Beyond ..................................................................................................................................................................1

John Galsworthy......................................................................................................................................1

At the door of St. George's registry office, Charles Clare Winton strolled forward in the wake of the taxicab

that was bearing his daughter away with "the fiddler fellow" she had married. His sense of decorum forbade

his walking with Nurse Bettythe only other witness of the wedding. A stout woman in a highly emotional

condition would have been an incongruous companion to his slim, upright figure, moving with just that

unexaggerated swing and balance becoming to a lancer of the old school, even if he has been on the retired

Poor Betty! He thought of her with irritated sympathyshe need not have given way to tears on the

doorstep. She might well feel lost now Gyp was gone, but not so lost as himself! His palegloved

handthe one real hand he had, for his right hand had been amputated at the wristtwisted vexedly at the

small, grizzling moustache lifting itself from the corners of his firm lips. On this grey February day he wore

no overcoat; faithful to the absolute, almost shamefaced quietness of that wedding, he had not even donned

black coat and silk hat, but wore a blue suit and a hard black felt. The instinct of a soldier and hunting man to

exhibit no sign whatever of emotion did not desert him this dark day of his life; but his greyhazel eyes kept

contracting, staring fiercely, contracting again; and, at moments, as if overpowered by some deep feeling,

they darkened and seemed to draw back in his head. His face was narrow and weathered and thincheeked,

with a cleancut jaw, small ears, hair darker than the moustache, but touched at the side wings with

greythe face of a man of action, selfreliant, resourceful. And his bearing was that of one who has always

been a bit of a dandy, and paid attention to "form," yet been conscious sometimes that there were things

beyond. A man, who, preserving all the precision of a type, yet had in him a streak of something that was not

Making his way towards the park, he turned into Mount Street. There was the house still, though the street

had been very different thenthe house he had passed, up and down, up and down in the fog, like a ghost,

that November afternoon, like a castout dog, in such awful, unutterable agony of mind, twentythree years

ago, when Gyp was born. And then to be told at the doorhe, with no right to enter, he, loving as he

believed man never loved woman to be told at the door that SHE was deaddead in bearing what he and

she alone knew was their child! Up and down in the fog, hour after hour, knowing her time was upon her; and

at last to be told that! Of all fates that befall man, surely the most awful is to love too much.

Queer that his route should take him past the very house today, after this new bereavement! Accursed

luckthat gout which had sent him to Wiesbaden, last September! Accursed luck that Gyp had ever set eyes

on this fellow Fiorsen, with his fatal fiddle! Certainly not since Gyp had come to live with him, fifteen years

ago, had he felt so forlorn and fit for nothing. Tomorrow he would get back to Mildenham and see what

hard riding would do. Without Gypto be without Gyp! A fiddler! A chap who had never been on a horse in

his life! And with his crutchhandled cane he switched viciously at the air, as though carving a man in two.

His club, near Hyde Park Corner, had never seemed to him so desolate. From sheer force of habit he went

into the cardroom. The afternoon had so darkened that electric light already burned, and there were the

usual dozen of players seated among the shaded gleams falling decorously on darkwood tables, on the backs

of chairs, on cards and tumblers, the little gilded coffeecups, the polished nails of fingers holding cigars. A

crony challenged him to piquet. He sat down listless. That threelegged whistbridge had always

offended his fastidiousnessa mangled short cut of a game! Poker had something blatant in it. Piquet,

though out of fashion, remained for him the only game worth playingthe only game which still had style.

He held good cards and rose the winner of five pounds that he would willingly have paid to escape the

boredom of the bout. Where would they be by now? Past Newbury; Gyp sitting opposite that Swedish fellow

with his greenish wildcat's eyes. Something furtive, and so foreign, about him! A messif he were any judge

of horse or man! Thank God he had tied Gyp's money upevery farthing! And an emotion that was almost

jealousy swept him at the thought of the fellow's arms round his softhaired, darkeyed daughterthat

pretty, willowy creature, so like in face and limb to her whom he had loved so desperately.

Eyes followed him when he left the cardroom, for he was one who inspired in other men a kind of

admirationnone could say exactly why. Many quite as noted for general good sportsmanship attracted no

such attention. Was it "style," or was it the streak of something not quite typicalthe brand left on him by

Abandoning the club, he walked slowly along the railings of Piccadilly towards home, that house in Bury

Street, St. James's, which had been his London abode since he was quite youngone of the few in the street

that had been left untouched by the general passion for puffing down and building up, which had spoiled half

A man, more silent than anything on earth, with the soft, quick, dark eyes of a W. and a long,

greenish, knitted waistcoat, black cutaway, and tight trousers strapped over his boots, opened the door.

"I shan't go out again, Markey. Mrs. Markey must give me some dinner. Anything'll do."

Markey signalled that he had heard, and those brown eyes under eyebrows meeting and forming one long,

dark line, took his master in from head to heel. He had already nodded last night, when his wife had said the

gov'nor would take it hard. Retiring to the back premises, he jerked his head toward the street and made a

motion upward with his hand, by which Mrs. Markey, an astute woman, understood that she had to go out

and shop because the gov'nor was dining in. When she had gone, Markey sat down opposite Betty, Gyp's old

nurse. The stout woman was still crying in a quiet way. It gave him the fair hump, for he felt inclined to howl

like a dog himself. After watching her broad, rosy, tearful face in silence for some minutes, he shook his

head, and, with a gulp and a tremor of her comfortable body, Betty desisted. One paid attention to Markey.

Winton went first into his daughter's bedroom, and gazed at its emptied silken order, its deserted silver

mirror, twisting viciously at his little moustache. Then, in his sanctum, he sat down before the fire, without

turning up the light. Anyone looking in, would have thought he was asleep; but the drowsy influence of that

deep chair and cosy fire had drawn him back into the longago. What unhappy chance had made him pass

Some say there is no such thing as an affinity, no caseof a man, at leastmade bankrupt of passion by a

single love. In theory, it may be so; in fact, there are such menneckornothing men, quiet and

selfcontained, the last to expect that nature will play them such a trick, the last to desire such surrender of

themselves, the last to know when their fate is on them. Who could have seemed to himself, and, indeed, to

others, less likely than Charles Clare Winton to fall over head and ears in love when he stepped into the

Belvoir Hunt ballroom at Grantham that December evening, twenty four years ago? A keen soldier, a

dandy, a firstrate man to hounds, already almost a proverb in his regiment for coolness and for a sort of

courteous disregard of women as among the minor things of lifehe had stood there by the door, in no hurry

to dance, taking a survey with an air that just did not give an impression of "side" because it was not at all put

on. And behold!SHE had walked past him, and his world was changed for ever. Was it an illusion of

light that made her whole spirit seem to shine through a halfstartled glance? Or a little trick of gait, a

swaying, seductive balance of body; was it the way her hair waved back, or a subtle scent, as of a flower?

What was it? The wife of a squire of those parts, with a house in London. Her name? It doesn't mattershe

has been long enough dead. There was no excusenot an illtreated woman; an ordinary, humdrum

marriage, of three years standing; no children. An amiable good fellow of a husband, fifteen years older than

herself, inclined already to be an invalid. No excuse! Yet, in one month from that night, Winton and she were

lovers, not only in thought but in deed. A thing so utterly beyond "good form" and his sense of what was

honourable and becoming in an officer and gentleman that it was simply never a question of weighing pro

and con, the cons had it so completely. And yet from that first evening, he was hers, she his. For each of them

the one thought was how to be with the other. If sowhy did they not at least go off together? Not for want

of his beseeching. And no doubt, if she had survived Gyp's birth, they would have gone. But to face the

prospect of ruining two men, as it looked to her, had till then been too much for that softhearted creature.

Death stilled her struggle before it was decided. There are women in whom utter devotion can still go hand in

hand with a doubting soul. Such are generally the most fascinating; for the power of hard and prompt

decision robs women of mystery, of the subtle atmosphere of change and chance. Though she had but one

part in four of foreign blood, she was not at all English. But Winton was English to his backbone, English in

his sense of form, and in that curious streak of wholehearted desperation that will break form to smithereens

in one department and leave it untouched in every other of its owner's life. To have called Winton a "crank"

would never have occurred to any onehis hair was always perfectly parted; his boots glowed; he was hard

and reticent, accepting and observing every canon of wellbred existence. Yet, in that, his one infatuation, he

was as lost to the world and its opinion as the longesthaired lentileater of us all. Though at any moment

during that one year of their love he would have risked his life and sacrificed his career for a whole day in her

company, he never, by word or look, compromised her. He had carried his punctilious observance of her

"honour" to a point more bitter than death, consenting, even, to her covering up the tracks of their child's

coming. Paying that gambler's debt was by far the bravest deed of his life, and even now its memory festered.

To this very room he had come back after hearing she was dead; this very room which he had refurnished to

her taste, so that even now, with its satinwood chairs, little dainty Jacobean bureau, shaded old brass

candelabra, divan, it still had an air exotic to bachelordom. There, on the table, had been a letter recalling him

to his regiment, ordered on active service. If he had realized what he would go through before he had the

chance of trying to lose his life out there, he would undoubtedly have taken that life, sitting in this very chair

before the firethe chair sacred to her and memory. He had not the luck he wished for in that little war

men who don't care whether they live or die seldom have. He secured nothing but distinction. When it was

over, he went on, with a few more lines in his face, a few more wrinkles in his heart, soldiering, shooting

tigers, pigsticking, playing polo, riding to hounds harder than ever; giving nothing away to the world;

winning steadily the curious, uneasy admiration that men feel for those who combine reckless daring with an

icecool manner. Since he was less of a talker even than most of his kind, and had never in his life talked of

women, he did not gain the reputation of a womanhater, though he so manifestly avoided them. After six

years' service in India and Egypt, he lost his right hand in a charge against dervishes, and had, perforce, to

retire, with the rank of major, aged thirtyfour. For a long time he had hated the very thought of the

childhis child, in giving birth to whom the woman he loved had died. Then came a curious change of

feeling; and for three years before his return to England, he had been in the habit of sending home odds and

ends picked up in the bazaars, to serve as toys. In return, he had received, twice annually at least, a letter from

the man who thought himself Gyp's father. These letters he read and answered. The squire was likable, and

had been fond of HER; and though never once had it seemed possible to Winton to have acted otherwise than

he did, he had all the time preserved a just and formal sense of the wrong he had done this man. He did not

experience remorse, but he had always an irksome feeling as of a debt unpaid, mitigated by knowledge that

no one had ever suspected, and discounted by memory of the awful torture he had endured to make sure

When, plus distinction and minus his hand, he was at last back in England, the squire had come to see him.

The poor man was failing fast from Bright's disease. Winton entered again that house in Mount Street with an

emotion, to stifle which required more courage than any cavalry charge. But one whose heart, as he would

have put it, is "in the right place" does not indulge the quaverings of his nerves, and he faced those rooms

where he had last seen her, faced that lonely little dinner with her husband, without sign of feeling. He did not

see little Ghita, or Gyp, as she had nicknamed herself, for she was already in her bed; and it was a whole

month before he brought himself to go there at an hour when he could see the child if he would. The fact is,

he was afraid. What would the sight of this little creature stir in him? When Betty, the nurse, brought her in to

see the soldier gentleman with "the leather hand," who had sent her those funny toys, she stood calmly staring

with her large, deepbrown eyes. Being seven, her little brown velvet frock barely reached the knees of her

thin, brownstockinged legs planted one just in front of the other, as might be the legs of a small brown bird;

the oval of her gravely wondering face was warm cream colour without red in it, except that of the lips,

which were neither full nor thin, and had a little tuck, the tiniest possible dimple at one corner. Her hair of

warm dark brown had been specially brushed and tied with a narrow red ribbon back from her forehead,

which was broad and rather low, and this added to her gravity. Her eyebrows were thin and dark and perfectly

arched; her little nose was perfectly straight, her little chin in perfect balance between round and point. She

stood and stared till Winton smiled. Then the gravity of her face broke, her lips parted, her eyes seemed to fly

a little. And Winton's heart turned over within himshe was the very child of her that he had lost! And he

He held out his hand, and she gravely put her small hand into it. A sense of solace, as if some one had slipped

a finger in and smoothed his heart, came over Winton. Gently, so as not to startle her, he raised her hand a

little, bent, and kissed it. It may have been from his instant recognition that here was one as sensitive as child

could be, or the way many soldiers acquire from dealing with their menthose simple, shrewd childrenor

some deeper instinctive sense of ownership between them; whatever it was, from that moment, Gyp

conceived for him a rushing admiration, one of those headlong affections children will sometimes take for the

He used to go there at an hour when he knew the squire would be asleep, between two and five. After he had

been with Gyp, walking in the park, riding with her in the Row, or on wet days sitting in her lonely nursery

telling stories, while stout Betty looked on half hypnotized, a rather queer and doubting look on her

comfortable faceafter such hours, he found it difficult to go to the squire's study and sit opposite him,

smoking. Those interviews reminded him too much of past days, when he had kept such desperate check on

himselftoo much of the old inward chafing against the other man's legal ownershiptoo much of the debt

owing. But Winton was tripleproofed against betrayal of feeling. The squire welcomed him eagerly, saw

nothing, felt nothing, was grateful for his goodness to the child. Well, well! He had died in the following

spring. And Winton found that he had been made Gyp's guardian and trustee. Since his wife's death, the

squire had muddled his affairs, his estate was heavily mortgaged; but Winton accepted the position with an

almost savage satisfaction, and, from that moment, schemed deeply to get Gyp all to himself. The Mount

Street house was sold; the Lincolnshire place let. She and Nurse Betty were installed at his own huntingbox,

Mildenham. In this effort to get her away from all the squire's relations, he did not scruple to employ to the

utmost the power he undoubtedly had of making people feel him unapproachable. He was never impolite to

any of them; he simply froze them out. Having plenty of money himself, his motives could not be called in

question. In one year he had isolated her from all except stout Betty. He had no qualms, for Gyp was no more

happy away from him than he from her. He had but one bad halfhour. It came when he had at last decided

that she should be called by his name, if not legally at least by custom, round Mildenham. It was to Markey

he had given the order that Gyp was to be little Miss Winton for the future. When he came in from hunting

that day, Betty was waiting in his study. She stood in the centre of the emptiest part of that rather dingy room,

as far as possible away from any good or chattel. How long she had been standing there, heaven only knew;

but her round, rosy face was confused between awe and resolution, and she had made a sad mess of her white

Touched on the raw by this reminder that before the world he had been nothing to the loved one, that before

the world the squire, who had been nothing to her, had been everything, Winton said icily:

"Yes, sir; but I've seen what I've seen. I never said anything, but I've got eyes. If Miss Gyp's to take your

"You will be kind enough to keep your thoughts to yourself. If any word or deed of yours gives the slightest

excuse for talkyou go. Understand me, you go, and you never see Gyp again! In the meantime you will do

She had always been a little afraid of him, but she had never seen that look in his eyes or heard him speak in

that voice. And she bent her full moon of a face and went, with her apron crumpled as apron had never been,

and tears in her eyes. And Winton, at the window, watching the darkness gather, the leaves flying by on a

sou'westerly wind, drank to the dregs a cup of bitter triumph. He had never had the right to that dead,

foreverloved mother of his child. He meant to have the child. If tongues must wag, let them! This was a

defeat of all his previous precaution, a deep victory of natural instinct. And his eyes narrowed and stared into

In spite of his victory over all human rivals in the heart of Gyp, Winton had a rival whose strength he fully

realized perhaps for the first time now that she was gone, and he, before the fire, was brooding over her

departure and the past. Not likely that one of his decisive type, whose life had so long been bound up with

swords and horses, would grasp what music might mean to a little girl. Such ones, he knew, required to be

taught scales, and "In a Cottage near a Wood" with other melodies. He took care not to go within sound of

them, so that he had no conception of the avidity with which Gyp had mopped up all, and more than all, her

governess could teach her. He was blind to the rapture with which she listened to any stray music that came

its way to Mildenhamto carols in the Christmas dark, to certain hymns, and one special "Nunc Dimittis" in

the village church, attended with a hopeless regularity; to the horn of the hunter far out in the quivering,

dripping coverts; even to Markey's whistling, which was full and strangely sweet.

