I
Little Gyp, aged nearly four and a half that first of May, stood at
the edge of the tulip border, bowing to two hen turkeys who were poking
their heads elegantly here and there among the flowers. She was absurdly
like her mother, the same oval-shaped face, dark arched brows, large
and clear brown eyes; but she had the modern child’s open-air look; her
hair, that curled over at the ends, was not allowed to be long, and her
polished brown legs were bare to the knees.
“Turkeys! You aren’t good, are you? Come ON!” And, stretching out her
hands with the palms held up, she backed away from the tulip-bed. The
turkeys, trailing delicately their long-toed feet and uttering soft,
liquid interrogations, moved after her in hopes of what she was not
holding in her little brown hands. The sun, down in the west, for it was
past tea-time, slanted from over the roof of the red house, and painted
up that small procession—the deep blue frock of little Gyp, the glint
of gold in the chestnut of her hair; the daisy-starred grass; the dark
birds with translucent red dewlaps, and checkered tails and the tulip
background, puce and red and yellow. When she had lured them to the open
gate, little Gyp raised herself, and said:
“Aren’t you duffies, dears? Shoo!” And on the tails of the turkeys she
shut the gate. Then she went to where, under the walnut-tree—the one
large tree of that walled garden—a very old Scotch terrier was lying,
and sitting down beside him, began stroking his white muzzle, saying:
“Ossy, Ossy, do you love me?”
Presently, seeing her mother in the porch, she jumped up, and crying
out: “Ossy—Ossy! Walk!” rushed to Gyp and embraced her legs, while the
old Scotch terrier slowly followed.
Thus held prisoner, Gyp watched the dog’s approach. Nearly three years
had changed her a little. Her face was softer, and rather more grave,
her form a little fuller, her hair, if anything, darker, and done
differently—instead of waving in wings and being coiled up behind, it
was smoothly gathered round in a soft and lustrous helmet, by which
fashion the shape of her head was better revealed.
“Darling, go and ask Pettance to put a fresh piece of sulphur in Ossy’s
water-bowl, and to cut up his meat finer. You can give Hotspur and
Brownie two lumps of sugar each; and then we’ll go out.” Going down on
her knees in the porch, she parted the old dog’s hair, and examined his
eczema, thinking: “I must rub some more of that stuff in to-night. Oh,
ducky, you’re not smelling your best! Yes; only—not my face!”
A telegraph-boy was coming from the gate. Gyp opened the missive with
the faint tremor she always felt when Summerhay was not with her.
“Detained; shall be down by last train; need not come up
to-morrow.—BRYAN.”
When the boy was gone, she stooped down and stroked the old dog’s head.
“Master home all day to-morrow, Ossy—master home!”
A voice from the path said, “Beautiful evenin’, ma’am.”
The “old scoundrel,” Pettance, stiffer in the ankle-joints, with more
lines in his gargoyle’s face, fewer stumps in his gargoyle’s mouth, more
film over his dark, burning little eyes, was standing before her, and,
behind him, little Gyp, one foot rather before the other, as Gyp had
been wont to stand, waited gravely.
“Oh, Pettance, Mr. Summerhay will be at home all to-morrow, and we’ll go
a long ride: and when you exercise, will you call at the inn, in case
I don’t go that way, and tell Major Winton I expect him to dinner
to-night?”
“Yes, ma’am; and I’ve seen the pony for little Miss Gyp this morning,
ma’am. It’s a mouse pony, five year old, sound, good temper, pretty
little paces. I says to the man: ’Don’t you come it over me,’ I says;
’I was born on an ’orse. Talk of twenty pounds, for that pony! Ten, and
lucky to get it!’ ’Well,’ he says, ’Pettance, it’s no good to talk round
an’ round with you. Fifteen!’ he says. ’I’ll throw you one in,’ I says,
’Eleven! Take it or leave it.’ ’Ah!’ he says, ’Pettance, YOU know ’ow to
buy an ’orse. All right,’ he says; ’twelve!’ She’s worth all of fifteen,
ma’am, and the major’s passed her. So if you likes to have ’er, there
she is!”
Gyp looked at her little daughter, who had given one excited hop, but
now stood still, her eyes flying up at her mother and her lips parted;
and she thought: “The darling! She never begs for anything!”
“Very well, Pettance; buy her.”
The “old scoundrel” touched his forelock:
“Yes, ma’am—very good, ma’am. Beautiful evenin’, ma’am.” And,
withdrawing at his gait of one whose feet are at permanent right angles
to the legs, he mused: ’And that’ll be two in my pocket.’
Ten minutes later Gyp, little Gyp, and Ossian emerged from the garden
gate for their evening walk. They went, not as usual, up to the downs,
but toward the river, making for what they called “the wild.” This was
an outlying plot of neglected ground belonging to their farm, two sedgy
meadows, hedged by banks on which grew oaks and ashes. An old stone
linhay, covered to its broken thatch by a huge ivy bush, stood at the
angle where the meadows met. The spot had a strange life to itself in
that smooth, kempt countryside of cornfields, grass, and beech-clumps;
it was favoured by beasts and birds, and little Gyp had recently seen
two baby hares there. From an oak-tree, where the crinkled leaves were
not yet large enough to hide him, a cuckoo was calling and they stopped
to look at the grey bird till he flew off. The singing and serenity,
the green and golden oaks and ashes, the flowers—marsh-orchis, ladies’
smocks, and cuckoo-buds, starring the rushy grass—all brought to Gyp
that feeling of the uncapturable spirit which lies behind the forms of
nature, the shadowy, hovering smile of life that is ever vanishing and
ever springing again out of death. While they stood there close to
the old linhay a bird came flying round them in wide circles, uttering
shrill cries. It had a long beak and long, pointed wings, and seemed
distressed by their presence. Little Gyp squeezed her mother’s hand.
“Poor bird! Isn’t it a poor bird, mum?”
“Yes, dear, it’s a curlew—I wonder what’s the matter with it. Perhaps
its mate is hurt.”
“What is its mate?”
“The bird it lives with.”
“It’s afraid of us. It’s not like other birds. Is it a real bird, mum?
Or one out of the sky?”
“I think it’s real. Shall we go on and see if we can find out what’s the
matter?”
“Yes.”
They went on into the sedgy grass and the curlew continued to circle,
vanishing and reappearing from behind the trees, always uttering those
shrill cries. Little Gyp said:
“Mum, could we speak to it? Because we’re not going to hurt nothing, are
we?”
“Of course not, darling! But I’m afraid the poor bird’s too wild. Try,
if you like. Call to it: ’Courlie! Courlie!”’
Little Gyp’s piping joined the curlew’s cries and other bird-songs in
the bright shadowy quiet of the evening till Gyp said:
“Oh, look; it’s dipping close to the ground, over there in that
corner—it’s got a nest! We won’t go near, will we?”
Little Gyp echoed in a hushed voice:
“It’s got a nest.”
They stole back out of the gate close to the linhay, the curlew still
fighting and crying behind them.
“Aren’t we glad the mate isn’t hurt, mum?”
