote that letter? She could almost fancy that she
smelled brandy, but it was so easy to fancy what one wanted to. She
read it through again—this time, she felt almost sure that it had been
dictated to him. If he had composed the wording himself, he would
never have resisted a gibe at the law, or a gibe at himself for thus
safeguarding her virtue. It was Rosek’s doing. Her anger flamed up
anew. Since they used such mean, cruel ways, why need she herself be
scrupulous? She sprang out of bed and wrote:
“How COULD you do such a brutal thing? At all events, let the darling
have her nurse. It’s not like you to let a little child suffer. Betty
will be ready to come the minute you send for her. As for myself, you
must give me time to decide. I will let you know within two days.
“GYP.”
When she had sent this off, and a telegram to her father at Newmarket,
she read Fiorsen’s letter once more, and was more than ever certain that
it was Rosek’s wording. And, suddenly, she thought of Daphne Wing, whom
her father had seen coming out of Rosek’s house. Through her there might
be a way of getting news. She seemed to see again the girl lying so
white and void of hope when robbed by death of her own just-born babe.
Yes; surely it was worth trying.
An hour later, her cab stopped before the Wagges’ door in Frankland
Street. But just as she was about to ring the bell, a voice from behind
her said:
“Allow me; I have a key. What may I—Oh, it’s you!” She turned. Mr.
Wagge, in professional habiliments, was standing there. “Come in; come
in,” he said. “I was wondering whether perhaps we shouldn’t be seeing
you after what’s transpired.”
Hanging his tall black hat, craped nearly to the crown, on a knob of the
mahogany stand, he said huskily:
“I DID think we’d seen the last of that,” and opened the dining-room
door. “Come in, ma’am. We can put our heads together better in here.”
In that too well remembered room, the table was laid with a stained
white cloth, a cruet-stand, and bottle of Worcestershire sauce. The
little blue bowl was gone, so that nothing now marred the harmony of red
and green. Gyp said quickly:
“Doesn’t Daph—Daisy live at home, then, now?”
The expression on Mr. Wagge’s face was singular; suspicion, relief, and
a sort of craftiness were blended with that furtive admiration which Gyp
seemed always to excite in him.
“Do I understand that you—er—”
“I came to ask if Daisy would do something for me.”
Mr. Wagge blew his nose.
“You didn’t know—” he began again.
“Yes; I dare say she sees my husband, if that’s what you mean; and I
don’t mind—he’s nothing to me now.”
Mr. Wagge’s face became further complicated by the sensations of a
husband.
“Well,” he said, “it’s not to be wondered at, perhaps, in the
circumstances. I’m sure I always thought—”
Gyp interrupted swiftly.
“Please, Mr. Wagge—please! Will you give me Daisy’s address?”
Mr. Wagge remained a moment in deep thought; then he said, in a gruff,
jerky voice:
“Seventy-three Comrade Street, So’o. Up to seeing him there on Tuesday,
I must say I cherished every hope. Now I’m sorry I didn’t strike him—he
was too quick for me—” He had raised one of his gloved hands and was
sawing it up and down. The sight of that black object cleaving the air
nearly made Gyp scream, her nerves were so on edge. “It’s her blasted
independence—I beg pardon—but who wouldn’t?” he ended suddenly.
Gyp passed him.
“Who wouldn’t?” she heard his voice behind her. “I did think she’d have
run straight this time—” And while she was fumbling at the outer door,
his red, pudgy face, with its round grey beard, protruded almost over
her shoulder. “If you’re going to see her, I hope you’ll—”
Gyp was gone. In her cab she shivered. Once she had lunched with her
father at a restaurant in the Strand. It had been full of Mr. Wagges.
But, suddenly, she thought: ’It’s hard on him, poor man!’
XIII
Seventy-three Comrade Street, Soho, was difficult to find; but, with the
aid of a milk-boy, Gyp discovered the alley at last, and the right door.
There her pride took sudden alarm, and but for the milk-boy’s eyes fixed
on her while he let out his professional howl, she might have fled.
A plump white hand and wrist emerging took the can, and Daphne Wing’s
voice said:
“Oh, where’s the cream?”
“Ain’t got none.”
“Oh! I told you always—two pennyworth at twelve o’clock.”
“Two penn’orth.” The boy’s eyes goggled.
“Didn’t you want to speak to her, miss?” He beat the closing door. “Lidy
wants to speak to you! Good-mornin’, miss.”
The figure of Daphne Wing in a blue kimono was revealed. Her eyes peered
round at Gyp.
“Oh!” she said.
“May I come in?”
“Oh, yes! Oh, do! I’ve been practising. Oh, I am glad to see you!”