He could share her love of dogs and horses, take an anxious interest in her way of catching bumblebees in the

hollow of her hand and putting them to her small, delicate ears to hear them buzz, sympathize with her

continual ravages among the flowerbeds, in the oldfashioned garden, full of lilacs and laburnums in spring,

pinks, roses, cornflowers in summer, dahlias and sunflowers in autumn, and always a little neglected and

overgrown, a little squeezed in, and elbowed by the more important surrounding paddocks. He could

sympathize with her attempts to draw his attention to the song of birds; but it was simply not in him to

understand how she loved and craved for music. She was a cloudy little creature, up and down in

moodrather like a brown lady spaniel that she had, now gay as a butterfly, now brooding as night. Any

touch of harshness she took to heart fearfully. She was the strangest compound of pride and

selldisparagement; the qualities seemed mixed in her so deeply that neither she nor any one knew of which

her cloudy fits were the result. Being so sensitive, she "fancied" things terribly. Things that others did to her,

and thought nothing of, often seemed to her conclusive evidence that she was not loved by anybody, which

was dreadfully unjust, because she wanted to love everyonenearly. Then suddenly she would feel: "If they

don't love me, I don't care. I don't want anything of anybody!" Presently, all would blow away just like a

cloud, and she would love and be gay, until something fresh, perhaps not at all meant to hurt her, would again

hurt her horribly. In reality, the whole household loved and admired her. But she was one of those

delicatetreading beings, born with a skin too few, whoand especially in childhoodsuffer from

To Winton's extreme delight, she took to riding as a duck to water, and knew no fear on horseback. She had

the best governess he could get her, the daughter of an admiral, and, therefore, in distressed circumstances;

and later on, a tutor for her music, who came twice a week all the way from Londona sardonic man who

cherished for her even more secret admiration than she for him. In fact, every male thing fell in love with her

at least a little. Unlike most girls, she never had an epoch of awkward plainness, but grew like a flower,

evenly, steadily. Winton often gazed at her with a sort of intoxication; the turn of her head, the way those

perfectly shaped, wonderfully clear brown eyes would "fly," the set of her straight, round neck, the very

shaping of her limbs were all such poignant reminders of what he had so loved. And yet, for all that likeness

to her mother, there was a difference, both in form and character. Gyp had, as it were, an extra touch of

"breeding," more chiselling in body, more fastidiousness in soul, a little more poise, a little more sheer grace;

in mood, more variance, in mind, more clarity and, mixed with her sweetness, a distinct spice of scepticism

In modern times there are no longer "toasts," or she would have been one with both the hunts. Though

delicate in build, she was not frail, and when her blood was up would "go" all day, and come in so bonetired

that she would drop on to the tiger skin before the fire, rather than face the stairs. Life at Mildenham was

lonely, save for Winton's hunting cronies, and they but few, for his spiritual dandyism did not gladly suffer

Besides, as Betty had foreseen, tongues did wagthose tongues of the countryside, avid of anything that

might spice the tedium of dull lives and brains. And, though no breath of gossip came to Winton's ears, no

women visited at Mildenham. Save for the friendly casual acquaintanceships of churchyard, huntingfield,

and local racemeetings, Gyp grew up knowing hardly any of her own sex. This dearth developed her

reserve, kept her backward in sex perception, gave her a faint, unconscious contempt for men creatures

always at the beck and call of her smile, and so easily disquieted by a little frowngave her also a secret

yearning for companions of her own gender. Any girl or woman that she did chance to meet always took a

fancy to her, because she was so nice to them, which made the transitory nature of these friendships

tantalizing. She was incapable of jealousies or backbiting. Let men beware of suchthere is coiled in their

Gyp's moral and spiritual growth was not the sort of subject that Winton could pay much attention to. It was

preeminently a matter one did not talk about. Outward forms, such as going to church, should be preserved;

manners should be taught her by his own example as much as possible; beyond this, nature must look after

things. His view had much real wisdom. She was a quick and voracious reader, bad at remembering what she

read; and though she had soon devoured all the books in Winton's meagre library, including Byron,

WhyteMelville, and Humboldt's "Cosmos," they had not left too much on her mind. The attempts of her

little governess to impart religion were somewhat arid of result, and the interest of the vicar, Gyp, with her

instinctive spice of scepticism soon put into the same category as the interest of all the other males she knew.

She felt that he enjoyed calling her "my dear" and patting her shoulder, and that this enjoyment was enough

Tucked away in that little old dark manor house, whose stables alone were up to datethree hours from

London, and some thirty miles from The Wash, it must be confessed that her upbringing lacked modernity.

About twice a year, Winton took her up to town to stay with his unmarried sister Rosamund in Curzon Street.

Those weeks, if they did nothing else, increased her natural taste for charming clothes, fortified her teeth, and

fostered her passion for music and the theatre. But the two main nourishments of the modern

girldiscussion and gamesshe lacked utterly. Moreover, those years of her life from fifteen to nineteen

were before the social resurrection of 1906, and the world still crawled like a winter fly on a windowpane.

Winton was a Tory, Aunt Rosamund a Tory, everybody round her a Tory. The only spiritual development she

underwent all those years of her girlhood was through her headlong love for her father. After all, was there

any other way in which she could really have developed? Only love makes fruitful the soul. The sense of

form that both had in such high degree prevented much demonstration; but to be with him, do things for him,

to admire, and credit him with perfection; and, since she could not exactly wear the same clothes or speak in

the same clipped, quiet, decisive voice, to dislike the clothes and voices of other menall this was precious

to her beyond everything. If she inherited from him that fastidious sense of form, she also inherited his

capacity for putting all her eggs in one basket. And since her company alone gave him real happiness, the

current of love flowed over her heart all the time. Though she never realized it, abundant love FOR

somebody was as necessary to her as water running up the stems of flowers, abundant love FROM somebody

as needful as sunshine on their petals. And Winton's somewhat frequent little runs to town, to Newmarket, or

where not, were always marked in her by a fall of the barometer, which recovered as his return grew near.

One part of her education, at all events, was not neglected cultivation of an habitual sympathy with her

poorer neighbours. Without concerning himself in the least with problems of sociology, Winton had by

nature an open hand and heart for cottagers, and abominated interference with their lives. And so it came

about that Gyp, who, by nature also never set foot anywhere without invitation, was always hearing the

words: "Step in, Miss Gyp"; "Step in, and sit down, lovey," and a good many words besides from even the

boldest and baddest characters. There is nothing like a soft and pretty face and sympathetic listening for

So passed the eleven years till she was nineteen and Winton forty six. Then, under the wing of her little

governess, she went to the huntball. She had revolted against appearing a "fluffy miss," wanting to be

considered at once fullfledged; so that her dress, perfect in fit, was not white but palest maizecolour, as if

she had already been to dances. She had all Winton's dandyism, and just so much more as was appropriate to

her sex. With her dark hair, wonderfully fluffed and coiled, waving across her forehead, her neck bare for the

first time, her eyes really "flying," and a demeanour perfectly coolas though she knew that light and

movement, covetous looks, soft speeches, and admiration were her birthrightshe was more beautiful than

even Winton had thought her. At her breast she wore some sprigs of yellow jasmine procured by him from

towna flower of whose scent she was very fond, and that he had never seen worn in ballrooms. That

swaying, delicate creature, warmed by excitement, reminded him, in every movement and by every glance of

her eyes, of her whom he had first met at just such a ball as this. And by the carriage of his head, the twist of

That evening held many sensations for Gypsome delightful, one confused, one unpleasant. She revelled in

her success. Admiration was very dear to her. She passionately enjoyed dancing, loved feeling that she was

dancing well and giving pleasure. But, twice over, she sent away her partners, smitten with compassion for

her little governess sitting there against the wallall alone, with no one to take notice of her, because she

was elderly, and roundabout, poor darling! And, to that loyal person's horror, she insisted on sitting beside

her all through two dances. Nor would she go in to supper with anyone but Winton. Returning to the

ballroom on his arm, she overheard an elderly woman say: "Oh, don't you know? Of course he really IS her

father!" and an elderly man answer: "Ah, that accounts for itquite so!" With those eyes at the back of the

head which the very sensitive possess, she could see their inquisitive, cold, slightly malicious glances, and

"Really IS her father!" The words meant TOO much to be grasped this evening of full sensations. They left a

little bruise somewhere, but softened and anointed, just a sense of confusion at the back of her mind. And

very soon came that other sensation, so disillusioning, that all else was crowded out. It was after a dancea

splendid dance with a goodlooking man quite twice her age. They were sitting behind some palms, he

murmuring in his mellow, flown voice admiration for her dress, when suddenly he bent his flushed face and

kissed her bare arm above the elbow. If he had hit her he could not have astonished or hurt her more. It

seemed to her innocence that he would never have done such a thing if she had not said something dreadful to

encourage him. Without a word she got up, gazed at him a moment with eyes dark from pain, shivered, and

slipped away. She went straight to Winton. From her face, all closed up, tightened lips, and the familiar little

droop at their corners, he knew something dire had happened, and his eyes boded ill for the person who had

hurt her; but she would say nothing except that she was tired and wanted to go home. And so, with the little

faithful governess, who, having been silent perforce nearly all the evening, was now full of conversation, they

drove out into the frosty night. Winton sat beside the chauffeur, smoking viciously, his fur collar turned up

over his ears, his eyes stabbing the darkness, under his round, lowdrawn fur cap. Who had dared upset his

darling? And, within the car, the little governess chattered softly, and Gyp, shrouded in lace, in her dark

corner sat silent, seeing nothing but the vision of that insult. Sad end to a lovely night!

She lay awake long hours in the darkness, while a sort of coherence was forming in her mind. Those words:

"Really IS her father!" and that man's kissing of her bare arm were a sort of revelation of sexmystery,

hardening the consciousness that there was something at the back of her life. A child so sensitive had not, of

course, quite failed to feel the spiritual draughts around her; but instinctively she had recoiled from more

definite perceptions. The time before Winton came was all so faintBetty, toys, short glimpses of a kind,

invalidish man called "Papa." As in that word there was no depth compared with the word "Dad" bestowed

on Winton, so there had been no depth in her feelings towards the squire. When a girl has no memory of her

mother, how dark are many things! None, except Betty, had ever talked of her mother. There was nothing

sacred in Gyp's associations, no faiths to be broken by any knowledge that might come to her; isolated from

other girls, she had little realisation even of the conventions. Still, she suffered horribly, lying there in the

darkfrom bewilderment, from thorns dragged over her skin, rather than from a stab in the heart. The

knowledge of something about her conspicuous, doubtful, provocative of insult, as she thought, grievously

hurt her delicacy. Those few wakeful hours made a heavy mark. She fell asleep at last, still all in confusion,

and woke up with a passionate desire to KNOW. All that morning she sat at her piano, playing, refusing to go

out, frigid to Betty and the little governess, till the former was reduced to tears and the latter to Wordsworth.

After tea she went to Winton's study, that dingy little room where he never studied anything, with leather

chairs and books whichexcept "Mr. Jorrocks," Byron, those on the care of horses, and the novels of

WhyteMelvillewere never read; with prints of superequine celebrities, his sword, and photographs of

Gyp and of brother officers on the walls. Two bright spots there were indeedthe fire, and the little bowl

When she came gliding in like that, a slender, rounded figure, her creamy, darkeyed, oval face all cloudy,

she seemed to Winton to have grown up of a sudden. He had known all day that something was coming, and

had been cudgelling his brains finely. From the fervour of his love for her, he felt an anxiety that was almost

fear. What could have happened last nightthat first night of her entrance into societymeddlesome,

gossiping society! She slid down to the floor against his knee. He could not see her face, could not even touch

her; for she had settled down on his right side. He mastered his tremors and said:

The logs hissed and crackled; the long flames ruffled in the chimneydraught; the wind roared

When that which one has always known might happen at last does happen, how little one is prepared! In the

few seconds before an answer that could in no way be evaded, Winton had time for a tumult of reflection. A

less resolute character would have been caught by utter mental blankness, then flung itself in panic on "Yes"

or "No." But Winton was incapable of losing his head; he would not answer without having faced the

consequences of his reply. To be her father was the most warming thing in his life; but if he avowed it, how

far would he injure her love for him? What did a girl know? How make her understand? What would her

feeling be about her dead mother? How would that dead loved one feel? What would she have wished?

It was a cruel moment. And the girl, pressed against his knee, with face hidden, gave him no help. Impossible

to keep it from her, now that her instinct was roused! Silence, too, would answer for him. And clenching his

"Yes, Gyp; your mother and I loved each other." He felt a quiver go through her, would have given much to

see her face. What, even now, did she understand? Well, it must be gone through with, and he said:

Grief, shock, even surprise would have roused all his loyalty to the dead, all the old stubborn bitterness, and

he would have frozen up against her. But this acquiescent murmur made him long to smooth it down.

"Nobody has ever known. She died when you were born. It was a fearful grief to me. If you've heard

anything, it's just gossip, because you go by my name. Your mother was never talked about. But it's best you

should know, now you're grown up. People don't often love as she and I loved. You needn't be ashamed."