Gyp answered with a shiver:
“Yes, darling, fearfully glad. Now then, shall we go down and ask Grandy
to come up to dinner?”
Little Gyp hopped. And they went toward the river.
At “The Bowl of Cream,” Winton had for two years had rooms, which he
occupied as often as his pursuits permitted. He had refused to make his
home with Gyp, desiring to be on hand only when she wanted him; and a
simple life of it he led in those simple quarters, riding with her when
Summerhay was in town, visiting the cottagers, smoking cigars, laying
plans for the defence of his daughter’s position, and devoting himself
to the whims of little Gyp. This moment, when his grandchild was to
begin to ride, was in a manner sacred to one for whom life had scant
meaning apart from horses. Looking at them, hand in hand, Gyp thought:
’Dad loves her as much as he loves me now—more, I think.’
Lonely dinner at the inn was an infliction which he studiously concealed
from Gyp, so he accepted their invitation without alacrity, and they
walked on up the hill, with little Gyp in the middle, supported by a
hand on each side.
The Red House contained nothing that had been in Gyp’s married home
except the piano. It had white walls, furniture of old oak, and for
pictures reproductions of her favourites. “The Death of Procris” hung in
the dining-room. Winton never failed to scrutinize it when he came in to
a meal—that “deuced rum affair” appeared to have a fascination for him.
He approved of the dining-room altogether; its narrow oak “last supper”
table made gay by a strip of blue linen, old brick hearth, casement
windows hung with flowered curtains—all had a pleasing austerity,
uncannily redeemed to softness. He got on well enough with Summerhay,
but he enjoyed himself much more when he was there alone with his
daughter. And this evening he was especially glad to have her to
himself, for she had seemed of late rather grave and absent-minded. When
dinner was over and they were undisturbed, he said:
“It must be pretty dull for you, my dear, sometimes. I wish you saw more
people.”
“Oh no, Dad.”
Watching her smile, he thought: ’That’s not sour grapes”—What is the
trouble, then?’
“I suppose you’ve not heard anything of that fellow Fiorsen lately?”
“Not a word. But he’s playing again in London this season, I see.”
“Is he? Ah, that’ll cheer them.” And he thought: ’It’s not that, then.
But there’s something—I’ll swear!’
“I hear that Bryan’s going ahead. I met a man in town last week who
spoke of him as about the most promising junior at the bar.”
“Yes; he’s doing awfully well.” And a sound like a faint sigh caught his
ears. “Would you say he’s changed much since you knew him, Dad?”
“I don’t know—perhaps a little less jokey.”
“Yes; he’s lost his laugh.”
It was very evenly and softly said, yet it affected Winton.
“Can’t expect him to keep that,” he answered, “turning people inside
out, day after day—and most of them rotten. By George, what a life!”
But when he had left her, strolling back in the bright moonlight, he
reverted to his suspicions and wished he had said more directly: “Look
here, Gyp, are you worrying about Bryan—or have people been making
themselves unpleasant?”
He had, in these last three years, become unconsciously inimical to
his own class and their imitators, and more than ever friendly to the
poor—visiting the labourers, small farmers, and small tradesmen, doing
them little turns when he could, giving their children sixpences, and
so forth. The fact that they could not afford to put on airs of virtue
escaped him; he perceived only that they were respectful and friendly
to Gyp and this warmed his heart toward them in proportion as he grew
exasperated with the two or three landed families, and that parvenu lot
in the riverside villas.
When he first came down, the chief landowner—a man he had known for
years—had invited him to lunch. He had accepted with the deliberate
intention of finding out where he was, and had taken the first natural
opportunity of mentioning his daughter. She was, he said, devoted to
her flowers; the Red House had quite a good garden. His friend’s wife,
slightly lifting her brows, had answered with a nervous smile: “Oh!
yes; of course—yes.” A silence had, not unnaturally, fallen. Since then,
Winton had saluted his friend and his friend’s wife with such frigid
politeness as froze the very marrow in their bones. He had not gone
there fishing for Gyp to be called on, but to show these people that his
daughter could not be slighted with impunity. Foolish of him, for, man
of the world to his fingertips, he knew perfectly well that a woman
living with a man to whom she was not married could not be recognized
by people with any pretensions to orthodoxy; Gyp was beyond even the
debatable ground on which stood those who have been divorced and are
married again. But even a man of the world is not proof against the
warping of devotion, and Winton was ready to charge any windmill at any
moment on her behalf.
Outside the inn door, exhaling the last puffs of his good-night
cigarette, he thought: ’What wouldn’t I give for the old days, and a
chance to wing some of these moral upstarts!’
II
The last train was not due till eleven-thirty, and having seen that the
evening tray had sandwiches, Gyp went to Summerhay’s study, the room
at right angles to the body of the house, over which was their bedroom.
Here, if she had nothing to do, she always came when he was away,
feeling nearer to him. She would have been horrified if she had known of
her father’s sentiments on her behalf. Her instant denial of the wish to
see more people had been quite genuine. The conditions of her life, in
that respect, often seemed to her ideal. It was such a joy to be free
of people one did not care two straws about, and of all empty social
functions. Everything she had now was real—love, and nature, riding,
music, animals, and poor people. What else was worth having? She would
not have changed for anything. It often seemed to her that books and
plays about the unhappiness of women in her position were all false.
If one loved, what could one want better? Such women, if unhappy, could
have no pride; or else could not really love! She had recently been
reading “Anna Karenina,” and had often said to herself: “There’s
something not true about it—as if Tolstoy wanted to make us believe
that Anna was secretly feeling remorse. If one loves, one doesn’t feel
remorse. Even if my baby had been taken away, I shouldn’t have felt
remorse. One gives oneself to love—or one does not.”
She even derived a positive joy from the feeling that her love imposed
a sort of isolation; she liked to be apart—for him. Besides, by her very
birth she was outside the fold of society, her love beyond the love of
those within it—just as her father’s love had been. And her pride was
greater than theirs, too. How could women mope and moan because they
were cast out, and try to scratch their way back where they were not
welcome? How could any woman do that? Sometimes, she wondered whether,
if Fiorsen died, she would marry her lover. What difference would it
make? She could not love him more. It would only make him feel, perhaps,
too sure of her, make it all a matter of course. For herself, she would
rather go on as she was. But for him, she was not certain, of late had
been less and less certain. He was not bound now, could leave her when
he tired! And yet—did he perhaps feel himself more bound than if they
were married—unfairly bound? It was this thought—barely more than the
shadow of a thought—which had given her, of late, the extra gravity
noticed by her father.
In that unlighted room with the moonbeams drifting in, she sat down
at Summerhay’s bureau, where he often worked too late at his cases,
depriving her of himself. She sat there resting her elbows on the bare
wood, crossing her finger-tips, gazing out into the moonlight, her mind
drifting on a stream of memories that seemed to have beginning only from
the year when he came into her life. A smile crept out on her face, and
now and then she uttered a little sigh of contentment.