In the middle of the studio, a little table was laid for two. Daphne
Wing went up to it, holding in one hand the milk-can and in the other a
short knife, with which she had evidently been opening oysters. Placing
the knife on the table, she turned round to Gyp. Her face was deep
pink, and so was her neck, which ran V-shaped down into the folds of her
kimono. Her eyes, round as saucers, met Gyp’s, fell, met them again. She
said:
“Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I am glad! I really am. I wanted you so much to see
my room—do you like it? How DID you know where I was?” She looked down
and added: “I think I’d better tell you. Mr. Fiorsen came here, and,
since then, I’ve seen him at Count Rosek’s—and—and—”
“Yes; but don’t trouble to tell me, please.”
Daphne Wing hurried on.
“Of course, I’m quite mistress of myself now.” Then, all at once, the
uneasy woman-of-the-world mask dropped from her face and she seized
Gyp’s hand. “Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I shall never be like you!”
With a little shiver, Gyp said:
“I hope not.” Her pride rushed up in her. How could she ask this girl
anything? She choked back that feeling, and said stonily: “Do you
remember my baby? No, of course; you never saw her. HE and Count Rosek
have just taken her away from me.”
Daphne Wing convulsively squeezed the hand of which she had possessed
herself.
“Oh, what a wicked thing! When?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Oh, I AM glad I haven’t seen him since! Oh, I DO think that was wicked!
Aren’t you dreadfully distressed?” The least of smiles played on
Gyp’s mouth. Daphne Wing burst forth: “D’you know—I think—I think your
self-control is something awful. It frightens me. If my baby had lived
and been stolen like that, I should have been half dead by now.”
Gyp answered stonily as ever:
“Yes; I want her back, and I wondered—”
Daphne Wing clasped her hands.
“Oh, I expect I can make him—” She stopped, confused, then added
hastily: “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“I shouldn’t mind if he had fifty loves. Perhaps he has.”
Daphne Wing uttered a little gasp; then her teeth came down rather
viciously on her lower lip.
“I mean him to do what I want now, not what he wants me. That’s the only
way when you love. Oh, don’t smile like that, please; you do make me
feel so—uncertain.”
“When are you going to see him next?”
Daphne Wing grew very pink.
“I don’t know. He might be coming in to lunch. You see, it’s not as if
he were a stranger, is it?” Casting up her eyes a little, she added: “He
won’t even let me speak your name; it makes him mad. That’s why I’m
sure he still loves you; only, his love is so funny.” And, seizing Gyp’s
hand: “I shall never forget how good you were to me. I do hope you—you
love somebody else.” Gyp pressed those damp, clinging fingers, and
Daphne Wing hurried on: “I’m sure your baby’s a darling. How you must
be suffering! You look quite pale. But it isn’t any good suffering. I
learned that.”
Her eyes lighted on the table, and a faint ruefulness came into them, as
if she were going to ask Gyp to eat the oysters.
Gyp bent forward and put her lips to the girl’s forehead.
“Good-bye. My baby would thank you if she knew.”
And she turned to go. She heard a sob. Daphne Wing was crying; then,
before Gyp could speak, she struck herself on the throat, and said, in a
strangled voice:
“Tha—that’s idiotic! I—I haven’t cried since—since, you know. I—I’m
perfect mistress of myself; only, I—only—I suppose you reminded me—I
NEVER cry!”
Those words and the sound of a hiccough accompanied Gyp down the alley
to her cab.
When she got back to Bury Street, she found Betty sitting in the hall
with her bonnet on. She had not been sent for, nor had any reply come
from Newmarket. Gyp could not eat, could settle to nothing. She went
up to her bedroom to get away from the servants’ eyes, and went on
mechanically with a frock of little Gyp’s she had begun on the fatal
morning Fiorsen had come back. Every other minute she stopped to listen
to sounds that never meant anything, went a hundred times to the window
to look at nothing. Betty, too, had come upstairs, and was in the
nursery opposite; Gyp could hear her moving about restlessly among her
household gods. Presently, those sounds ceased, and, peering into the
room, she saw the stout woman still in her bonnet, sitting on a trunk,
with her back turned, uttering heavy sighs. Gyp stole back into her own
room with a sick, trembling sensation. If—if her baby really could not
be recovered except by that sacrifice! If that cruel letter were the
last word, and she forced to decide between them! Which would she give
up? Which follow—her lover or her child?
She went to the window for air—the pain about her heart was dreadful.
And, leaning there against the shutter, she felt quite dizzy from the
violence of a struggle that refused coherent thought or feeling, and
was just a dumb pull of instincts, both so terribly strong—how terribly
strong she had not till then perceived.