Winton was but dimly conscious of how that question revealed her nature, its power of piercing instinctively

to the heart of things, its sensitive pride, and demand for utter and exclusive love. To things that go too deep,

Then, to his dismay, he perceived that she was cryingstruggling against it so that her shoulder shook

against his knee. He had hardly ever known her cry, not in all the disasters of unstable youth, and she had

received her full meed of knocks and tumbles. He could only stroke that shoulder, and say:

She ceased as suddenly as she had begun, got up, and, before he too could rise, was gone.

That evening, at dinner, she was just as usual. He could not detect the slightest difference in her voice or

manner, or in her goodnight kiss. And so a moment that he had dreaded for years was over, leaving only the

faint shame which follows a breach of reticence on the spirits of those who worship it. While the old secret

had been quite undisclosed, it had not troubled him. Disclosed, it hurt him. But Gyp, in those twentyfour

hours, had left childhood behind for good; her feeling toward men had hardened. If she did not hurt them a

little, they would hurt her! The sexinstinct had come to life. To Winton she gave as much love as ever, even

The next two years were much less solitary, passed in more or less constant gaiety. His confession spurred

Winton on to the fortification of his daughter's position. He would stand no nonsense, would not have her

looked on askance. There is nothing like "style" for carrying the defences of societyonly, it must be the

genuine thing. Whether at Mildenham, or in London under the wing of his sister, there was no difficulty. Gyp

was too pretty, Winton too cool, his quietness too formidable. She had every advantage. Society only troubles

The happiest time of a girl's life is that when all appreciate and covet her, and she herself is free as aira

queen of hearts, for none of which she hankers; or, if not the happiest, at all events it is the gayest time. What

did Gyp care whether hearts ached for hershe knew not love as yet, perhaps would never know the pains of

unrequited love. Intoxicated with life, she led her many admirers a pretty dance, treating them with a sort of

bravura. She did not want them to be unhappy, but she simply could not take them seriously. Never was any

girl so heartfree. She was a queer mixture in those days, would give up any pleasure for Winton, and most

for Betty or her aunther little governess was gonebut of nobody else did she seem to take account,

accepting all that was laid at her feet as the due of her looks, her dainty frocks, her music, her good riding and

dancing, her talent for amateur theatricals and mimicry. Winton, whom at least she never failed, watched that

glorious fluttering with quiet pride and satisfaction. He was getting to those years when a man of action

dislikes interruption of the grooves into which his activity has fallen. He pursued his hunting, racing,

cardplaying, and his very stealthy alms and services to lame ducks of his old regiment, their families, and

other unfortunateshappy in knowing that Gyp was always as glad to be with him as he to be with her.

The day that she came of age they were up in town, and he summoned her to the room, in which he now sat

by the fire recalling all these things, to receive an account of his stewardship. He had nursed her greatly

embarrassed inheritance very carefully till it amounted to some twenty thousand pounds. He had never told

her of itthe subject was dangerous, and, since his own means were ample, she had not wanted for anything.

When he had explained exactly what she owned, shown her how it was invested, and told her that she must

now open her own banking account, she stood gazing at the sheets of paper, whose items she had been

supposed to understand, and her face gathered the look which meant that she was troubled. Without lifting

Winton felt a sort of crabbed pleasure. What should be done with that money if she did not take it, he did not

in the least know. But not to take it was like her, made her more than ever his daughtera kind of final

victory. He turned away to the window from which he had so often watched for her mother. There was the

corner she used to turn! In one minute, surely she would be standing there, colour glowing in her cheeks, her

eyes soft behind her veil, her breast heaving a little with her haste, waiting for his embrace. There she would

stand, drawing up her veil. He turned round. Difficult to believe it was not she! And he said:

"Very well, my love. But you will take the equivalent from me instead. The other can be put by; some one

At those unaccustomed words, "My love," from his undemonstrative lips, the colour mounted in her cheeks

She had her fill of music in those days, taking piano lessons from a Monsieur Harmost, a greyhaired native

of Liege, with mahogany cheeks and the touch of an angel, who kept her hard at it and called her his "little

friend." There was scarcely a concert of merit that she did not attend or a musician of mark whose playing

she did not know, and, though fastidiousness saved her from squirming in adoration round the feet of those

prodigious performers, she perched them all on pedestals, men and women alike, and now and then met them

Aunt Rosamund, also musical, so far as breeding would allow, stood for a good deal to Gyp, who had built up

about her a romantic story of love wrecked by pride from a few words she had once let drop. She was a tall

and handsome woman, a year older than Winton, with a long, aristocratic face, deepblue, rather shining

eyes, a gentlemanly manner, warm heart, and one of those indescribable, not unmelodious drawls that one

connects with an unshakable sense of privilege. She, in turn, was very fond of Gyp; and what passed within

her mind, by no means devoid of shrewdness, as to their real relationship, remained ever discreetly hidden.

She was, so far again as breeding would allow, something of a humanitarian and rebel, loving horses and

dogs, and hating cats, except when they had four legs. The girl had just that softness which fascinates women

who perhaps might have been happier if they had been born men. Not that Rosamund Winton was of an

aggressive typeshe merely had the resolute "catch hold of your tail, old fellow" spirit so often found in

Englishwomen of the upper classes. A cheery soul, given to long coats and waistcoats, stocks, and a

crutchhandled stick, shelike her brotherhad "style," but more sense of humourvaluable in musical

circles! At her house, the girl was practically compelled to see fun as well as merit in all those prodigies,

haloed with hair and filled to overflowing with music and themselves. And, since Gyp's natural sense of the

ludicrous was extreme, she and her aunt could rarely talk about anything without going into fits of laughter.

Winton had his first really bad attack of gout when Gyp was twenty two, and, terrified lest he might not be

able to sit a horse in time for the opening meets, he went off with her and Markey to Wiesbaden. They had

rooms in the Wilhelmstrasse, overlooking the gardens, where leaves were already turning, that gorgeous

September. The cure was long and obstinate, and Winton badly bored. Gyp fared much better. Attended by

the silent Markey, she rode daily on the Neroberg, chafing at regulations which reduced her to specified

tracks in that majestic wood where the beeches glowed. Once or even twice a day she went to the concerts in

The first time she heard Fiorsen play she was alone. Unlike most violinists, he was tall and thin, with great

pliancy of body and swift sway of movement. His face was pale, and went strangely with hair and moustache

of a sort of dirtgold colour, and his thin cheeks with very broad high cheekbones had little narrow scraps

of whisker. Those little whiskers seemed to Gyp awfulindeed, he seemed rather awful altogetherbut his

playing stirred and swept her in the most uncanny way. He had evidently remarkable technique; and the

emotion, the intense wayward feeling of his playing was chiselled by that technique, as if a flame were being

frozen in its swaying. When he stopped, she did not join in the tornado of applause, but sat motionless,

looking up at him. Quite unconstrained by all those people, he passed the back of his hand across his hot

brow, shoving up a wave or two of that queer coloured hair; then, with a rather disagreeable smile, he made

a short supple bow or two. And she thought, "What strange eyes he haslike a great cat's!" Surely they were

green; fierce, yet shy, almost furtivemesmeric! Certainly the strangest man she had ever seen, and the most

frightening. He seemed looking straight at her; and, dropping her gaze, she clapped. When she looked again,

his face had lost that smile for a kind of wistfulness. He made another of those little supple bows straight at

herit seemed to Gypand jerked his violin up to his shoulder. "He's going to play to me," she thought

absurdly. He played without accompaniment a little tune that seemed to twitch the heart. When he finished,

this time she did not look up, but was conscious that he gave one impatient bow and walked off.

"I heard a violinist today, Dad, the most wonderful playing Gustav Fiorsen. Is that Swedish, do you

"Very likely. What sort of a bounder was he to look at? I used to know a Swede in the Turkish armynice

"Tall and thin and whitefaced, with bumpy cheekbones, and hollows under them, and queer green eyes.

She saw him next day in the gardens. They were sitting close to the Schiller statue, Winton reading The

Times, to whose advent he looked forward more than he admitted, for he was loath by confessions of

boredom to disturb Gyp's manifest enjoyment of her stay. While perusing the customary comforting

animadversions on the conduct of those "rascally Radicals" who had just come into power, and the account of

Certainly she had never looked prettier, daintier, shown more breeding than she did out here among these

Germans with their thick pasterns, and all the cosmopolitan hairyheeled crowd in this God forsaken place!

The girl, unconscious of his stealthy regalement, was letting her clear eyes rest, in turn, on each figure that

passed, on the movements of birds and dogs, watching the sunlight glisten on the grass, burnish the copper

beeches, the limetrees, and those tall poplars down there by the water. The doctor at Mildenham, once

consulted on a bout of headache, had called her eyes "perfect organs," and certainly no eyes could take things

in more swiftly or completely. She was attractive to dogs, and every now and then one would stop, in two

minds whether or no to put his nose into this foreign girl's hand. From a flirtation of eyes with a great Dane,

she looked up and saw Fiorsen passing, in company with a shorter, square man, having very fashionable

trousers and a corseted waist. The violinist's tall, thin, loping figure was tightly buttoned into a

brownishgrey frockcoat suit; he wore a rather broadbrimmed, grey, velvety hat; in his buttonhole was a

white flower; his clothtopped boots were of patent leather; his tie was bunched out at the ends over a soft

whitelinen shirt altogether quite a dandy! His most strange eyes suddenly swept down on hers, and he

'Why, he remembers me,' thought Gyp. That thinwaisted figure with head set just a little forward between

rather high shoulders, and its long stride, curiously suggested a leopard or some lithe creature. He touched his

short companion's arm, muttered something, turned round, and came back. She could see him staring her

way, and knew he was coming simply to look at her. She knew, too, that her father was watching. And she

felt that those greenish eyes would waver before his starethat stare of the Englishman of a certain class,

which never condescends to be inquisitive. They passed; Gyp saw Fiorsen turn to his companion, slightly

tossing back his head in their direction, and heard the companion laugh. A little flame shot up in her.

The thought that Fiorsen should have picked her out of all that audience for remembrance subtly flattered her

vanity. She lost her ruffled feeling. Though her father thought his dress awful, it was really rather becoming.

He would not have looked as well in proper English clothes. Once, at least, during the next two days, she

noticed the short, square young man who had been walking with him, and was conscious that he followed her

And then a certain Baroness von Maisen, a cosmopolitan friend of Aunt Rosamund's, German by marriage,

halfDutch, halfFrench by birth, asked her if she had heard the Swedish violinist, Fiorsen. He would be, she

said, the best violinist of the day, ifand she shook her head. Finding that expressive shake unquestioned,

"Ah, these musicians! He wants saving from himself. If he does not halt soon, he will be lost. Pity! A great

Instinct and so much life with Winton made the girl regard it as beneath her to be shocked. She did not seek

knowledge of life, but refused to shy away from it or be discomfited; and the baroness, to whom innocence

"Des femmestoujours des femmes! C'est grand dommage. It will spoil his spirit. His sole chance is to find

"I have known such a man become a slave. I have known him running after a woman like a lamb while she

was deceiving him here and there. On ne peut jamais dire. Ma belle, il y a des choses que vous ne savez pas

encore." She took Gyp's hand. "And yet, one thing is certain. With those eyes and those lips and that figure,

"Ah, but you will turn some heads! No fear! as you English say. There is fatality in those pretty brown eyes!"

A girl may be pardoned who takes as a compliment the saying that her eyes are fatal. The words warmed

Gyp, uncontrollably light hearted in these days, just as she was warmed when people turned to stare at her.

The soft air, the mellowness of this gay place, much music, a sense of being a rara avis among people who,

by their heavier type, enhanced her own, had produced in her a kind of intoxication, making her what the

baroness called "un peu folle." She was always breaking into laughter, having that precious feeling of

twisting the world round her thumb, which does not come too often in the life of one who is sensitive.

Everything to her just then was either "funny" or "lovely." And the baroness, conscious of the girl's chic,

genuinely attracted by one so pretty, took care that she saw all the people, perhaps more than all, that were

To women and artists, between whom there is ever a certain kinship, curiosity is a vivid emotion. Besides, the

more a man has conquered, the more precious field he is for a woman's conquest. To attract a man who has

attracted many, what is it but a proof that one's charm is superior to that of all those others? The words of the

baroness deepened in Gyp the impression that Fiorsen was "impossible," but secretly fortified the faint

excitement she felt that he should have remembered her out of all that audience. Later on, they bore more

Coming in from a ride, a week after she had sat with Winton under the Schiller statue, Gyp found on her

dressingtable a bunch of Gloire de Dijon and La France roses. Plunging her nose into them, she thought:

"How lovely! Who sent me these?" There was no card. All that the German maid could say was that a boy

had brought them from a flower shop "fur Fraulein Vinton"; it was surmised that they came from the

baroness. In her bodice at dinner, and to the concert after, Gyp wore one La France and one Gloire de

Dijona daring mixture of pink and orange against her oystercoloured frock, which delighted her, who had

a passion for experiments in colour. They had bought no programme, all music being the same to Winton,

and Gyp not needing any. When she saw Fiorsen come forward, her cheeks began to colour from sheer

He played first a minuet by Mozart; then the Cesar Franck sonata; and when he came back to make his bow,

he was holding in his hand a Gloire de Dijon and a La France rose. Involuntarily, Gyp raised her hand to her

own roses. His eyes met hers; he bowed just a little lower. Then, quite naturally, put the roses to his lips as he

was walking off the platform. Gyp dropped her hand, as if it had been stung. Then, with the swift thought:

"Oh, that's schoolgirlish!" she contrived a little smile. But her cheeks were flushing. Should she take out

those roses and let them fall? Her father might see, might notice Fiorsen'sput two and two together! He

would consider she had been insulted. Had she? She could not bring herself to think so. It was too pretty a

compliment, as if he wished to tell her that he was playing to her alone. The baroness's words flashed through

her mind: "He wants saving from himself. Pity! A great talent!" It WAS a great talent. There must be

something worth saving in one who could play like that! They left after his last solo. Gyp put the two roses

Three days later, she went to an afternoon "at home" at the Baroness von Maisen's. She saw him at once, over

by the piano, with his short, square companion, listening to a voluble lady, and looking very bored and

restless. All that overcast afternoon, still and with queer lights in the sky, as if rain were coming, Gyp had

been feeling out of mood, a little homesick. Now she felt excited. She saw the short companion detach

himself and go up to the baroness; a minute later, he was brought up to her and introducedCount Rosek.

Gyp did not like his face; there were dark rings under the eyes, and he was too perfectly selfpossessed, with

a kind of cold sweetness; but he was very agreeable and polite, and spoke English well. He wasit

seemeda Pole, who lived in London, and seemed to know all that was to be known about music. Miss

Wintonhe believedhad heard his friend Fiorsen play; but not in London? No? That was odd; he had

been there some months last season. Faintly annoyed at her ignorance, Gyp answered:

"He had a great success. I shall take him back; it is best for his future. What do you think of his playing?"