So many memories, nearly all happy! Surely, the most adroit work of the
jeweller who put the human soul together was his provision of its power
to forget the dark and remember sunshine. The year and a half of
her life with Fiorsen, the empty months that followed it were gone,
dispersed like mist by the radiance of the last three years in whose
sky had hung just one cloud, no bigger than a hand, of doubt whether
Summerhay really loved her as much as she loved him, whether from her
company he got as much as the all she got from his. She would not have
been her distrustful self if she could have settled down in complacent
security; and her mind was ever at stretch on that point, comparing past
days and nights with the days and nights of the present. Her prevision
that, when she loved, it would be desperately, had been fulfilled. He
had become her life. When this befalls one whose besetting strength and
weakness alike is pride—no wonder that she doubts.
For their Odyssey they had gone to Spain—that brown un-European land of
“lyrio” flowers, and cries of “Agua!” in the streets, where the men seem
cleft to the waist when they are astride of horses, under their wide
black hats, and the black-clothed women with wonderful eyes still look
as if they missed their Eastern veils. It had been a month of gaiety and
glamour, last days of September and early days of October, a revel
of enchanted wanderings in the streets of Seville, of embraces and
laughter, of strange scents and stranger sounds, of orange light and
velvety shadows, and all the warmth and deep gravity of Spain. The
Alcazar, the cigarette-girls, the Gipsy dancers of Triana, the old brown
ruins to which they rode, the streets, and the square with its grave
talkers sitting on benches in the sun, the water-sellers and the melons;
the mules, and the dark ragged man out of a dream, picking up the ends
of cigarettes, the wine of Malaga, burnt fire and honey! Seville had
bewitched them—they got no further. They had come back across the brown
uplands of Castile to Madrid and Goya and Velasquez, till it was time
for Paris, before the law-term began. There, in a queer little French
hotel—all bedrooms, and a lift, coffee and carved beds, wood fires, and
a chambermaid who seemed all France, and down below a restaurant, to
which such as knew about eating came, with waiters who looked like
monks, both fat and lean—they had spent a week. Three special memories
of that week started up in the moonlight before Gyp’s eyes: The long
drive in the Bois among the falling leaves of trees flashing with colour
in the crisp air under a brilliant sky. A moment in the Louvre before
the Leonardo “Bacchus,” when—his “restored” pink skin forgotten—all the
world seemed to drop away while she listened, with the listening figure
before her, to some mysterious music of growing flowers and secret
life. And that last most disconcerting memory, of the night before they
returned. They were having supper after the theatre in their restaurant,
when, in a mirror she saw three people come in and take seats at a table
a little way behind—Fiorsen, Rosek, and Daphne Wing! How she managed to
show no sign she never knew! While they were ordering, she was safe, for
Rosek was a gourmet, and the girl would certainly be hungry; but after
that, she knew that nothing could save her being seen—Rosek would mark
down every woman in the room! Should she pretend to feel faint and
slip out into the hotel? Or let Bryan know? Or sit there laughing and
talking, eating and drinking, as if nothing were behind her?
Her own face in the mirror had a flush, and her eyes were bright. When
they saw her, they would see that she was happy, safe in her love. Her
foot sought Summerhay’s beneath the table. How splendid and brown and
fit he looked, compared with those two pale, towny creatures! And he
was gazing at her as though just discovering her beauty. How could
she ever—that man with his little beard and his white face and those
eyes—how could she ever! Ugh! And then, in the mirror, she saw Rosek’s
dark-circled eyes fasten on her and betray their recognition by a sudden
gleam, saw his lips compressed, and a faint red come up in his cheeks.
What would he do? The girl’s back was turned—her perfect back—and she
was eating. And Fiorsen was staring straight before him in that moody
way she knew so well. All depended on that deadly little man, who had
once kissed her throat. A sick feeling seized on Gyp. If her lover knew
that within five yards of him were those two men! But she still
smiled and talked, and touched his foot. Rosek had seen that she was
conscious—was getting from it a kind of satisfaction. She saw him lean
over and whisper to the girl, and Daphne Wing turning to look, and her
mouth opening for a smothered “Oh!” Gyp saw her give an uneasy glance at
Fiorsen, and then begin again to eat. Surely she would want to get away
before he saw. Yes; very soon she rose. What little airs of the world
she had now—quite mistress of the situation! The wrap must be placed
exactly on her shoulders; and how she walked, giving just one startled
look back from the door. Gone! The ordeal over! And Gyp said:
“Let’s go up, darling.”
She felt as if they had both escaped a deadly peril—not from anything
those two could do to him or her, but from the cruel ache and jealousy
of the past, which the sight of that man would have brought him.
Women, for their age, are surely older than men—married women, at all
events, than men who have not had that experience. And all through
those first weeks of their life together, there was a kind of wise
watchfulness in Gyp. He was only a boy in knowledge of life as she
saw it, and though his character was so much more decided, active, and
insistent than her own, she felt it lay with her to shape the course and
avoid the shallows and sunken rocks. The house they had seen together
near the river, under the Berkshire downs, was still empty; and while it
was being got ready, they lived at a London hotel. She had insisted that
he should tell no one of their life together. If that must come, she
wanted to be firmly settled in, with little Gyp and Betty and the
horses, so that it should all be for him as much like respectable
married life as possible. But, one day, in the first week after their
return, while in her room, just back from a long day’s shopping, a card
was brought up to her: “Lady Summerhay.” Her first impulse was to be
“not at home”; her second, “I’d better face it. Bryan would wish me
to see her!” When the page-boy was gone, she turned to the mirror and
looked at herself doubtfully. She seemed to know exactly what that tall
woman whom she had seen on the platform would think of her—too soft, not
capable, not right for him!—not even if she were legally his wife. And
touching her hair, laying a dab of scent on her eyebrows, she turned and
went downstairs fluttering, but outwardly calm enough.
In the little low-roofed inner lounge of that old hotel, whose rooms
were all “entirely renovated,” Gyp saw her visitor standing at a table,
rapidly turning the pages of an illustrated magazine, as people will
when their minds are set upon a coming operation. And she thought: ’I
believe she’s more frightened than I am!’
Lady Summerhay held out a gloved hand.
“How do you do?” she said. “I hope you’ll forgive my coming.”
Gyp took the hand.
“Thank you. It was very good of you. I’m sorry Bryan isn’t in yet. Will
you have some tea?”
“I’ve had tea; but do let’s sit down. How do you find the hotel?”
“Very nice.”
On a velvet lounge that had survived the renovation, they sat side by
side, screwed round toward each other.
“Bryan’s told me what a pleasant time you had abroad. He’s looking very
well, I think. I’m devoted to him, you know.”
Gyp answered softly:
“Yes, you must be.” And her heart felt suddenly as hard as flint.
Lady Summerhay gave her a quick look.
“I—I hope you won’t mind my being frank—I’ve been so worried. It’s an
unhappy position, isn’t it?” Gyp did not answer, and she hurried on. “If
there’s anything I can do to help, I should be so glad—it must be horrid
for you.”
Gyp said very quietly:
“Oh! no. I’m perfectly happy—couldn’t be happier.” And she thought: ’I
suppose she doesn’t believe that.’