Her eyes fell on the picture that reminded her of Bryan; it seemed
now to have no resemblance—none. He was much too real, and loved, and
wanted. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she had turned a deaf ear to
his pleading that she should go to him for ever. How funny! Would she
not rush to him now—go when and where he liked? Ah, if only she were
back in his arms! Never could she give him up—never! But then in her
ears sounded the cooing words, “Dear mum!” Her baby—that tiny thing—how
could she give her up, and never again hold close and kiss that round,
perfect little body, that grave little dark-eyed face?
The roar of London came in through the open window. So much life, so
many people—and not a soul could help! She left the window and went to
the cottage-piano she had there, out of Winton’s way. But she only sat
with arms folded, looking at the keys. The song that girl had sung at
Fiorsen’s concert—song of the broken heart—came back to her.
No, no; she couldn’t—couldn’t! It was to her lover she would cling. And
tears ran down her cheeks.
A cab had stopped below, but not till Betty came rushing in did she look
up.
XIV
When, trembling all over, she entered the dining-room, Fiorsen was
standing by the sideboard, holding the child.
He came straight up and put her into Gyp’s arms.
“Take her,” he said, “and do what you will. Be happy.”
Hugging her baby, close to the door as she could get, Gyp answered
nothing. Her heart was in such a tumult that she could not have spoken
a word to save her life; relieved, as one dying of thirst by unexpected
water; grateful, bewildered, abashed, yet instinctively aware of
something evanescent and unreal in his altruism. Daphne Wing! What
bargain did this represent?
Fiorsen must have felt the chill of this instinctive vision, for he
cried out:
“Yes! You never believed in me; you never thought me capable of good!
Why didn’t you?”
Gyp bent her face over her baby to hide the quivering of her lips.
“I am sorry—very, very sorry.”
Fiorsen came closer and looked into her face.
“By God, I am afraid I shall never forget you—never!”
Tears had come into his eyes, and Gyp watched them, moved, troubled, but
still deeply mistrusting.
He brushed his hand across his face; and the thought flashed through
her: ’He means me to see them! Ah, what a cynical wretch I am!’
Fiorsen saw that thought pass, and muttering suddenly:
“Good-bye, Gyp! I am not all bad. I AM NOT!” He tore the door open and
was gone.
That passionate “I am not!” saved Gyp from a breakdown. No; even at his
highest pitch of abnegation, he could not forget himself.
Relief, if overwhelming, is slowly realized; but when, at last, what she
had escaped and what lay before her were staring full in each other’s
face, it seemed to her that she must cry out, and tell the whole world
of her intoxicating happiness. And the moment little Gyp was in Betty’s
arms, she sat down and wrote to Summerhay:
“DARLING,
“I’ve had a fearful time. My baby was stolen by him while I was with
you. He wrote me a letter saying that he would give her back to me if I
gave you up. But I found I couldn’t give you up, not even for my baby.
And then, a few minutes ago, he brought her—none the worse. Tomorrow
we shall all go down to Mildenham; but very soon, if you still want me,
I’ll come with you wherever you like. My father and Betty will take care
of my treasure till we come back; and then, perhaps, the old red house
we saw—after all. Only—now is the time for you to draw back. Look into
the future—look far! Don’t let any foolish pity—or honour—weigh with
you; be utterly sure, I do beseech you. I can just bear it now if I know
it’s for your good. But afterward it’ll be too late. It would be the
worst misery of all if I made you unhappy. Oh, make sure—make sure! I
shall understand. I mean this with every bit of me. And now, good-night,
and perhaps—good-bye.
“Your
“GYP.”
She read it over and shivered. Did she really mean that she could bear
it if he drew back—if he did look far, far into the future, and decided
that she was not worth the candle? Ah, but better now—than later.
She closed and sealed the letter, and sat down to wait for her father.
And she thought: ’Why does one have a heart? Why is there in one
something so much too soft?’
Ten days later, at Mildenham station, holding her father’s hand, Gyp
could scarcely see him for the mist before her eyes. How good he had
been to her all those last days, since she told him that she was going
to take the plunge! Not a word of remonstrance or complaint.
“Good-bye, my love! Take care of yourself; wire from London, and again
from Paris.” And, smiling up at her, he added: “He has luck; I had
none.”
The mist became tears, rolled down, fell on his glove.
“Not too long out there, Gyp!”
She pressed her wet cheek passionately to his. The train moved, but, so
long as she could see, she watched him standing on the platform, waving
his grey hat, then, in her corner, sat down, blinded with tears behind
her veil. She had not cried when she left him the day of her fatal
marriage; she cried now that she was leaving him to go to her incredible
happiness.
Strange! But her heart had grown since then.