In spite of herself, for she did not like expanding to this sphinxlike little man, Gyp murmured:

Gyp turned. There he was, just behind her, bowing; and his eyes had a look of humble adoration which he

made no attempt whatever to conceal. Gyp saw another smile slide over the Pole's lips; and she was alone in

the bay window with Fiorsen. The moment might well have fluttered a girl's nerves after his recognition of

her by the Schiller statue, after that episode of the flowers, and what she had heard of him. But life had not

yet touched either her nerves or spirit; she only felt amused and a little excited. Close to, he had not so much

that look of an animal behind bars, and he certainly was in his way a dandy, beautifully washedalways an

important thingand having some pleasant essence on his handkerchief or hair, of which Gyp would have

disapproved if he had been English. He wore a diamond ring also, which did not somehow seem bad form on

that particular little finger. His height, his broad cheekbones, thick but not long hair, the hungry vitality of

his face, figure, movements, annulled those evidences of femininity. He was male enough, rather too male.

"You laugh at me; but you need not. I play for you because I admire you. I admire you terribly. If I sent you

those flowers, it was not to be rude. It was my gratitude for the pleasure of your face." His voice actually

"Thank you. It was very kind of you. I want to thank you for your playing. It is beautifulreally beautiful!"

"Bah! Here, I do it for money; I hate this place. It bores me bores me! Was that your father sitting with you

Gyp nodded, suddenly grave. She had not forgotten the slighting turn of his head.

"No; I should not know your countryyou are neither of the North nor of the South. You are just Woman,

made to be adored. I came here hoping to meet you; I am extremely happy. Miss Winton, I am your very

He was speaking very fast, very low, with an agitated earnestness that surely could not be put on. But

suddenly muttering: "These people!" he made her another of his little bows and abruptly slipped away. The

baroness was bringing up another man. The chief thought left by that meeting was: "Is that how he begins to

everyone?" She could not quite believe it. The stammering earnestness of his voice, those humbly adoring

looks! Then she remembered the smile on the lips of the little Pole, and thought: "But he must know I'm not

Too sensitive to confide in anyone, she had no chance to ventilate the curious sensations of attraction and

repulsion that began fermenting in her, feelings defying analysis, mingling and quarrelling deep down in her

heart. It was certainly not love, not even the beginning of that; but it was the kind of dangerous interest

children feel in things mysterious, out of reach, yet within reach, if only they dared! And the tug of music was

there, and the tug of those words of the baroness about salvationthe thought of achieving the impossible,

reserved only for the woman of supreme charm, for the true victress. But all these thoughts and feelings were

as yet in embryo. She might never see him again! And she certainly did not know whether she even wanted

Gyp was in the habit of walking with Winton to the Kochbrunnen, where, with other patientfolk, he was

required to drink slowly for twenty minutes every morning. While he was imbibing she would sit in a remote

corner of the garden, and read a novel in the Reclam edition, as a daily German lesson.

She was sitting there, the morning after the "athome" at the Baroness von Maisen's, reading Turgenev's

"Torrents of Spring," when she saw Count Rosek sauntering down the path with a glass of the waters in his

hand. Instant memory of the smile with which he had introduced Fiorsen made her take cover beneath her

sunshade. She could see his patentleathered feet, and wellturned, pegtop trousered legs go by with the

gait of a man whose waist is corseted. The certainty that he wore those prerogatives of womanhood increased

her dislike. How dare men be so effeminate? Yet someone had told her that he was a good rider, a good

fencer, and very strong. She drew a breath of relief when he was past, and, for fear he might turn and come

back, closed her little book and slipped away. But her figure and her springing step were more unmistakable

Next morning, on the same bench, she was reading breathlessly the scene between Gemma and Sanin at the

"Wait! You have Madame Polozov to come! What a creation! How old are you, Miss Winton?"

"You would be too young to appreciate that story if you were not YOU. But you know muchby instinct.

"I told your father I have had the pleasure of meeting you. He was very polite."

"I suppose they have told you that I am a mauvais sujet." Gyp inclined her head. He looked at her steadily,

She wanted to look at him, but could not. A queer sort of exultation had seized on her. This man had power;

yet she had power over him. If she wished she could make him her slave, her dog, chain him to her. She had

but to hold out her hand, and he would go on his knees to kiss it. She had but to say, "Come," and he would

come from wherever he might be. She had but to say, "Be good," and he would be good. It was her first

experience of power; and it was intoxicating. Butbut! Gyp could never be self confident for long; over

her most victorious moments brooded the shadow of distrust. As if he read her thought, Fiorsen said:

"Thengo back to London at once. You are wasting yourself here, you know. You said so!"

"I am not going away from you; do not think it." Bending with the utmost swiftness, he took her hand, put his

Gyp, uneasy and astonished, stared at her hand, still tingling from the pressure of his bristly moustache. Then

she laughed againit was just "foreign" to have your hand kissedand went back to her book, without

Was ever courtship more strange than that which followed? It is said that the cat fascinates the bird it desires

to eat; here the bird fascinated the cat, but the bird too was fascinated. Gyp never lost the sense of having the

whiphand, always felt like one giving alms, or extending favour, yet had a feeling of being unable to get

away, which seemed to come from the very strength of the spell she laid on him. The magnetism with which

she held him reacted on herself. Thoroughly sceptical at first, she could not remain so. He was too utterly

morose and unhappy if she did not smile on him, too alive and excited and grateful if she did. The change in

his eyes from their ordinary restless, fierce, and furtive expression to humble adoration or wistful hunger

when they looked at her could never have been simulated. And she had no lack of chance to see that

metamorphosis. Wherever she went, there he was. If to a concert, he would be a few paces from the door,

waiting for her entrance. If to a confectioner's for tea, as likely as not he would come in. Every afternoon he

Except in the gardens of the Kochbrunnen, when he would come up humbly and ask to sit with her five

minutes, he never forced his company, or tried in any way to compromise her. Experience, no doubt, served

him there; but he must have had an instinct that it was dangerous with one so sensitive. There were other

moths, too, round that bright candle, and they served to keep his attentions from being too conspicuous. Did

she comprehend what was going on, understand how her defences were being sapped, grasp the danger to

retreat that lay in permitting him to hover round her? Not really. It all served to swell the triumphant

intoxication of days when she was ever more and more in love with living, more and more conscious that the

world appreciated and admired her, that she had power to do what others couldn't.

Was not Fiorsen, with his great talent, and his dubious reputation, proof of that? And he excited her.

Whatever else one might be in his moody, vivid company, one would not be dull. One morning, he told her

something of his life. His father had been a small Swedish landowner, a very strong man and a very hard

drinker; his mother, the daughter of a painter. She had taught him the violin, but died while he was still a boy.

When he was seventeen he had quarrelled with his father, and had to play his violin for a living in the streets

of Stockholm. A wellknown violinist, hearing him one day, took him in hand. Then his father had drunk

himself to death, and he had inherited the little estate. He had sold it at once"for follies," as he put it

crudely. "Yes, Miss Winton; I have committed many follies, but they are nothing to those I shall commit the

day I do not see you any more!" And, with that disturbing remark, he got up and left her. She had smiled at

his words, but within herself she felt excitement, scepticism, compassion, and something she did not

But how far did Winton understand, how far see what was going on? He was a stoic; but that did not prevent

jealousy from taking alarm, and causing him twinges more acute than those he still felt in his left foot. He

was afraid of showing disquiet by any dramatic change, or he would have carried her off a fortnight at least

before his cure was over. He knew too well the signs of passion. That long, loping, wolfish fiddling fellow

with the broad cheekbones and little sidewhiskers (Good God!) and greenish eyes whose looks at Gyp he

secretly marked down, roused his complete distrust. Perhaps his inbred English contempt for foreigners and

artists kept him from direct action. He COULD not take it quite seriously. Gyp, his fastidious perfect Gyp,

succumbing, even a little to a fellow like that! Never! His jealous affection, too, could not admit that she

would neglect to consult him in any doubt or difficulty. He forgot the sensitive secrecy of girls, forgot that his

love for her had ever shunned words, her love for him never indulged in confidences. Nor did he see more

than a little of what there was to see, and that little was doctored by Fiorsen for his eyes, shrewd though they

were. Nor was there in all so very much, except one episode the day before they left, and of that he knew

That last afternoon was very still, a little mournful. It had rained the night before, and the soaked treetrunks,

the soaked fallen leaves gave off a faint liquoricelike perfume. In Gyp there was a feeling, as if her spirit

had been suddenly emptied of excitement and delight. Was it the day, or the thought of leaving this place

where she had so enjoyed herself? After lunch, when Winton was settling his accounts, she wandered out

through the long park stretching up the valley. The sky was broodinggrey, the trees were still and

melancholy. It was all a little melancholy, and she went on and on, across the stream, round into a muddy

lane that led up through the outskirts of a village, on to the higher ground whence she could return by the

main road. Why must things come to an end? For the first time in her life, she thought of Mildenham and

hunting without enthusiasm. She would rather stay in London. There she would not be cut off from music,

from dancing, from people, and all the exhilaration of being appreciated. On the air came the shrilly, hollow

droning of a thresher, and the sound seemed exactly to express her feelings. A pigeon flew over, white

against the leaden sky; some birchtrees that had gone golden shivered and let fall a shower of drops. It was

lonely here! And, suddenly, two little boys bolted out of the hedge, nearly upsetting her, and scurried down

the road. Something had startled them. Gyp, putting up her face to see, felt on it soft pinpoints of rain. Her

frock would be spoiled, and it was one she was fond of dovecoloured, velvety, not meant for weather.

She turned for refuge to the birchtrees. It would be over directly, perhaps. Muffled in distance, the whining

drone of that thresher still came travelling, deepening her discomfort. Then in the hedge, whence the boys

had bolted down, a man reared himself above the lane, and came striding along toward her. He jumped down

the bank, among the birchtrees. And she saw it was Fiorsenpanting, dishevelled, pale with heat. He must

have followed her, and climbed straight up the hillside from the path she had come along in the bottom,

before crossing the stream. His artistic dandyism had been harshly treated by that scramble. She might have

laughed; but, instead, she felt excited, a little scared by the look on his hot, pale face. He said, breathlessly:

"I have caught you. So you are going tomorrow, and never told me! You thought you would slip awaynot

Crouching suddenly, he took hold of her broad ribbon sash, and buried his face in it. Gyp stood

tremblingthe action had not stirred her sense of the ridiculous. He circled her knees with his arms.

"Oh, Gyp, I love youI love youdon't send me awaylet me be with you! I am your dogyour slave.

His voice moved and terrified her. Men had said "I love you" several times during those last two years, but

never with that lostsoul ring of passion, never with that look in the eyes at once fiercely hungry and so

supplicating, never with that restless, eager, timid touch of hands. She could only murmur:

The thought flashed through Gyp: 'To how many has he knelt, I wonder?' His face had a kind of beauty in its

abandonmentthe beauty that comes from yearningand she lost her frightened feeling. He went on, with

his stammering murmur: "I am a prodigal, I know; but if you love me, I will no longer be. I will do great

things for you. Oh, Gyp, if you will some day marry me! Not now. When I have proved. Oh, Gyp, you are so

His arms crept up till he had buried his face against her waist. Without quite knowing what she did, Gyp

He got up then, and standing near, with his hands hard clenched at his sides, whispered:

She could not. All was strange and mazed and quivering in her, her spirit straining away, drawn to him,

fantastically confused. She could only look into his face with her troubled, dark eyes. And suddenly she was

seized and crushed to him. She shrank away, pushing him back with all her strength. He hung his head,

abashed, suffering, with eyes shut, lips trembling; and her heart felt again that quiver of compassion. She

He bowed, folding his arms, as if to make her feel safe from him. And when, regardless of the rain, she began

to move on, he walked beside her, a yard or so away, humbly, as though he had never poured out those words

Back in her room, taking off her wet dress, Gyp tried to remember what he had said and what she had

answered. She had not promised anything. But she had given him her address, both in London and the

country. Unless she resolutely thought of other things, she still felt the restless touch of his hands, the grip of

his arms, and saw his eyes as they were when he was kissing her; and once more she felt frightened and

He was playing at the concert that eveningher last concert. And surely he had never played like thatwith

a despairing beauty, a sort of frenzied rapture. Listening, there came to her a feeling a feeling of

Once back in England, Gyp lost that feeling, or very nearly. Her scepticism told her that Fiorsen would soon

see someone else who seemed all he had said she was! How ridiculous to suppose that he would stop his

follies for her, that she had any real power over him! But, deep down, she did not quite believe this. It would

have wounded her belief in herself too mucha belief so subtle and intimate that she was not conscious of it;

belief in that something about her which had inspired the baroness to use the word "fatality."

Winton, who breathed again, hurried her off to Mildenham. He had bought her a new horse. They were in

time for the last of the cubbing. And, for a week at least, the passion for riding and the sight of hounds carried

all before it. Then, just as the real business of the season was beginning, she began to feel dull and restless.

Mildenham was dark; the autumn winds made dreary noises. Her little brown spaniel, very old, who seemed

only to have held on to life just for her return, died. She accused herself terribly for having left it so long

when it was failing. Thinking of all the days Lass had been watching for her to come homeas Betty, with

that love of woeful recital so dear to simple hearts, took good care to make plainshe felt as if she had been

cruel. For events such as these, Gyp was both too tenderhearted and too hard on herself. She was quite ill

for several days. The moment she was better, Winton, in dismay, whisked her back to Aunt Rosamund, in

town. He would lose her company, but if it did her good, took her out of herself, he would be content.