Lady Summerhay was looking at her fixedly.
“One doesn’t realize these things at first—neither of you will, till you
see how dreadfully Society can cold-shoulder.”
Gyp made an effort to control a smile.
“One can only be cold-shouldered if one puts oneself in the way of it.
I should never wish to see or speak to anyone who couldn’t take me just
for what I am. And I don’t really see what difference it will make to
Bryan; most men of his age have someone, somewhere.” She felt malicious
pleasure watching her visitor jib and frown at the cynicism of that
soft speech; a kind of hatred had come on her of this society woman,
who—disguise it as she would—was at heart her enemy, who regarded her,
must regard her, as an enslaver, as a despoiler of her son’s worldly
chances, a Delilah dragging him down. She said still more quietly: “He
need tell no one of my existence; and you can be quite sure that if ever
he feels he’s had enough of me, he’ll never be troubled by the sight of
me again.”
And she got up. Lady Summerhay also rose.
“I hope you don’t think—I really am only too anxious to—”
“I think it’s better to be quite frank. You will never like me, or
forgive me for ensnaring Bryan. And so it had better be, please, as it
would be if I were just his common mistress. That will be perfectly all
right for both of us. It was very good of you to come, though. Thank
you—and good-bye.”
Lady Summerhay literally faltered with speech and hand.
With a malicious smile, Gyp watched her retirement among the little
tables and elaborately modern chairs till her tall figure had
disappeared behind a column. Then she sat down again on the lounge,
pressing her hands to her burning ears. She had never till then known
the strength of the pride-demon within her; at the moment, it was almost
stronger than her love. She was still sitting there, when the page-boy
brought her another card—her father’s. She sprang up saying:
“Yes, here, please.”
Winton came in all brisk and elated at sight of her after this long
absence; and, throwing her arms round his neck, she hugged him tight. He
was doubly precious to her after the encounter she had just gone though.
When he had given her news of Mildenham and little Gyp, he looked at her
steadily, and said:
“The coast’ll be clear for you both down there, and at Bury Street,
whenever you like to come, Gyp. I shall regard this as your real
marriage. I shall have the servants in and make that plain.”
A row like family prayers—and Dad standing up very straight, saying in
his dry way: “You will be so good in future as to remember—” “I shall
be obliged if you will,” and so on; Betty’s round face pouting at
being brought in with all the others; Markey’s soft, inscrutable; Mrs.
Markey’s demure and goggling; the maids’ rabbit-faces; old Pettance’s
carved grin the film lifting from his little burning eyes: “Ha! Mr. Bryn
Summer’ay; he bought her orse, and so she’s gone to ’im!” And she said:
“Darling, I don’t know! It’s awfully sweet of you. We’ll see later.”
Winton patted her hand. “We must stand up to ’em, you know, Gyp. You
mustn’t get your tail down.”
Gyp laughed.
“No, Dad; never!”
That same night, across the strip of blackness between their beds, she
said:
“Bryan, promise me something!”
“It depends. I know you too well.”
“No; it’s quite reasonable, and possible. Promise!”
“All right; if it is.”
“I want you to let me take the lease of the Red House—let it be mine,
the whole thing—let me pay for everything there.”
“Reasonable! What’s the point?”
“Only that I shall have a proper home of my own. I can’t explain, but
your mother’s coming to-day made me feel I must.”
“My child, how could I possibly live on YOU there? It’s absurd!”
“You can pay for everything else; London—travelling—clothes, if you
like. We can make it square up. It’s not a question of money, of course.
I only want to feel that if, at any moment, you don’t need me any more,
you can simply stop coming.”
“I think that’s brutal, Gyp.”
“No, no; so many women lose men’s love because they seem to claim things
of them. I don’t want to lose yours that way—that’s all.”
“That’s silly, darling!”
“It’s not. Men—and women, too—always tug at chains. And when there is no
chain—”
“Well then; let me take the house, and you can go away when you’re
tired of me.” His voice sounded smothered, resentful; she could hear him
turning and turning, as if angry with his pillows. And she murmured:
“No; I can’t explain. But I really mean it.”
“We’re just beginning life together, and you talk as if you want to
split it up. It hurts, Gyp, and that’s all about it.”
She said gently:
“Don’t be angry, dear.”
“Well! Why don’t you trust me more?”
“I do. Only I must make as sure as I can.”
The sound came again of his turning and turning.
“I can’t!”
Gyp said slowly:
“Oh! Very well!”
A dead silence followed, both lying quiet in the darkness, trying to
get the better of each other by sheer listening. An hour perhaps passed
before he sighed, and, feeling his lips on hers, she knew that she had
won.
III
There, in the study, the moonlight had reached her face; an owl was
hooting not far away, and still more memories came—the happiest of all,
perhaps—of first days in this old house together.
Summerhay damaged himself out hunting that first winter. The memory of
nursing him was strangely pleasant, now that it was two years old.
For convalescence they had gone to the Pyrenees—Argeles in March, all
almond-blossom and snows against the blue—a wonderful fortnight. In
London on the way back they had their first awkward encounter. Coming
out of a theatre one evening, Gyp heard a woman’s voice, close behind,
say: “Why, it’s Bryan! What ages!” And his answer defensively drawled
out:
“Halo! How are you, Diana?”
“Oh, awfully fit. Where are you, nowadays? Why don’t you come and see
us?”
Again the drawl:
“Down in the country. I will, some time. Good-bye.”
A tall woman or girl—red-haired, with one of those wonderful white skins
that go therewith; and brown—yes, brown eyes; Gyp could see those eyes
sweeping her up and down with a sort of burning-live curiosity. Bryan’s
hand was thrust under her arm at once.
“Come on, let’s walk and get a cab.”
As soon as they were clear of the crowd, she pressed his hand to her
breast, and said:
“Did you mind?”
“Mind? Of course not. It’s for you to mind.”
“Who was it?”
“A second cousin. Diana Leyton.”
“Do you know her very well?”
“Oh yes—used to.”
“And do you like her very much?”
“Rather!”
He looked round into her face, with laughter bubbling up behind his
gravity. Ah, but could one tease on such a subject as their love? And to
this day the figure of that tall girl with the burning-white skin, the
burning-brown eyes, the burning-red hair was not quite a pleasant memory
to Gyp. After that night, they gave up all attempt to hide their union,
going to whatever they wished, whether they were likely to meet people
or not. Gyp found that nothing was so easily ignored as Society when the
heart was set on other things. Besides, they were seldom in London, and
in the country did not wish to know anyone, in any case. But she never
lost the feeling that what was ideal for her might not be ideal for him.
He ought to go into the world, ought to meet people. It would not do for
him to be cut off from social pleasures and duties, and then some day
feel that he owed his starvation to her. To go up to London, too, every
day was tiring, and she persuaded him to take a set of residential
chambers in the Temple, and sleep there three nights a week. In spite
of all his entreaties, she herself never went to those chambers, staying
always at Bury Street when she came up. A kind of superstition prevented
her; she would not risk making him feel that she was hanging round his
neck. Besides, she wanted to keep herself desirable—so little a matter
of course that he would hanker after her when he was away. And she never
asked him where he went or whom he saw. But, sometimes, she wondered
whether he could still be quite faithful to her in thought, love her as
he used to; and joy would go down behind a heavy bank of clouds, till,
at his return, the sun came out again. Love such as hers—passionate,
adoring, protective, longing to sacrifice itself, to give all that it
had to him, yet secretly demanding all his love in return—for how could
a proud woman love one who did not love her?—such love as this is always
longing for a union more complete than it is likely to get in a world
where all things move and change. But against the grip of this love she
never dreamed of fighting now. From the moment when she knew she must
cling to him rather than to her baby, she had made no reservations; all
her eggs were in one basket, as her father’s had been before her—all!
The moonlight was shining full on the old bureau and a vase of tulips
standing there, giving those flowers colour that was not colour, and
an unnamed look, as if they came from a world which no human enters. It
glinted on a bronze bust of old Voltaire, which she had bought him for
a Christmas present, so that the great writer seemed to be smiling from
the hollows of his eyes. Gyp turned the bust a little, to catch the
light on its far cheek; a letter was disclosed between it and the
oak. She drew it out thinking: ’Bless him! He uses everything for
paper-weights’; and, in the strange light, its first words caught her
eyes:
“DEAR BRYAN,
“But I say—you ARE wasting yourself—”
She laid it down, methodically pushing it back under the bust. Perhaps
he had put it there on purpose! She got up and went to the window, to
check the temptation to read the rest of that letter and see from whom
it was. No! She did not admit that she was tempted. One did not read
letters. Then the full import of those few words struck into her: “Dear
Bryan. But I say—you ARE wasting yourself.” A letter in a chain of
correspondence, then! A woman’s hand; but not his mother’s, nor his
sisters’—she knew their writings. Who had dared to say he was wasting
himself? A letter in a chain of letters! An intimate correspondent,
whose name she did not know, because—he had not told her! Wasting
himself—on what?—on his life with her down here? And was he? Had she
herself not said that very night that he had lost his laugh? She began
searching her memory. Yes, last Christmas vacation—that clear, cold,
wonderful fortnight in Florence, he had been full of fun. It was May
now. Was there no memory since—of his old infectious gaiety? She could
not think of any. “But I say—you ARE wasting yourself.” A sudden hatred
flared up in her against the unknown woman who had said that thing—and
fever, running through her veins, made her ears burn. She longed to
snatch forth and tear to pieces the letter, with its guardianship
of which that bust seemed mocking her; and she turned away with the
thought: ’I’ll go and meet him; I can’t wait here.’
Throwing on a cloak she walked out into the moonlit garden, and went
slowly down the whitened road toward the station. A magical, dewless
night! The moonbeams had stolen in to the beech clump, frosting the
boles and boughs, casting a fine ghostly grey over the shadow-patterned
beech-mast. Gyp took the short cut through it. Not a leaf moved in
there, no living thing stirred; so might an earth be where only trees
inhabited! She thought: ’I’ll bring him back through here.’ And she
waited at the far corner of the clump, where he must pass, some little
distance from the station. She never gave people unnecessary food for
gossip—any slighting of her irritated him, she was careful to spare him
that. The train came in; a car went whizzing by, a cyclist, then the
first foot-passenger, at a great pace, breaking into a run. She saw that
it was he, and, calling out his name, ran back into the shadow of the
trees. He stopped dead in his tracks, then came rushing after her. That
pursuit did not last long, and, in his arms, Gyp said:
“If you aren’t too hungry, darling, let’s stay here a little—it’s so
wonderful!”
They sat down on a great root, and leaning against him, looking up at
the dark branches, she said:
“Have you had a hard day?”
“Yes; got hung up by a late consultation; and old Leyton asked me to
come and dine.”
Gyp felt a sensation as when feet happen on ground that gives a little.
“The Leytons—that’s Eaton Square, isn’t it? A big dinner?”
“No. Only the old people, and Bertie and Diana.”
“Diana? That’s the girl we met coming out of the theatre, isn’t it?”
“When? Oh—ah—what a memory, Gyp!”
“Yes; it’s good for things that interest me.”
“Why? Did she interest you?”
Gyp turned and looked into his face.
“Yes. Is she clever?”
“H’m! I suppose you might call her so.”
“And in love with you?”
“Great Scott! Why?”
“Is it very unlikely? I am.”
He began kissing her lips and hair. And, closing her eyes, Gyp thought:
’If only that’s not because he doesn’t want to answer!’ Then, for some
minutes, they were silent as the moonlit beech clump.
“Answer me truly, Bryan. Do you never—never—feel as if you were wasting
yourself on me?”
She was certain of a quiver in his grasp; but his face was open and
serene, his voice as usual when he was teasing.
“Well, hardly ever! Aren’t you funny, dear?”
“Promise me faithfully to let me know when you’ve had enough of me.
Promise!”
“All right! But don’t look for fulfilment in this life.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“I am.”
Gyp put up her lips, and tried to drown for ever in a kiss the memory of
those words: “But I say—you ARE wasting yourself.”
IV
Summerhay, coming down next morning, went straight to his bureau; his
mind was not at ease. “Wasting yourself!” What had he done with that
letter of Diana’s? He remembered Gyp’s coming in just as he finished
reading it. Searching the pigeonholes and drawers, moving everything
that lay about, he twitched the bust—and the letter lay disclosed. He
took it up with a sigh of relief:
“DEAR BRYAN,
“But I say—you ARE wasting yourself. Why, my dear, of course! ’Il faut
se faire valoir!’ You have only one foot to put forward; the other is
planted in I don’t know what mysterious hole. One foot in the grave—at
thirty! Really, Bryan! Pull it out. There’s such a lot waiting for you.
It’s no good your being hoity-toity, and telling me to mind my business.
I’m speaking for everyone who knows you. We all feel the blight on the
rose. Besides, you always were my favourite cousin, ever since I was
five and you a horrid little bully of ten; and I simply hate to think of
you going slowly down instead of quickly up. Oh! I know ’D—n the world!’
But—are you? I should have thought it was ’d—ning’ you! Enough! When are
you coming to see us? I’ve read that book. The man seems to think love
is nothing but passion, and passion always fatal. I wonder! Perhaps you
know.
“Don’t be angry with me for being such a grandmother.
“Au revoir.
“Your very good cousin,
“DIANA LEYTON.”
He crammed the letter into his pocket, and sat there, appalled. It must
have lain two days under that bust! Had Gyp seen it? He looked at the
bronze face; and the philosopher looked back from the hollows of his
eyes, as if to say: “What do you know of the human heart, my boy—your
own, your mistress’s, that girl’s, or anyone’s? A pretty dance the heart
will lead you yet! Put it in a packet, tie it round with string, seal it
up, drop it in a drawer, lock the drawer! And to-morrow it will be out
and skipping on its wrappings. Ho! Ho!” And Summerhay thought: ’You old
goat. You never had one!’ In the room above, Gyp would still be standing
as he had left her, putting the last touch to her hair—a man would be
a scoundrel who, even in thought, could—“Hallo!” the eyes of the
bust seemed to say. “Pity! That’s queer, isn’t it? Why not pity that
red-haired girl, with the skin so white that it burns you, and the eyes
so brown that they burn you—don’t they?” Old Satan! Gyp had his heart;
no one in the world would ever take it from her!