Running up for the week end, three days later, he was relieved to find her decidedly perkedup, and left her

It was on the day after he went back to Mildenham that she received a letter from Fiorsen, forwarded from

Bury Street. He wasit saidjust returning to London; he had not forgotten any look she had ever given

him, or any word she had spoken. He should not rest till he could see her again. "For a long time," the letter

ended, "before I first saw you, I was like the deadlost. All was bitter apples to me. Now I am a ship that

comes from the whirlpools to a warm blue sea; now I see again the evening star. I kiss your hands, and am

your faithful slaveGustav Fiorsen." These words, which from any other man would have excited her

derision, renewed in Gyp that fluttered feeling, the pleasurable, frightened sense that she could not get away

She wrote in answer to the address he gave her in London, to say that she was staying for a few days in

Curzon Street with her aunt, who would be glad to see him if he cared to come in any afternoon between five

and six, and signed herself "Ghita Winton." She was long over that little note. Its curt formality gave her

satisfaction. Was she really mistress of herselfand him; able to dispose as she wished? Yes; and surely the

It was never easy to tell Gyp's feelings from her face; even Winton was often baffled. Her preparation of

Aunt Rosamund for the reception of Fiorsen was a masterpiece of casualness. When he duly came, he, too,

seemed doubly alive to the need for caution, only gazing at Gyp when he could not be seen doing so. But,

going out, he whispered: "Not like thisnot like this; I must see you alone I must!" She smiled and shook

And this most discreet remark caused Aunt Rosamund, avidin a wellbred wayof music, to omit

mention of the intruder when writing to her brother. The next two weeks he came almost every day, always

bringing his violin, Gyp playing his accompaniments, and though his hungry stare sometimes made her feel

But when Winton next came up to Bury Street, she was in a quandary. To confess that Fiorsen was here,

having omitted to speak of him in her letters? Not to confess, and leave him to find it out from Aunt

Rosamund? Which was worse? Seized with panic, she did neither, but told her father she was dying for a

gallop. Hailing that as the best of signs, he took her forthwith back to Mildenham. And curious were her

feelingslighthearted, compunctious, as of one who escapes yet knows she will soon be seeking to return.

The meet was rather far next day, but she insisted on riding to it, since old Pettance, the superannuated

jockey, charitably employed as extra stable help at Mildenham, was to bring on her second horse. There was

a good scentingwind, with rain in the offing, and outside the covert they had a corner to

themselvesWinton knowing a trick worth two of the field's atlarge. They had slipped there, luckily

unseen, for the knowing were given to following the onehanded horseman in faded pink, who, on his bang

tailed black mare, had a knack of getting so well away. One of the whips, a little dark fellow with smouldery

eyes and suckedin weathered cheeks, dashed out of covert, rode past, saluting, and dashed in again. A jay

came out with a screech, dived, and doubled back; a hare made off across the fallowthe lightbrown

lopping creature was barely visible against the brownish soil. Pigeons, very high up, flew over and away to

the next wood. The shrilling voices of the whips rose from the covertdepths, and just a whimper now and

Gyp, crisping her fingers on the reins, drewin deep breaths. It smelled so sweet and soft and fresh under that

sky, pied of blue, and of white and lightgrey swiftmoving cloudsnot half the wind down here that there

was up there, just enough to be carrying off the beech and oak leaves, loosened by frost two days before. If

only a fox would break this side, and they could have the first fields to themselves! It was so lovely to be

alone with hounds! One of these came trotting out, a pretty young creature, busy and unconcerned, raising its

tanandwhite head, its mild reproachful deepbrown eyes, at Winton's, "Looin Trix!" What a darling! A

Gyp's new brown horse pricked its ears. A young man in a grey cutaway, buff cords, and jackboots, on a

low chestnut mare, came slipping round the covert. Ohdid that mean they were all coming? Impatiently

she glanced at this intruder, who raised his hat a little and smiled. That smile, faintly impudent, was so

infectious, that Gyp was melted to a slight response. Then she frowned. He had spoiled their lovely

loneliness. Who was he? He looked unpardonably serene and happy sitting there. She did not remember his

face at all, yet there was something familiar about it. He had taken his hat offa broad face, very well cut,

and cleanshaved, with dark curly hair, extraordinary clear eyes, a bold, cool, merry look. Where had she

A tiny sound from Winton made her turn her head. The foxstealing out beyond those further bushes!

Breathless, she fixed her eyes on her father's face. It was hard as steel, watching. Not a sound, not a quiver, as

if horse and man had turned to metal. Was he never going to give the viewhalloo? Then his lips writhed, and

out it came. Gyp cast a swift smile of gratitude at the young man for having had taste and sense to leave that

to her father, and again he smiled at her. There were the first hounds streaming out one on the

othermusic and feather! Why didn't Dad go? They would all be round this way in a minute!

Then the black mare slid past her, and, with a bound, her horse followed. The young man on the chestnut was

away on the left. Only the huntsman and one whipbeside their three selves! Glorious! The brown horse

went too fast at that first fence and Winton called back: "Steady, Gyp! Steady him!" But she couldn't; and it

didn't matter. Grass, three fields of grass! Oh, what a lovely foxgoing so straight! And each time the brown

horse rose, she thought: "Perfect! I CAN ride! Oh, I am happy!" And she hoped her father and the young man

were looking. There was no feeling in the world like this, with a leader like Dad, hounds moving free, good

going, and the field distanced. Better than dancing; betteryes, better than listening to music. If one could

spend one's life galloping, sailing over fences; if it would never stop! The new horse was a darling, though he

She crossed the next fence level with the young man, whose low chestnut mare moved with a stealthy action.

His hat was crammed down now, and his face very determined, but his lips still had something of that smile.

Gyp thought: "He's got a good seatvery strong, only he looks like 'thrusting.' Nobody rides like Dadso

beautifully quiet!" Indeed, Winton's seat on a horse was perfection, all done with such a minimum

expenditure. The hounds swung round in a curve. Now she was with them, really with them! What a

And suddenly she caught sight of him, barely a field ahead, scurrying desperately, brush down; and the

thought flashed through her: 'Oh! don't let's catch you. Go on, fox; go on! Get away!' Were they really all

after that little hunted red thinga hundred great creatures, horses and men and women and dogs, and only

that one little fox! But then came another fence, and quickly another, and she lost feelings of shame and pity

in the exultation of flying over them. A minute later the fox went to earth within a few hundred yards of the

leading hound, and she was glad. She had been in at deaths beforehorrid! But it had been a lovely gallop.

And, breathless, smiling rapturously, she wondered whether she could mop her face before the field came up,

She could see him talking to her father, and taking out a wisp of a handkerchief that smelled of cyclamen, she

had a good scrub round. When she rode up, the young man raised his hat, and looking full at her said: "You

did go!" His voice, rather highpitched, had in it a spice of pleasant laziness. Gyp made him an ironical little

bow, and murmured: "My new horse, you mean." He broke again into that irrepressible smile, but, all the

same, she knew that he admired her. And she kept thinking: 'Where HAVE I seen someone like him?'

They had two more runs, but nothing like that first gallop. Nor did she again see the young man, whose

nameit seemedwas Summerhay, son of a certain Lady Summerhay at Widrington, ten miles from

All that long, silent jog home with Winton in fading daylight, she felt very happysaturated with air and

elation. The trees and fields, the haystacks, gates, and ponds beside the lanes grew dim; lights came up in

the cottage windows; the air smelled sweet of wood smoke. And, for the first time all day, she thought of

Fiorsen, thought of him almost longingly. If he could be there in the cosy old drawingroom, to play to her

while she lay back drowsing, dreaming by the fire in the scent of burning cedar logs the Mozart minuet,

or that little heartcatching tune of Poise, played the first time she heard him, or a dozen other of the things

he played unaccompanied! That would be the most lovely ending to this lovely day. Just the glow and

And touching the mare with her heel, she sighed. To indulge fancies about music and Fiorsen was safe here,

far away from him; she even thought she would not mind if he were to behave again as he had under the

birchtrees in the rain at Wiesbaden. It was so good to be adored. Her old mare, ridden now six years, began

the series of contented snuffles that signified she smelt home. Here was the last turn, and the loom of the

short beechtree avenue to the housethe old manorhouse, comfortable, roomy, rather dark, with wide

shallow stairs. Ah, she was tired; and it was drizzling now. She would be nicely stiff tomorrow. In the light

coming from the open door she saw Markey standing; and while fishing from her pocket the usual lumps of

Her heart thumped. What did this mean? Why had he come? How had he dared? How could he have been so

treacherous to her? Ah, but he was ignorant, of course, that she had not told her father. A veritable judgment

on her! She ran straight in and up the stairs. The voice of Betty, "Your bath's ready, Miss Gyp," roused her.

And crying, "Oh, Betty darling, bring me up my tea!" she ran into the bathroom. She was safe there; and in

There could be only one meaning. He had come to ask for her. And, suddenly, she took comfort. Better so;

there would be no more secrecy from Dad! And he would stand between her and Fiorsen if if she decided

not to marry him. The thought staggered her. Had she, without knowing it, got so far as this? Yes, and

further. It was all no good; Fiorsen would never accept refusal, even if she gave it! But, did she want to

She loved hot baths, but had never stayed in one so long. Life was so easy there, and so difficult outside.

Betty's knock forced her to get out at last, and let her in with tea and the message. Would Miss Gyp please to

Winton was staggered. With a glance at Gyp's vanishing figure, he said curtly to Markey, "Where have you

put this gentleman?" But the use of the word "this" was the only trace he showed of his emotions. In that little

journey across the hall he entertained many extravagant thoughts. Arrived at the study, he inclined his head

courteously enough, waiting for Fiorsen to speak. The "fiddler," still in his furlined coat, was twisting a

squash hat in his hands. In his own peculiar style he was impressive. But why couldn't he look you in the

Then Gyp had been seeing the fellow without letting him know! The thought was chill and bitter to Winton.

He must not give her away, however, and he simply bowed. He felt that his visitor was afraid of his frigid

courtesy; and he did not mean to help him over that fear. He could not, of course, realize that this ascendancy

would not prevent Fiorsen from laughing at him behind his back and acting as if he did not exist. No real

contest, in fact, was possible between men moving on such different planes, neither having the slightest

"Major Winton, your daughter is the most beautiful thing on earth. I love her desperately. I am a man with a

future, though you may not think it. I have what future I like in my art if only I can marry her. I have a little

Winton's face expressed nothing but cold contempt. That this fellow should take him for one who would

"You do not like methat is clear. I saw it the first moment. You are an English gentleman"he

pronounced the words with a sort of irony"I am nothing to you. Yet, in MY world, I am something. I am

not an adventurer. Will you permit me to beg your daughter to be my wife?" He raised his hands that still

For a second, Winton realized that he was suffering. That weakness went in a flash, and he said frigidly:

"I am obliged to you, sir, for coming to me first. You are in my house, and I don't want to be discourteous,

but I should be glad if you would be good enough to withdraw and take it that I shall certainly oppose your

The almost childish disappointment and trouble in Fiorsen's face changed quickly to an expression fierce,

"I don't control my daughter's affections, sir; she will do as she wishes. I merely say it will be against my

hopes and judgment if she marries you. I imagine you've not altogether waited for my leave. I was not blind

Was it any good to refuse? She had been seeing the fellow already without his knowledge, keeping from

Fiorsen shook his head, and there followed half an hour of acute discomfort. Winton, in his mudstained

clothes before the fire, supported it better than his visitor. That child of nature, after endeavouring to emulate

his host's quietude, renounced all such efforts with an expressive gesture, fidgeted here, fidgeted there,

tramped the room, went to the window, drew aside the curtains and stared out into the dark; came back as if

resolved again to confront Winton; then, baffled by that figure so motionless before the fire, flung himself

down in an armchair, and turned his face to the wall. Winton was not cruel by nature, but he enjoyed the

writhings of this fellow who was endangering Gyp's happiness. Endangering? Surely not possible that she

Then she came. He had expected her to be pale and nervous; but Gyp never admitted being naughty till she

had been forgiven. Her smiling face had in it a kind of warning closeness. She went up to Fiorsen, and

Winton had the bitter feeling that hehewas the outsider. Well, he would speak plainly; there had been

"Mr. Fiorsen has done us the honour to wish to marry you. I've told him that you decide such things for

While he was speaking, the glow in her cheeks deepened; she looked neither at him nor at Fiorsen. Winton

noted the rise and fall of the lace on her breast. She was smiling, and gave the tiniest shrug of her shoulders.

And, suddenly smitten to the heart, he walked stiffly to the door. It was evident that she had no use for his

guidance. If her love for him was not worth to her more than this fellow! But there his resentment stopped.

He knew that he could not afford wounded feelings; could not get on without her. Married to the greatest

rascal on earth, he would still be standing by her, wanting her companionship and love. She represented too

much in the present andthe past. With sore heart, indeed, he went down to dinner.

Fiorsen was gone when he came down again. What the fellow had said, or she had answered, he would not

for the world have asked. Gulfs between the proud are not lightly bridged. And when she came up to say

In the days that followed, she gave no sign, uttered no word in any way suggesting that she meant to go

against his wishes. Fiorsen might not have existed, for any mention made of him. But Winton knew well that

she was moping, and cherishing some feeling against himself. And this he could not bear. So, one evening,

Her lips had quivered; and Winton's heart softened, as it always did when he saw her moved. He put his hand

"I shall never stand in the way of your happiness, Gyp. But it must BE happiness. Can it possibly be that? I

"I didn't mean to hurt. But it's true, isn't it? I don't belong among society people. They wouldn't have me, you

knowif they knew about what you told me. Ever since that I've felt I don't belong to them. I'm nearer him.

Winton gave her hand a convulsive grip. A sense of coming defeat and bereavement was on him.

"If you were, I could put up with anyone. But, I tell you, I can't believe you would be. I beg you, my

dearfor God's sake, make sure. I'll put a bullet into the man who treats you badly."

Whether from a feeling of the inevitable, or from the forlorn hope that seeing more of the fellow might be the

And the queer courtship began again. By Christmas she had consented, still under the impression that she was

the mistress, not the slavethe cat, not the bird. Once or twice, when Fiorsen let passion out of hand and his

overbold caresses affronted her, she recoiled almost with dread from what she was going toward. But, in

general, she lived elated, intoxicated by music and his adoration, withal remorseful that she was making her

father sad. She was but little at Mildenham, and he, in his unhappiness, was there nearly all the time, riding

extra hard, and leaving Gyp with his sister. Aunt Rosamund, though under the spell of Fiorsen's music, had

agreed with her brother that Fiorsen was "impossible." But nothing she said made any effect on Gyp. It was

new and startling to discover in this soft, sensitive girl such a vein of stubbornness. Opposition seemed to

harden her resolution. And the good lady's natural optimism began to persuade her that Gyp would make a

silk purse out of that sow's ear yet. After all, the man was a celebrity in his way!