And in the chair where she had sat last night conjuring up memories, he
too now conjured. How he had loved her, did love her! She would always
be what she was and had been to him. And the sage’s mouth seemed to
twist before him with the words: “Quite so, my dear! But the heart’s
very funny—very—capacious!” A tiny sound made him turn.
Little Gyp was standing in the doorway.
“Hallo!” he said.
“Hallo, Baryn!” She came flying to him, and he caught her up so that she
stood on his knees with the sunlight shining on her fluffed out hair.
“Well, Gipsy! Who’s getting a tall girl?”
“I’m goin’ to ride.”
“Ho, ho!”
“Baryn, let’s do Humpty-Dumpty!”
“All right; come on!” He rose and carried her upstairs.
Gyp was still doing one of those hundred things which occupy women for
a quarter of an hour after they are “quite ready,” and at little Gyp’s
shout of, “Humpty!” she suspended her needle to watch the sacred rite.
Summerhay had seated himself on the foot-rail of the bed, rounding his
arms, sinking his neck, blowing out his cheeks to simulate an egg; then,
with an unexpectedness that even little Gyp could always see through, he
rolled backward on to the bed.
And she, simulating “all the king’s horses,” tried in vain to put him up
again. This immemorial game, watched by Gyp a hundred times, had to-day
a special preciousness. If he could be so ridiculously young, what
became of her doubts? Looking at his face pulled this way and that,
lazily imperturbable under the pommelings of those small fingers, she
thought: ’And that girl dared to say he was WASTING HIMSELF!’ For in the
night conviction had come to her that those words were written by the
tall girl with the white skin, the girl of the theatre—the Diana of his
last night’s dinner. Humpty-Dumpty was up on the bed-rail again for the
finale; all the king’s horses were clasped to him, making the egg more
round, and over they both went with shrieks and gurgles. What a boy he
was! She would not—no, she would not brood and spoil her day with him.
But that afternoon, at the end of a long gallop on the downs, she turned
her head away and said suddenly:
“Is she a huntress?”
“Who?”
“Your cousin—Diana.”
In his laziest voice, he answered:
“I suppose you mean—does she hunt me?”
She knew that tone, that expression on his face, knew he was angry; but
could not stop herself.
“I did.”
“So you’re going to become jealous, Gyp?”
It was one of those cold, naked sayings that should never be spoken
between lovers—one of those sayings at which the heart of the one who
speaks sinks with a kind of dismay, and the heart of the one who hears
quivers. She cantered on. And he, perforce, after her. When she reined
in again, he glanced into her face and was afraid. It was all closed up
against him. And he said softly:
“I didn’t mean that, Gyp.”
But she only shook her head. He HAD meant it—had wanted to hurt her! It
didn’t matter—she wouldn’t give him the chance again. And she said:
“Look at that long white cloud, and the apple-green in the sky—rain
to-morrow. One ought to enjoy any fine day as if it were the last.”
Uneasy, ashamed, yet still a little angry, Summerhay rode on beside her.
That night, she cried in her sleep; and, when he awakened her, clung to
him and sobbed out:
“Oh! such a dreadful dream! I thought you’d left off loving me!”
For a long time he held and soothed her. Never, never! He would never
leave off loving her!
But a cloud no broader than your hand can spread and cover the whole
day.
V
The summer passed, and always there was that little patch of silence in
her heart, and in his. The tall, bright days grew taller, slowly passed
their zenith, slowly shortened. On Saturdays and Sundays, sometimes with
Winton and little Gyp, but more often alone, they went on the river. For
Gyp, it had never lost the magic of their first afternoon upon it—never
lost its glamour as of an enchanted world. All the week she looked
forward to these hours of isolation with him, as if the surrounding
water secured her not only against a world that would take him from her,
if it could, but against that side of his nature, which, so long ago she
had named “old Georgian.” She had once adventured to the law courts by
herself, to see him in his wig and gown. Under that stiff grey crescent
on his broad forehead, he seemed so hard and clever—so of a world to
which she never could belong, so of a piece with the brilliant bullying
of the whole proceeding. She had come away feeling that she only
possessed and knew one side of him. On the river, she had that side
utterly—her lovable, lazy, impudently loving boy, lying with his head
in her lap, plunging in for a swim, splashing round her; or with his
sleeves rolled up, his neck bare, and a smile on his face, plying his
slow sculls down-stream, singing, “Away, my rolling river,” or puffing
home like a demon in want of his dinner. It was such a blessing to lose
for a few hours each week this growing consciousness that she could
never have the whole of him. But all the time the patch of silence grew,
for doubt in the heart of one lover reacts on the heart of the other.
When the long vacation came, she made an heroic resolve. He must go to
Scotland, must have a month away from her, a good long rest. And while
Betty was at the sea with little Gyp, she would take her father to his
cure. She held so inflexibly to this resolve, that, after many protests,
he said with a shrug:
“Very well, I will then—if you’re so keen to get rid of me.”
“Keen to get rid!” When she could not bear to be away from him! But she
forced her feeling back, and said, smiling:
“At last! There’s a good boy!” Anything! If only it would bring him back
to her exactly as he had been. She asked no questions as to where, or to
whom, he would go.
Tunbridge Wells, that charming purgatory where the retired prepare their
souls for a more permanent retirement, was dreaming on its hills in long
rows of adequate villas. Its commons and woods had remained unscorched,
so that the retired had not to any extent deserted it, that August, for
the sea. They still shopped in the Pantiles, strolled the uplands, or
flourished their golf-clubs in the grassy parks; they still drank tea
in each other’s houses and frequented the many churches. One could see
their faces, as it were, goldened by their coming glory, like the chins
of children by reflection from buttercups. From every kind of life they
had retired, and, waiting now for a more perfect day, were doing their
utmost to postpone it. They lived very long.
Gyp and her father had rooms in a hotel where he could bathe and drink
the waters without having to climb three hills. This was the first cure
she had attended since the long-past time at Wiesbaden. Was it
possible that was only six years ago? She felt so utterly, so strangely
different! Then life had been sparkling sips of every drink, and of none
too much; now it was one long still draft, to quench a thirst that would
not be quenched.
During these weeks she held herself absolutely at her father’s disposal,
but she lived for the post, and if, by any chance, she did not get
her daily letter, her heart sank to the depths. She wrote every day,
sometimes twice, then tore up that second letter, remembering for what
reason she had set herself to undergo this separation. During the first
week, his letters had a certain equanimity; in the second week they
became ardent; in the third, they were fitful—now beginning to look
forward, now moody and dejected; and they were shorter. During this
third week Aunt Rosamund joined them. The good lady had become a staunch
supporter of Gyp’s new existence, which, in her view, served Fiorsen
right. Why should the poor child’s life be loveless? She had a
definitely low opinion of men, and a lower of the state of the
marriage-laws; in her view, any woman who struck a blow in that
direction was something of a heroine. And she was oblivious of the fact
that Gyp was quite guiltless of the desire to strike a blow against
the marriage-laws, or anything else. Aunt Rosamund’s aristocratic and
rebellious blood boiled with hatred of what she called the “stuffy
people” who still held that women were men’s property. It had made her
specially careful never to put herself in that position.
She had brought Gyp a piece of news.
“I was walking down Bond Street past that tea-and-tart shop, my dear—you
know, where they have those special coffee-creams, and who should
come out of it but Miss Daphne Wing and our friend Fiorsen; and pretty
hangdog he looked. He came up to me, with his little lady watching him
like a lynx. Really, my dear, I was rather sorry for him; he’d got that
hungry look of his; she’d been doing all the eating, I’m sure. He asked
me how you were. I told him, ’Very well.’
“‘When you see her,’ he said, ’tell her I haven’t forgotten her, and
never shall. But she was quite right; this is the sort of lady that
I’m fit for.’ And the way he looked at that girl made me feel quite
uncomfortable. Then he gave me one of his little bows; and off they
went, she as pleased as Punch. I really was sorry for him.”
Gyp said quietly:
“Ah! you needn’t have been, Auntie; he’ll always be able to be sorry for
himself.”
A little shocked at her niece’s cynicism, Aunt Rosamund was silent. The
poor lady had not lived with Fiorsen!
That same afternoon, Gyp was sitting in a shelter on the common, a book
on her knee—thinking her one long thought: ’To-day is Thursday—Monday
week! Eleven days—still!’—when three figures came slowly toward her, a
man, a woman, and what should have been a dog. English love of beauty
and the rights of man had forced its nose back, deprived it of half its
ears, and all but three inches or so of tail. It had asthma—and waddled
in disillusionment. A voice said:
“This’ll do, Maria. We can take the sun ’ere.”
But for that voice, with the permanent cold hoarseness caught beside
innumerable graves, Gyp might not have recognized Mr. Wagge, for he had
taken off his beard, leaving nothing but side-whiskers, and Mrs. Wagge
had filled out wonderfully. They were some time settling down beside
her.
“You sit here, Maria; you won’t get the sun in your eyes.”
“No, Robert; I’ll sit here. You sit there.”
“No, YOU sit there.”
“No, I will. Come, Duckie!”
But the dog, standing stockily on the pathway was gazing at Gyp, while
what was left of its broad nose moved from side to side. Mr. Wagge
followed the direction of its glance.
“Oh!” he said, “oh, this is a surprise!” And fumbling at his straw hat,
he passed his other hand over his sleeve and held it out to Gyp. It felt
almost dry, and fatter than it had been. While she was shaking it, the
dog moved forward and sat down on her feet. Mrs. Wagge also extended her
hand, clad in a shiny glove.
“This is a—a—pleasure,” she murmured. “Who WOULD have thought of meeting
you! Oh, don’t let Duckie sit against your pretty frock! Come, Duckie!”
But Duckie did not move, resting his back against Gyp’s shin-bones. Mr.
Wagge, whose tongue had been passing over a mouth which she saw to its
full advantage for the first time, said abruptly:
“You ’aven’t come to live here, ’ave you?”
“Oh no! I’m only with my father for the baths.”
“Ah, I thought not, never havin’ seen you. We’ve been retired here
ourselves a matter of twelve months. A pretty spot.”
“Yes; lovely, isn’t it?”
“We wanted nature. The air suits us, though a bit—er—too irony, as you
might say. But it’s a long-lived place. We were quite a time lookin’
round.”
Mrs. Wagge added in her thin voice:
“Yes—we’d thought of Wimbledon, you see, but Mr. Wagge liked this
better; he can get his walk, here; and it’s more—select, perhaps. We
have several friends. The church is very nice.”
Mr. Wagge’s face assumed an uncertain expression. He said bluffly:
“I was always a chapel man; but—I don’t know how it is—there’s something
in a place like this that makes church seem more—more suitable; my wife
always had a leaning that way. I never conceal my actions.”
Gyp murmured:
“It’s a question of atmosphere, isn’t it?”
Mr. Wagge shook his head.
“No; I don’t hold with incense—we’re not ’Igh Church. But how are YOU,
ma’am? We often speak of you. You’re looking well.”
His face had become a dusky orange, and Mrs. Wagge’s the colour of
a doubtful beetroot. The dog on Gyp’s feet stirred, snuffled, turned
round, and fell heavily against her legs again. She said quietly:
“I was hearing of Daisy only to-day. She’s quite a star now, isn’t she?”
Mrs. Wagge sighed. Mr. Wagge looked away and answered:
“It’s a sore subject. There she is, making her forty and fifty pound a
week, and run after in all the papers. She’s a success—no doubt
about it. And she works. Saving a matter of fifteen ’undred a year, I
shouldn’t be surprised. Why, at my best, the years the influenza was so
bad, I never cleared a thousand net. No, she’s a success.”
Mrs. Wagge added:
“Have you seen her last photograph—the one where she’s standing between
two hydrangea-tubs? It was her own idea.”
Mr. Wagge mumbled suddenly:
“I’m always glad to see her when she takes a run down in a car. But I’ve
come here for quiet after the life I’ve led, and I don’t want to think
about it, especially before you, ma’am. I don’t—that’s a fact.”
A silence followed, during which Mr. and Mrs. Wagge looked at their
feet, and Gyp looked at the dog.
“Ah!—here you are!” It was Winton, who had come up from behind the
shelter, and stood, with eyebrows slightly raised. Gyp could not help a
smile. Her father’s weathered, narrow face, half-veiled eyes, thin nose,
little crisp, grey moustache that did not hide his firm lips, his lean,
erect figure, the very way he stood, his thin, dry, clipped voice were
the absolute antithesis of Mr. Wagge’s thickset, stoutly planted form,
thick-skinned, thick-featured face, thick, rather hoarse yet oily voice.
It was as if Providence had arranged a demonstration of the extremes of
social type. And she said:
“Mr. and Mrs. Wagge—my father.”
Winton raised his hat. Gyp remained seated, the dog Duckie being still
on her feet.
“‘Appy to meet you, sir. I hope you have benefit from the waters.
They’re supposed to be most powerful, I believe.”
“Thank you—not more deadly than most. Are you drinking them?”
Mr. Wagge smiled.
“Nao!” he said, “we live here.”
“Indeed! Do you find anything to do?”
“Well, as a fact, I’ve come here for rest. But I take a Turkish bath
once a fortnight—find it refreshing; keeps the pores of the skin
acting.”
Mrs. Wagge added gently:
“It seems to suit my husband wonderfully.”
Winton murmured:
“Yes. Is this your dog? Bit of a philosopher, isn’t he?”
Mrs. Wagge answered:
“Oh, he’s a naughty dog, aren’t you, Duckie?”