It was settled for February. A house with a garden was taken in St. John's Wood. The last month went, as all

such last months go, in those intoxicating pastimes, the buying of furniture and clothes. If it were not for that,

And today they had been married. To the last, Winton had hardly believed it would come to that. He had

shaken the hand of her husband and kept pain and disappointment out of his face, knowing well that he

deceived no one. Thank heaven, there had been no church, no weddingcake, invitations, congratulations,

fallals of any kindhe could never have stood them. Not even Rosamundwho had influenzato put up

They would be just about at Torquay by nowjust about. Music! Who would have thought noises made out

of string and wood could have stolen her away from him? Yes, they would be at Torquay by now, at their

When a girl first sits opposite the man she has married, of what does she think? Not of the issues and

emotions that lie in wait. They are too overwhelming; she would avoid them while she can. Gyp thought of

her frock, a mushroomcoloured velvet cord. Not many girls of her class are married without "fallals," as

Winton had called them. Not many girls sit in the corner of their reserved firstclass compartments without

the excitement of having been supreme centre of the world for some flattering hours to buoy them up on that

train journey, with no memories of friends' behaviour, speech, appearance, to chat of with her husband, so as

to keep thought away. For Gyp, her dress, first worn that day, Betty's breakdown, the faces, blank as hats, of

the registrar and clerk, were about all she had to distract her. She stole a look at her husband, clothed in blue

serge, just opposite. Her husband! Mrs. Gustav Fiorsen! No! People might call her that; to herself, she was

Ghita Winton. Ghita Fiorsen would never seem right. And, not confessing that she was afraid to meet his

eyes, but afraid all the same, she looked out of the window. A dull, bleak, dismal day; no warmth, no sun, no

Suddenly she felt his hand on hers. She had not seen his face like that beforeyes; once or twice when he

was playinga spirit shining though. She felt suddenly secure. If it stayed like that, then!His hand rested

on her knee; his face changed just a little; the spirit seemed to waver, to be fading; his lips grew fuller. He

crossed over and sat beside her. Instantly she began to talk about their house, where they were going to put

certain thingspresents and all that. He, too, talked of the house; but every now and then he glanced at the

corridor, and muttered. It was pleasant to feel that the thought of her possessed him through and through, but

she was tremulously glad of that corridor. Life is mercifully made up of little things! And Gyp was always

able to live in the moment. In the hours they had spent together, up to now, he had been like a starved man

snatching hasty meals; now that he had her to himself for good, he was another creature altogetherlike a

Presently he got down his practise violin, and putting on the mute, played, looking at her over his shoulder

with a droll smile. She felt happy, much warmer at heart, now. And when his face was turned away, she

looked at him. He was so much better looking now than when he had those little whiskers. One day she had

touched one of them and said: "Ah! if only these wings could fly!" Next morning they had flown. His face

was not one to be easily got used to; she was not used to it yet, any more than she was used to his touch.

When it grew dark, and he wanted to draw down the blinds, she caught him by the sleeve, and said:

But he obeyed; only, as the hours went on, his eyes seemed never to let her alone.

At Torquay, the sky was clear and starry; the wind brought whiffs of seascent into their cab; lights winked

far out on a headland; and in the little harbour, all bluish dark, many little boats floated like tame birds. He

had put his arm round her, and she could feel his hand resting on her heart. She was grateful that he kept so

still. When the cab stopped and they entered the hall of the hotel, she whispered:

Still, mercifully, little things! Inspecting the three rooms, getting the luggage divided between dressingroom

and bedroom, unpacking, wondering which dress to put on for dinner, stopping to look out over the dark

rocks and the sea, where the moon was coming up, wondering if she dared lock the door while she was

dressing, deciding that it would be silly; dressing so quickly, fluttering when she found him suddenly there

close behind her, beginning to do up her hooks. Those fingers were too skilful! It was the first time she had

thought of his past with a sort of hurt pride and fastidiousness. When he had finished, he twisted her round,

Her heart beat fast then; but suddenly he laughed, slipped his arm about her, and danced her twice round the

"They shan't seemy Gyp. Oh, they shan't see! We are old married people, tired of each othervery!"

At dinner it amused him at firsther too, a littleto keep up this farce of indifference. But every now and

then he turned and stared at some inoffensive visitor who was taking interest in them, with such fierce and

genuine contempt that Gyp took alarm; whereon he laughed. When she had drunk a little wine and he had

drunk a good deal, the farce of indifference came to its end. He talked at a great rate now, slying nicknaming

the waiters and mimicking the people aroundhappy thrusts that made her smile but shiver a little, lest they

should be heard or seen. Their heads were close together across the little table. They went out into the lounge.

Coffee came, and he wanted her to smoke with him. She had never smoked in a public room. But it seemed

stiff and "missish" to refuseshe must do now as his world did. And it was another little thing; she wanted

little things, all the time wanted them. She drew back a windowcurtain, and they stood there side by side.

The sea was deep blue beneath bright stars, and the moon shone through a ragged pinetree on a little

headland. Though she stood five feet six in her shoes, she was only up to his mouth. He sighed and said:

"Beautiful night, my Gyp!" And suddenly it struck her that she knew nothing of what was in him, and yet he

was her husband! "Husband"funny word, not pretty! She felt as a child opening the door of a dark room,

"Look! There's a sailingboat. What's it doing out there at night?" Another little thing! Any little thing!

Up in their sittingroom was a piano, butnot possible; tomorrow they would have to get another.

Tomorrow! The fire was hot, and he took off his coat to play. In one of his shirtsleeves there was a rent.

She thought, with a sort of triumph: 'I shall mend that!' It was something definite, actuala little thing. There

were lilies in the room that gave a strong, sweet scent. He brought them up to her to sniff, and, while she was

sniffing, stooped suddenly and kissed her neck. She shut her eyes with a shiver. He took the flowers away at

once, and when she opened her eyes again, his violin was at his shoulder. For a whole hour he played, and

Gyp, in her creamcoloured frock, lay back, listening. She was tired, not sleepy. It would have been nice to

have been sleepy. Her mouth had its little sad tuck or dimple at the corner; her eyes were deep and darka

cloudy child. His gaze never left her face; he played and played, and his own fitful face grew clouded. At last

Obediently she got up and went into the bedroom. With a sick feeling in her heart, and as near the fire as she

could get, she undressed with desperate haste, and got to bed. An ageit seemed she lay there shivering

in her flimsy lawn against the cold sheets, her eyes not quite closed, watching the flicker of the firelight. She

did not thinkcould notjust lay stiller than the dead. The door creaked. She shut her eyes. Had she a heart

at all? It did not seem to beat. She lay thus, with eyes shut, till she could bear it no longer. By the firelight she

saw him crouching at the foot of the bed; could just see his facelike a facea facewhere seen? Ah

yes!a pictureof a wild man crouching at the feet of Iphigeniaso humble, so hungryso lost in

Gyp was too proud to give by halves. And in those early days she gave Fiorsen everything excepther heart.

She earnestly desired to give that too; but hearts only give themselves. Perhaps if the wild man in him,

maddened by beauty in its power, had not so ousted the spirit man, her heart might have gone with her lips

and the rest of her. He knew he was not getting her heart, and it made him, in the wildness of his nature and

the perversity of a man, go just the wrong way to work, trying to conquer her by the senses, not the soul.

Yet she was not unhappyit cannot be said she was unhappy, except for a sort of lost feeling sometimes, as

if she were trying to grasp something that kept slipping, slipping away. She was glad to give him pleasure.

She felt no repulsionthis was man's nature. Only there was always that feeling that she was not close.

When he was playing, with the spiritlook on his face, she would feel: 'Now, now, surely I shall get close to

him!' But the look would go; how to keep it there she did not know, and when it went, her feeling went too.

Their little suite of rooms was at the very end of the hotel, so that he might play as much as he wished. While

he practised in the mornings she would go into the garden, which sloped in rock terraces down to the sea.

Wrapped in fur, she would sit there with a book. She soon knew each evergreen, or flower that was coming

outaubretia, and laurustinus, a little white flower whose name was uncertain, and one starperiwinkle. The

air was often soft; the birds sang already and were busy with their weddings, and twice, at least, spring came

in her heartthat wonderful feeling when first the whole being scents new life preparing in the earth and the

windthe feeling that only comes when spring is not yet, and one aches and rejoices all at once. Seagulls

often came over her, craning down their greedy bills and uttering cries like a kitten's mewing.

Out here she had feelings, that she did not get with him, of being at one with everything. She did not realize

how tremendously she had grown up in these few days, how the ground bass had already come into the light

music of her life. Living with Fiorsen was opening her eyes to much beside mere knowledge of "man's

nature"; with her perhaps fatal receptivity, she was already soaking up the atmosphere of his philosophy. He

was always in revolt against accepting things because he was expected to; but, like most executant artists, he

was no reasoner, just a mere instinctive kicker against the pricks. He would lose himself in delight with a

sunset, a scent, a tune, a new caress, in a rush of pity for a beggar or a blind man, a rush of aversion from a

man with large feet or a long nose, of hatred for a woman with a flat chest or an expression of sanctimony.

He would swing along when he was walking, or dawdle, dawdle; he would sing and laugh, and make her

laugh too till she ached, and half an hour later would sit staring into some pit of darkness in a sort of powerful

brooding of his whole being. Insensibly she shared in this deep drinking of sensation, but always gracefully,

In his loveraptures, he just avoided setting her nerves on edge, because he never failed to make her feel his

enjoyment of her beauty; that perpetual consciousness, too, of not belonging to the proper and respectable,

which she had tried to explain to her father, made her set her teeth against feeling shocked. But in other ways

he did shock her. She could not get used to his utter oblivion of people's feelings, to the ferocious contempt

with which he would look at those who got on his nerves, and make halfaudible comments, just as he had

commented on her own father when he and Count Rosek passed them, by the Schiller statue. She would

visibly shrink at those remarks, though they were sometimes so excruciatingly funny that she had to laugh,

and feel dreadful immediately after. She saw that he resented her shrinking; it seemed to excite him to run

amuck the more. But she could not help it. Once she got up and walked away. He followed her, sat on the

"Forgive me, my Gyp; but they are such brutes. Who could help it? Now tell mewho could, except my

Gyp?" And she had to forgive him. But, one evening, when he had been really outrageous during dinner, she

He leaped up with a face of furious gloom and went out of the room. It was the first time he had given way to

anger with her. Gyp sat by the fire, very disturbed; chiefly because she was not really upset at having hurt

But when, at ten o'clock, he had not come back, she began to flutter in earnest. She had said a dreadful thing!

And yet, in her heart, she did not take back her judgment. He really HAD been a brute. She would have liked

to soothe herself by playing, but it was too late to disturb people, and going to the window, she looked out

over the sea, feeling beaten and confused. This was the first time she had given free rein to her feeling against

what Winton would have called his "bounderism." If he had been English, she would never have been

attracted by one who could trample so on other people's feelings. What, then, had attracted her? His

strangeness, wildness, the mesmeric pull of his passion for her, his music! Nothing could spoil that in him.

The sweep, the surge, and sigh in his playing was like the sea out there, dark, and surf edged, beating on the

rocks; or the sea deepcoloured in daylight, with white gulls over it; or the sea with those sinuous paths made

by the wandering currents, the subtle, smiling, silent sea, holding in suspense its unfathomable restlessness,

waiting to surge and spring again. That was what she wanted from himnot his embraces, not even his

adoration, his wit, or his queer, lithe comeliness touched with felinity; no, only that in his soul which escaped

through his fingers into the air and dragged at her soul. If, when he came in, she were to run to him, throw her

arms round his neck, make herself feel close, lose herself in him! Why not? It was her duty; why not her

delight, too? But she shivered. Some instinct too deep for analysis, something in the very heart of her nerves

made her recoil, as if she were afraid, literally scared of letting herself go, of lovingthe subtlest instinct of

selfpreservation against something fatal; against being led on beyondyes, it was like that curious,

instinctive sinking which some feel at the mere sight of a precipice, a dread of going near, lest they should be

She passed into their bedroom and began slowly to undress. To go to bed without knowing where he was,

what doing, thinking, seemed already a little odd; and she sat brushing her hair slowly with the silverbacked

brushes, staring at her own pale face, whose eyes looked so very large and dark. At last there came to her the

feeling: "I can't help it! I don't care!" And, getting into bed, she turned out the light. It seemed queer and

She had a dream of being between Fiorsen and her father in a railwaycarriage out at sea, with the water

rising higher and higher, swishing and sighing. Awakening always, like a dog, to perfect presence of mind,

she knew that he was playing in the sittingroom, playingat what time of night? She lay listening to a

quivering, gibbering tune that she did not know. Should she be first to make it up, or should she wait for him?

Twice she half slipped out of bed, but both times, as if fate meant her not to move, he chose that moment to

swell out the sound, and each time she thought: 'No, I can't. It's just the same now; he doesn't care how many

people he wakes up. He does just what he likes, and cares nothing for anyone.' And covering her ears with

When she withdrew her hands at last, he had stopped. Then she heard him coming, and feigned sleep. But he

did not spare even sleep. She submitted to his kisses without a word, her heart hardening within hersurely

he smelled of brandy! Next morning he seemed to have forgotten it all. But Gyp had not. She wanted badly to

She wrote twice to her father in the first week, but afterwards, except for a postcard now and then, she never

could. Why tell him what she was doing, in company of one whom he could not bear to think of? Had he

been right? To confess that would hurt her pride too much. But she began to long for London. The thought of

her little house was a green spot to dwell on. When they were settled in, and could do what they liked without

anxiety about people's feelings, it would be all right perhaps. When he could start again really working, and

she helping him, all would be different. Her new house, and so much to do; her new garden, and fruittrees

coming into blossom! She would have dogs and cats, would ride when Dad was in town. Aunt Rosamund

would come, friends, evenings of music, dances still, perhapshe danced beautifully, and loved it, as she

did. And his concertsthe elation of being identified with his success! But, above all, the excitement of

making her home as dainty as she could, with daring experiments in form and colour. And yet, at heart she

One thing, at all events, she enjoyedsailing. They had blue days when even the March sun was warm, and

there was just breeze enough. He got on excellently well with the old salt whose boat they used, for he was at

his best with simple folk, whose lingo he could understand about as much as they could understand his.

In those hours, Gyp had some real sensations of romance. The sea was so blue, the rocks and wooded spurs of

that Southern coast so dreamy in the bright landhaze. Oblivious of "the old salt," he would put his arm

round her; out there, she could swallow down her sense of form, and be grateful for feeling nearer to him in

spirit. She made loyal efforts to understand him in these weeks that were bringing a certain disillusionment.

The elemental part of marriage was not the trouble; if she did not herself feel passion, she did not resent his.

When, after one of those embraces, his mouth curled with a little bitter smile, as if to say, "Yes, much you

care for me," she would feel compunctious and yet aggrieved. But the trouble lay deeperthe sense of an

insuperable barrier; and always that deep, instinctive recoil from letting herself go. She could not let herself

be known, and she could not know him. Why did his eyes often fix her with a stare that did not seem to see

her? What made him, in the midst of serious playing, break into some furious or desolate little tune, or drop

his violin? What gave him those long hours of dejection, following the maddest gaiety? Above all, what

dreams had he in those rare moments when music transformed his strange pale face? Or was it a mere

physical illusionhad he any dreams? "The heart of another is a dark forest"to all but the one who loves.

"Ah, ha! Paul Rosek went to see our house. 'A pretty dove's nest!' he calls it."

The memory of the Pole's sphinxlike, sweetish face, and eyes that seemed to know so many secrets, always

"Hateful? Why hateful, my Gyp? He is a good friend. And he admires youoh, he admires you very much!

He has success with women. He always says, 'J'ai une technique merveilleuse pour seduire une femme'"

He jumped up and caught her in his arms; his face was so comically compunctious that she calmed down at

once. She thought over her words afterwards and regretted them. All the same, Rosek was a sneak and a cold

sensualist, she was sure. And the thought that he had been spying at their little house tarnished her

They went to Town three days later. While the taxi was skirting Lord's Cricketground, Gyp slipped her hand

into Fiorsen's. She was brimful of excitement. The trees were budding in the gardens that they passed; the

almondblossom comingyes, really coming! They were in the road now. Five, seven, ninethirteen! Two

more! There it was, nineteen, in white figures on the leafgreen railings, under the small green lilac buds;

yes, and their almond blossom was out, too! She could just catch a glimpse over those tall railings of the

low white house with its green outside shutters. She jumped out almost into the arms of Betty, who stood

smiling all over her broad, flushed face, while, from under each arm peered forth the head of a black devil,

Giving the stout shoulders a hug, Gyp seized the black devils, and ran up the path under the trellis, while the

Scotchterrier pups, squeezed against her breast, made confused small noises and licked her nose and ears.

Through the square hall she ran into the drawingroom, which opened out on to the lawn; and there, in the

French window, stood spying back at the spickandspan room, where everything was, of course, placed just

wrong. The colouring, white, ebony, and satinwood, looked nicer even than she had hoped. Out in the

gardenher own gardenthe peartrees were thickening, but not in blossom yet; a few daffodils were in

bloom along the walls, and a magnolia had one bud opened. And all the time she kept squeezing the puppies

to her, enjoying their young, warm, fluffy savour, and letting them kiss her. She ran out of the drawingroom,

up the stairs. Her bedroom, the dressingroom, the spare room, the bathroomshe dashed into them all. Oh,

it was nice to be in your own place, to be Suddenly she felt herself lifted off the ground from behind, and

in that undignified position, her eyes flying, she turned her face till he could reach her lips.

To wake, and hear the birds at early practise, and feel that winter is overis there any pleasanter moment?

That first morning in her new house, Gyp woke with the sparrow, or whatever the bird which utters the first

cheeps and twitters, soon eclipsed by so much that is more important in birdsong. It seemed as if all the

feathered creatures in London must be assembled in her garden; and the old verse came into her head:

She turned and looked at her husband. He lay with his head snoozled down into the pillow, so that she could

only see his thick, rumpled hair. And a shiver went through her, exactly as if a strange man were lying there.

Did he really belong to her, and she to himfor good? And was this their housetogether? It all seemed

somehow different, more serious and troubling, in this strange bed, of this strange room, that was to be so

permanent. Careful not to wake him, she slipped out and stood between the curtains and the window. Light

was all in confusion yet; away low down behind the trees, the rose of dawn still clung. One might almost

have been in the country, but for the faint, rumorous noises of the town beginning to wake, and that film of

groundmist which veils the feet of London mornings. She thought: "I am mistress in this house, have to

That was the first of many hours of anxiety, for she was very conscientious. Her fastidiousness desired

perfection, but her sensitiveness refused to demand it of othersespecially servants. Why should she harry

Fiorsen had not the faintest notion of regularity. She found that he could not even begin to appreciate her

struggles in housekeeping. And she was much too proud to ask his help, or perhaps too wise, since he was

obviously unfit to give it. To live like the birds of the air was his motto. Gyp would have liked nothing better;

but, for that, one must not have a house with three servants, several meals, two puppydogs, and no great

She spoke of her difficulties to no one and suffered the more. With Bettywho, boneconservative,

admitted Fiorsen as hardly as she had once admitted Wintonshe had to be very careful. But her great

trouble was with her father. Though she longed to see him, she literally dreaded their meeting. He first

cameas he had been wont to come when she was a tiny girlat the hour when he thought the fellow to

whom she now belonged would most likely be out. Her heart beat, when she saw him under the trellis. She

opened the door herself, and hung about him so that his shrewd eyes should not see her face. And she began

at once to talk of the puppies, whom she had named Don and Doff. They were perfect darlings; nothing was

safe from them; her slippers were completely done for; they had already got into her chinacabinet and gone

Hooking her arm into his, and talking all the time, she took him upstairs and down, and out into the garden,

to the studio, or musicroom, at the end, which had an entrance to itself on to a back lane. This room had

been the great attraction. Fiorsen could practice there in peace. Winton went along with her very quietly,

making a shrewd comment now and then. At the far end of the garden, looking over the wall, down into that

narrow passage which lay between it and the back of another garden he squeezed her arm suddenly and said:

"Oh, rather lovelyin some ways." But she did not look at him, nor he at her. "See, Dad! The cats have

Winton bit his lips and turned from the wall. The thought of that fellow was bitter within him. She meant to

tell him nothing, meant to keep up that lighthearted lookwhich didn't deceive him a bit!

It was. Even a bee or two had come. The tiny leaves had a transparent look, too thin as yet to keep the

sunlight from passing through them. The purple, delicateveined crocuses, with little flames of orange

blowing from their centres, seemed to hold the light as in cups. A wind, without harshness, swung the

boughs; a dry leaf or two still rustled round here and there. And on the grass, and in the blue sky, and on the

almondblossom was the first spring brilliance. Gyp clasped her hands behind her head.

And Winton thought: 'She's changed!' She had softened, quickened more depth of colour in her, more

The fellow had slunk up like the great cat he was. And it seemed to Winton that Gyp had winced.

Winton, watching, was sure of supplication in her face. And, forcing a smile, he said:

Another of those bows he so detested! Mountebank! Never, never would he be able to stand the fellow! But

he must not, would not, show it. And, as soon as he decently could, he went, taking his lonely way back

through this region, of which his knowledge was almost limited to Lord's Cricketground, with a sense of

doubt and desolation, an irritation more than ever mixed with the resolve to be always at hand if the child

He had not been gone ten minutes before Aunt Rosamund appeared, with a crutchhandled stick and a

gentlemanly limp, for she, too, indulged her ancestors in gout. A desire for exclusive possession of their

friends is natural to some people, and the good lady had not known how fond she was of her niece till the girl

had slipped off into this marriage. She wanted her back, to go about with and make much of, as before. And

Gyp could detect Fiorsen subtly mimicking that drawl; and her ears began to burn. The puppies afforded a

diversiontheir points, noses, boldness, and food, held the danger in abeyance for some minutes. Then the

mimicry began again. When Aunt Rosamund had taken a somewhat sudden leave, Gyp stood at the window

of her drawingroom with the mask off her face. Fiorsen came up, put his arm round her from behind, and

He sat down and drew her on to his knee. She did not resist, but made not the faintest return to his caresses.

The first timethe very first friend to come into her own new home! It was too much!

"You do not love me. If you loved me, I should feel it through your lips. I should see it in your eyes. Oh, love

But to say to Love: "Stand and deliver!" was not the way to touch Gyp. It seemed to her mere illbred

stupidity. She froze against him in soul, all the more that she yielded her body. When a woman refuses

nothing to one whom she does not really love, shadows are already falling on the bridehouse. And Fiorsen

Yet, on the whole, these first weeks in her new home were happy, too busy to allow much room for doubting

or regret. Several important concerts were fixed for May. She looked forward to these with intense eagerness,

and pushed everything that interfered with preparation into the background. As though to make up for that

instinctive recoil from giving her heart, of which she was always subconscious, she gave him all her

activities, without calculation or reserve. She was ready to play for him all day and every day, just as from the

first she had held herself at the disposal of his passion. To fail him in these ways would have tarnished her

opinion of herself. But she had some free hours in the morning, for he had the habit of lying in bed till eleven,

and was never ready for practise before twelve. In those early hours she got through her orders and her

shoppingthat pursuit which to so many women is the only real "sport"a chase of the ideal; a pitting of

one's taste and knowledge against that of the world at large; a secret passion, even in the beautiful, for

making oneself and one's house more beautiful. Gyp never went shopping without that faint thrill running up

and down her nerves. She hated to be touched by strange fingers, but not even that stopped her pleasure in

turning and turning before long mirrors, while the saleswoman or man, with admiration at first crocodilic and

then genuine, ran the tips of fingers over those curves, smoothing and pinning, and uttering the word,

On other mornings, she would ride with Winton, who would come for her, leaving her again at her door after

their outings. One day, after a ride in Richmond Park, where the horsechestnuts were just coming into

flower, they had late breakfast on the veranda of a hotel before starting for home. Some fruittrees were still

in blossom just below them, and the sunlight showering down from a blue sky brightened to silver the

windings of the river, and to gold the budding leaves of the oaktrees. Winton, smoking his afterbreakfast

cigar, stared down across the tops of those trees toward the river and the wooded fields beyond. Stealing a

"Only oncethe very ride we've been today. She was on a black mare; I had a chestnut" Yes, in that

grove on the little hill, which they had ridden through that morning, he had dismounted and stood beside her.

"Very like you, Gyp. A littlea little"he did not know how to describe that difference"a little more

"As suddenly as"he drew his hand away and laid it on the veranda rail"as that sun came on my hand."

"Poor darling Dad." And suddenly she added: "I can't bear to think I killed herI can't bear it!"

Winton got up in the discomfort of these sudden confidences; a blackbird, startled by the movement, ceased

"No; but I don't want to have them. And I don'tI don't want to love like that. I should be afraid."

Winton looked at her for a long time without speaking, his brows drawn down, frowning, puzzled, as though

"Love," he said, "it catches you, and you're gone. When it comes, you welcome it, whether it's to kill you or

When she got home, it was not quite noon. She hurried over her bath and dressing, and ran out to the

musicroom. Its walls had been hung with Willesden scrim gilded over; the curtains were silvergrey; there

was a divan covered with silverandgold stuff, and a beaten brass fireplace. It was a study in silver, and

gold, save for two touches of fantasya screen round the pianohead, covered with brilliantly painted

peacocks' tails, and a blue Persian vase, in which were flowers of various hues of red.

Fiorsen was standing at the window in a fume of cigarette smoke. He did not turn round. Gyp put her hand

Could she not go riding with her own father? What insensate jealousy and egomania! She turned away,

without a word, and sat down at the piano. She was not good at standing injusticenot good at all! The scent

of brandy, too, was mixed with the fumes of his cigarette. Drink in the morning was so uglyreally horrid!

She sat at the piano, waiting. He would be like this till he had played away the fumes of his ill mood, and

then he would come and paw her shoulders and put his lips to her neck. Yes; but it was not the way to

Gyp sat quite still for a few seconds, and then began to laugh. He looked so like a sulky child, standing there.

He turned swiftly on her and put his hand over her mouth. She looked up over that hand which smelled of

tobacco. Her heart was doing the grand ecart within her, this way in compunction, that way in resentment.

Gyp was left dismayed, disgusted. Was it possible that she could have taken part in such a horrid little scene?

She remained sitting at the piano, playing over and over a single passage, without heeding what it was.

So far, they had seen nothing of Rosek at the little house. She wondered if Fiorsen had passed on to him her

remark, though if he had, he would surely say he hadn't; she had learned that her husband spoke the truth

when convenient, not when it caused him pain. About music, or any art, however, he could be implicitly

But at the first concert she saw Rosek's unwelcome figure on the other side of the gangway, two rows back.

He was talking to a young girl, whose face, short and beautifully formed, had the opaque transparency of

alabaster. With her round blue eyes fixed on him, and her lips just parted, she had a slightly vacant look. Her

laugh, too, was just a little vacant. And yet her features were so beautiful, her hair so smooth and fair, her

colouring so pale and fine, her neck so white and round, the poise of her body so perfect that Gyp found it

difficult to take her glance away. She had refused her aunt's companionship. It might irritate Fiorsen and

affect his playing to see her with "that stiff English creature." She wanted, too, to feel again the sensations of

Wiesbaden. There would be a kind of sacred pleasure in knowing that she had helped to perfect sounds which

touched the hearts and senses of so many listeners. She had looked forward to this concert so long. And she

sat scarcely breathing, abstracted from consciousness of those about her, soft and still, radiating warmth and

Fiorsen looked his worst, as ever, when first coming before an audiencecold, furtive, defensive, defiant,

half turned away, with those long fingers tightening the screws, touching the strings. It seemed queer to think

that only six hours ago she had stolen out of bed from beside him. Wiesbaden! No; this was not like

Wiesbaden! And when he played she had not the same emotions. She had heard him now too often, knew too

exactly how he produced those sounds; knew that their fire and sweetness and nobility sprang from fingers,

ear, brainnot from his soul. Nor was it possible any longer to drift off on those currents of sound into new

worlds, to hear bells at dawn, and the dews of evening as they fell, to feel the divinity of wind and sunlight.

The romance and ecstasy that at Wiesbaden had soaked her spirit came no more. She was watching for the

weak spots, the passages with which he had struggled and she had struggled; she was distracted by memories

of petulance, black moods, and sudden caresses. And then she caught his eye. The look was like, yet how

unlike, those looks at Wiesbaden. It had the old lovehunger, but had lost the adoration, its spiritual essence.

And she thought: 'Is it my fault, or is it only because he has me now to do what he likes with?' It was all

another disillusionment, perhaps the greatest yet. But she kindled and flushed at the applause, and lost herself

in pleasure at his success. At the interval, she slipped out at once, for her first visit to the artist's room, the

mysterious enchantment of a peep behind the scenes. He was coming down from his last recall; and at sight

of her his look of bored contempt vanished; lifting her hand, he kissed it. Gyp felt happier than she had since

Then people began to come; amongst them her old musicmaster, Monsieur Harmost, grey and mahogany as

ever, who, after a "Merveilleux," "Tres fort" or two to Fiorsen, turned his back on him to talk to his old pupil.

So she had married Fiorsendear, dear! That was extraordinary, but extraordinary! And what was it like, to

be always with hima little funnynot so? And how was her music? It would be spoiled now. Ah, what a

pity! No? She must come to him, then; yes, come again. All the time he patted her arm, as if playing the

piano, and his fingers, that had the touch of an angel, felt the firmness of her flesh, as though debating

whether she were letting it deteriorate. He seemed really to have missed "his little friend," to be glad at seeing

her again; and Gyp, who never could withstand appreciation, smiled at him. More people came. She saw

Rosek talking to her husband, and the young alabaster girl standing silent, her lips still a little parted, gazing

up at Fiorsen. A perfect figure, though rather short; a dovelike face, whose exquisitely shaped, justopened

lips seemed to be demanding sugar plums. She could not be more than nineteen. Who was she?