The dog Duckie, feeling himself the cynosure of every eye, rose and
stood panting into Gyp’s face. She took the occasion to get up.
“We must go, I’m afraid. Good-bye. It’s been very nice to meet you
again. When you see Daisy, will you please give her my love?”
Mrs. Wagge unexpectedly took a handkerchief from her reticule. Mr. Wagge
cleared his throat heavily. Gyp was conscious of the dog Duckie waddling
after them, and of Mrs. Wagge calling, “Duckie, Duckie!” from behind her
handkerchief.
Winton said softly:
“So those two got that pretty filly! Well, she didn’t show much quality,
when you come to think of it. She’s still with our friend, according to
your aunt.”
Gyp nodded.
“Yes; and I do hope she’s happy.”
“HE isn’t, apparently. Serves him right.”
Gyp shook her head.
“Oh no, Dad!”
“Well, one oughtn’t to wish any man worse than he’s likely to get. But
when I see people daring to look down their noses at you—by Jove! I
get—”
“Darling, what does that matter?”
Winton answered testily:
“It matters very much to me—the impudence of it!” His mouth relaxed in
a grim little smile: “Ah, well—there’s not much to choose between us so
far as condemning our neighbours goes. ’Charity Stakes—also ran, Charles
Clare Winton, the Church, and Mrs. Grundy.’”
They opened out to each other more in those few days at Tunbridge Wells
than they had for years. Whether the process of bathing softened his
crust, or the air that Mr. Wagge found “a bit—er—too irony, as you might
say,” had upon Winton the opposite effect, he certainly relaxed that
first duty of man, the concealment of his spirit, and disclosed his
activities as he never had before—how such and such a person had been
set on his feet, so and so sent out to Canada, this man’s wife helped
over her confinement, that man’s daughter started again after a slip.
And Gyp’s child-worship of him bloomed anew.
On the last afternoon of their stay, she strolled out with him through
one of the long woods that stretched away behind their hotel. Excited by
the coming end of her self-inflicted penance, moved by the beauty among
those sunlit trees, she found it difficult to talk. But Winton, about to
lose her, was quite loquacious. Starting from the sinister change in the
racing-world—so plutocratic now, with the American seat, the increase of
bookmaking owners, and other tragic occurrences—he launched forth into a
jeremiad on the condition of things in general. Parliament, he thought,
especially now that members were paid, had lost its self-respect; the
towns had eaten up the country; hunting was threatened; the power and
vulgarity of the press were appalling; women had lost their heads; and
everybody seemed afraid of having any “breeding.” By the time little Gyp
was Gyp’s age, they would all be under the thumb of Watch Committees,
live in Garden Cities, and have to account for every half-crown they
spent, and every half-hour of their time; the horse, too, would be an
extinct animal, brought out once a year at the lord-mayor’s show. He
hoped—the deuce—he might not be alive to see it. And suddenly he added:
“What do you think happens after death, Gyp?”
They were sitting on one of those benches that crop up suddenly in the
heart of nature. All around them briars and bracken were just on the
turn; and the hum of flies, the vague stir of leaves and life formed but
a single sound. Gyp, gazing into the wood, answered:
“Nothing, Dad. I think we just go back.”
“Ah—My idea, too!”
Neither of them had ever known what the other thought about it before!
Gyp murmured:
“La vie est vaine—
Un peu d’amour,
Un peu de haine,
Et puis bonjour!”
Not quite a grunt or quite a laugh emerged from the depths of Winton,
and, looking up at the sky, he said:
“And what they call ’God,’ after all, what is it? Just the very best you
can get out of yourself—nothing more, so far as I can see. Dash it, you
can’t imagine anything more than you can imagine. One would like to die
in the open, though, like Whyte-Melville. But there’s one thing that’s
always puzzled me, Gyp. All one’s life one’s tried to have a single
heart. Death comes, and out you go! Then why did one love, if there’s to
be no meeting after?”
“Yes; except for that, who would care? But does the wanting to meet make
it any more likely, Dad? The world couldn’t go on without love; perhaps
loving somebody or something with all your heart is all in itself.”
Winton stared; the remark was a little deep.
“Ye-es,” he said at last. “I often think the religious johnnies are
saving their money to put on a horse that’ll never run after all. I
remember those Yogi chaps in India. There they sat, and this jolly world
might rot round them for all they cared—they thought they were going to
be all right themselves, in Kingdom Come. But suppose it doesn’t come?”
Gyp murmured with a little smile:
“Perhaps they were trying to love everything at once.”
“Rum way of showing it. And, hang it, there are such a lot of things one
can’t love! Look at that!” He pointed upwards. Against the grey bole of
a beech-tree hung a board, on which were the freshly painted words:
PRIVATE
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
“That board is stuck up all over this life and the next. Well, WE won’t
give them the chance to warn us off, Gyp.”
Slipping her hand through his arm, she pressed close up to him.
“No, Dad; you and I will go off with the wind and the sun, and the trees
and the waters, like Procris in my picture.”
VI
The curious and complicated nature of man in matters of the heart is not
sufficiently conceded by women, professors, clergymen, judges, and other
critics of his conduct. And naturally so, since they all have vested
interests in his simplicity. Even journalists are in the conspiracy to
make him out less wayward than he is, and dip their pens in epithets, if
his heart diverges inch or ell.
Bryan Summerhay was neither more curious nor more complicated than
those of his own sex who would condemn him for getting into the midnight
express from Edinburgh with two distinct emotions in his heart—a
regretful aching for the girl, his cousin, whom he was leaving behind,
and a rapturous anticipation of the woman whom he was going to rejoin.
How was it possible that he could feel both at once? “Against all the
rules,” women and other moralists would say. Well, the fact is, a man’s
heart knows no rules. And he found it perfectly easy, lying in his bunk,
to dwell on memories of Diana handing him tea, or glancing up at him,
while he turned the leaves of her songs, with that enticing mockery in
her eyes and about her lips; and yet the next moment to be swept from
head to heel by the longing to feel Gyp’s arms around him, to hear her
voice, look in her eyes, and press his lips on hers. If, instead of
being on his way to rejoin a mistress, he had been going home to a
wife, he would not have felt a particle more of spiritual satisfaction,
perhaps not so much. He was returning to the feelings and companionship
that he knew were the most deeply satisfying spiritually and bodily
he would ever have. And yet he could ache a little for that red-haired
girl, and this without any difficulty. How disconcerting! But, then,
truth is.
From that queer seesawing of his feelings, he fell asleep, dreamed of
all things under the sun as men only can in a train, was awakened by the
hollow silence in some station, slept again for hours, it seemed, and
woke still at the same station, fell into a sound sleep at last that
ended at Willesden in broad daylight. Dressing hurriedly, he found he
had but one emotion now, one longing—to get to Gyp. Sitting back in
his cab, hands deep-thrust into the pockets of his ulster, he smiled,
enjoying even the smell of the misty London morning. Where would she
be—in the hall of the hotel waiting, or upstairs still?
Not in the hall! And asking for her room, he made his way to its door.