She was obliged to turn. If Gustav had given her away, one would never know it from this velvetmasked

creature, with his suave watchfulness and ready composure, who talked away so smoothly. What was it that

she so disliked in him? Gyp had acute instincts, the natural intelligence deep in certain natures not over

intellectual, but whose "feelers" are too delicate to be deceived. And, for something to say, she asked:

He smiled, exactly the smile she had so disliked at Wiesbaden; following his glance, she saw her husband

talking to the girl, whose lips at that moment seemed more than ever to ask for sugarplums.

"A young dancer, Daphne Wingshe will make a name. A dove flying! So you admire her, Madame Gyp?"

And Gyp thought: "No, no! I don't want to have anything to do with you! Why do I not speak the truth? Why

Just then a bell sounded; people began hurrying away. The girl came up to Rosek.

Gyp put out her hand with a smilethis girl was certainly a picture. Miss Daphne Wing smiled, too, and

said, with the intonation of those who have been carefully corrected of an accent:

It was not merely the careful speech but something lacking when the perfect mouth movedspirit,

sensibility, who could say? And Gyp felt sorry, as at blight on a perfect flower. With a friendly nod, she

turned away to Fiorsen, who was waiting to go up on to the platform. Was it at her or at the girl he had been

looking? She smiled at him and slid away. In the corridor, Rosek, in attendance, said:

"Why not this evening? Come with Gustav to my rooms. She shall dance to us, and we will all have supper.

Gyp longed for the simple brutality to say: "I don't want to come. I don't like you!" But all she could manage

Once in her seat again, she rubbed the cheek that his breath had touched. A girl was singing nowone of

those faces that Gyp always admired, reddishgold hair, blue eyesthe very antithesis of herselfand the

song was "The Bens of Jura," that strange outpouring from a heart broken by love:

Tears rose in her eyes, and the shiver of some very deep response passed through her. What was it Dad had

The girl finished singing. There was little applause. Yet she had sung beautifully; and what more wonderful

song in the world? Was it too tragic, too painful, too strangenot "pretty" enough? Gyp felt sorry for her.

Her head ached now. She would so have liked to slip away when it was all over. But she had not the needful

rudeness. She would have to go through with this evening at Rosek's and be gay. And why not? Why this

shadow over everything? But it was no new sensation, that of having entered by her own free will on a life

which, for all effort, would not give her a feeling of anchorage or home. Of her own accord she had stepped

On the way to Rosek's rooms, she disguised from Fiorsen her headache and depression. He was in one of his

boyoutofschool moods, elated by applause, mimicking her old master, the idolatries of his worshippers,

Rosek, the girl dancer's upturned expectant lips. And he slipped his arm round Gyp in the cab, crushing her

Rosek had the first floor of an oldtime mansion in Russell Square. The smell of incense or some kindred

perfume was at once about one; and, on the walls of the dark hall, electric light burned, in jars of alabaster

picked up in the East. The whole place was in fact a sanctum of the collector's spirit. Its owner had a passion

for blackthe walls, divans, pictureframes, even some of the tilings were black, with glimmerings of gold,

ivory, and moonlight. On a round black table there stood a golden bowl filled with moonlight coloured

velvety "palm" and "honesty"; from a black wall gleamed out the ivory mask of a faun's face; from a dark

niche the little silver figure of a dancing girl. It was beautiful, but deathly. And Gyp, though excited always

by anything new, keenly alive to every sort of beauty, felt a longing for air and sunlight. It was a relief to get

close to one of the blackcurtained windows, and see the westering sun shower warmth and light on the trees

of the Square gardens. She was introduced to a Mr. and Mrs. Gallant, a darkfaced, cynicallooking man

with clever, malicious eyes, and one of those large cornucopias of women with avid blue stares. The little

He took Gyp the round of his treasures, scarabs, Rops drawings, deathmasks, Chinese pictures, and queer

old flutes, with an air of displaying them for the first time to one who could truly appreciate. And she kept

thinking of that saying, "Une technique merveilleuse." Her instinct apprehended the refined bone

viciousness of this place, where nothing, save perhaps taste, would be sacred. It was her first glimpse into that

giltedged bohemia, whence the generosities, the elans, the struggles of the true bohemia are as rigidly

excluded as from the spheres where bishops moved. But she talked and smiled; and no one could have told

that her nerves were crisping as if at contact with a corpse. While showing her those alabaster jars, her host

had laid his hand softly on her wrist, and in taking it away, he let his fingers, with a touch softer than a

kitten's paw, ripple over the skin, then put them to his lips. Ah, there it wasthethe TECHNIQUE! A

desperate desire to laugh seized her. And he saw itoh, yes, he saw it! He gave her one look, passed that

same hand over his smooth face, andbehold!it showed as before, unmortified, unconscious. A deadly

When they returned to the salon, as it was called, Miss Daphne Wing in a black kimono, whence her face and

arms emerged more like alabaster than ever, was sitting on a divan beside Fiorsen. She rose at once and came

"Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen"why did everything she said begin with "Oh" "isn't this room lovely? It's perfect for

dancing. I only brought cream, and flamecolour; they go so beautifully with black."

She threw back her kimono for Gyp to inspect her dressa girdled creamcoloured shift, which made her

ivory arms and neck seem more than ever dazzling; and her mouth opened, as if for a sugarplum of praise.

"Oh, I don't know; he's so critical, and smooth, and he comes up so quietly. I do think your husband plays

wonderfully. Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, you are beautiful, aren't you?" Gyp laughed. "What would you like me to

"Then I shall. I shall dance exactly what you like, because I do admire you, and I'm sure you're awfully

sweet. Oh, yes; you are; I can see that! And I think your husband's awfully in love with you. I should be, if I

were a man. You know, I've been studying five years, and I haven't come out yet. But now Count Rosek's

going to back me, I expect it'll be very soon. Will you come to my first night? Mother says I've got to be

awfully careful. She only let me come this evening because you were going to be here. Would you like me to

"Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen wants me to begin; a Chopin waltz, please. The one that goes like this."

Rosek went to the piano, the little dancer to the centre of the room. Gyp sat down beside Fiorsen.

Rosek began playing, his eyes fixed on the girl, and his mouth loosened from compression in a sweetish

smile. Miss Daphne Wing was standing with her fingertips joined at her breasta perfect statue of ebony

and palest wax. Suddenly she flung away the black kimono. A thrill swept Gyp from head to foot. She

COULD dance that common little girl! Every movement of her round, sinuous body, of her bare limbs,

had the ecstasy of natural genius, controlled by the quivering balance of a really fine training. "A dove

flying!" So she was. Her face had lost its vacancy, or rather its vacancy had become divine, having that

looknot lost but gone beforewhich dance demands. Yes, she was a gem, even if she had a common soul.

Tears came up in Gyp's eyes. It was so lovelylike a dove, when it flings itself up in the wind, breasting on

up, upwings bent back, poised. Abandonment, freedomchastened, shaped, controlled!

When, after the dance, the girl came and sat down beside her, she squeezed her hot little hand, but the caress

was for her art, not for this moist little person with the lips avid of sugarplums.

The moment she was gone, comment broke out freely. The dark and cynical Gallant thought the girl's

dancing like a certain Napierkowska whom he had seen in Moscow, without her firethe touch of passion

would have to be supplied. She wanted love! Love! And suddenly Gyp was back in the concerthall,

Love! in this abodeof fauns' heads, deep cushions, silver dancing girls! Love! She had a sudden sense of

deep abasement. What was she, herself, but just a feast for a man's senses? Her home, what but a place like

this? Miss Daphne Wing was back again. Gyp looked at her husband's face while she was dancing. His lips!

How was it that she could see that disturbance in him, and not care? If she had really loved him, to see his

lips like that would have hurt her, but she might have understood perhaps, and forgiven. Now she neither

"That girl! I could swallow her at a draft. But you, my GypI want to drink for ever!"

After this, Gyp was daily more and more in contact with high bohemia, that curious composite section of

society which embraces the neck of music, poetry, and the drama. She was a success, but secretly she felt that

she did not belong to it, nor, in truth, did Fiorsen, who was much too genuine a bohemian, and artist, and

mocked at the Gallants and even the Roseks of this life, as he mocked at Winton, Aunt Rosamund, and their

world. Life with him had certainly one effect on Gyp; it made her feel less and less a part of that old

orthodox, wellbred world which she had known before she married him; but to which she had confessed to

Winton she had never felt that she belonged, since she knew the secret of her birth. She was, in truth, much

too impressionable, too avid of beauty, and perhaps too naturally critical to accept the dictates of their

factandformgoverned routine; only, of her own accord, she would never have had initiative enough to

step out of its circle. Loosened from those roots, unable to attach herself to this new soil, and not spiritually

leagued with her husband, she was more and more lonely. Her only truly happy hours were those spent with

Winton or at her piano or with her puppies. She was always wondering at what she had done, longing to find

the deep, the sufficient reason for having done it. But the more she sought and longed, the deeper grew her

bewilderment, her feeling of being in a cage. Of late, too, another and more definite uneasiness had come to

She spent much time in her garden, where the blossoms had all dropped, lilac was over, acacias coming into

Winton, who, by careful experiment, had found that from halfpast three to six there was little or no chance

of stumbling across his soninlaw, came in nearly every day for tea and a quiet cigar on the lawn. He was

sitting there with Gyp one afternoon, when Betty, who usurped the functions of parlourmaid whenever the

whim moved her, brought out a card on which were printed the words, "Miss Daphne Wing."

"Bring her out, please, Betty dear, and some fresh tea, and buttered toastplenty of buttered toast; yes, and

Betty, with that expression which always came over her when she was called "darling," withdrew across the

"It's the little dancer I told you of, Dad. Now you'll see something perfect. Only, she'll be dressed. It's a pity."

She was. The occasion had evidently exercised her spirit. In warm ivory, shrouded by leafgreen chiffon,

with a girdle of tiny artificial leaves, and a lightly covered head encircled by other green leaves, she was

somewhat like a nymph peering from a bower. If rather too arresting, it was charming, and, after all, no frock

"Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I thought you wouldn't mind my coming. I did so want to see you again. Count Rosek said

he thought I might. It's all fixed for my comingout. Oh, how do you do?" And with lips and eyes opening at

Winton, she sat down in the chair he placed for her. Gyp, watching his expression, felt inclined to laugh. Dad,

and Daphne Wing! And the poor girl so evidently anxious to make a good impression! Presently she asked:

The thought flashed through Gyp, 'So Gustav's been seeing her, and hasn't told me!' But she said at once:

"Next Friday week. Fancy! The Octagon. Isn't it splendid? They've given me such a good engagement. I do

"Oh, mine IS good; isn't it, Mrs. Fiorsen? I mean, I HAVE worked ever since I was thirteen, you know. I

simply love it. I think YOU would dance beautifully, Mrs. Fiorsen. You've got such a perfect figure. I simply

"Oh, but please don't call me Miss Wing! I wish you'd call me Daphne. Mr. Fioreverybody does."

"They're perfect. You know, my first dress is going to be all orangeblossom; Mr. Fiorsen suggested that. But

I expect he told you. Perhaps you suggested it really; did you?" Gyp shook her head. "Count Rosek says the

world is waiting for me" She paused with a sugarplum halfway to her lips, and added doubtfully: "Do

"He says I'm something new. It would be nice to think that. He has great taste; so has Mr. Fiorsen, hasn't he?"

Conscious of the compression in the lips behind the smoke of her father's cigar, and with a sudden longing to

Then, seeming to grow conscious of Winton's eyes fixed so intently on her, she became confused, swallowed

"Oh, isn't it lovely herelike the country! I'm afraid I must go; it's my practicetime. It's so important for me

Winton got up, too. Gyp saw the girl's eyes, lighting on his rigid hand, grow round and rounder; and from

Sinking back in her chair, Gyp sat motionless. Bees were murmurous among her flowers, pigeons murmurous

among the trees; the sunlight warmed her knees, and her stretchedout feet through the openwork of her

stockings. The maid's laughter, the delicious growling of the puppies at play in the kitchen came drifting

down the garden, with the distant cry of a milkman up the road. All was very peaceful. But in her heart were

such curious, baffled emotions, such strange, tangled feelings. This moment of enlightenment regarding the

measure of her husband's frankness came close on the heels of the moment fate had chosen for another

revelation, for clinching within her a fear felt for weeks past. She had said to Winton that she did not want to

have a child. In those conscious that their birth has caused death or even too great suffering, there is

sometimes this hostile instinct. She had not even the consolation that Fiorsen wanted children; she knew that

he did not. And now she was sure one was coming. But it was more than that. She had not reached, and knew

she could not reach, that point of spiritunion which alone makes marriage sacred, and the sacrifices

demanded by motherhood a joy. She was fairly caught in the web of her foolish and presumptuous mistake!

So few months of marriage and so sure that it was a failure, so hopeless for the future! In the light of this

new certainty, it was terrifying. A hard, natural fact is needed to bring a yearning and bewildered spirit to

knowledge of the truth. Disillusionment is not welcome to a woman's heart; the less welcome when it is

disillusionment with self as much as with another. Her great dedicationher scheme of life! She had been

going towhat?save Fiorsen from himself! It was laughable. She had only lost herself. Already she felt in

prison, and by a child would be all the more bound. To some women, the knowledge that a thing must be

brings assuagement of the nerves. Gyp was the opposite of those. To force her was the way to stiver up every

contrary emotion. She might will herself to acquiesce, butone cannot change one's nature.

And so, while the pigeons cooed and the sunlight warmed her feet, she spent the bitterest moments of her

lifeso far. Pride came to her help. She had made a miserable mess of it, but no one must knowcertainly

not her father, who had warned her so desperately! She had made her bed, and she would have to lie on it.

The words were a masterpiece of resentment and distrust. His daughter in peril fromsuch as that!

After he was gone Gyp sat on till the sun had quite vanished and the dew was stealing through her thin frock.

She would think of anything, anybody except herself! To make others happy was the way to be happyor so

they said. She would trymust try. Bettyso stout, and with that rheumatism in her legdid she ever think

of herself? Or Aunt Rosamund, with her perpetual rescuings of lost dogs, lame horses, and penniless

musicians? And Dad, for all his manoftheworld ways, was he not always doing little things for the men

of his old regiment, always thinking of her, too, and what he could do to give her pleasure? To love

everybody, and bring them happiness! Was it not possible? Only, people were hard to love, different from

She went up to her room and began to dress for dinner. Which of her frocks did he like best? The pale,

lowcut amber, or that white, soft one, with the coffeedipped lace? She decided on the latter. Scrutinizing

her supple, slender image in the glass, a shudder went through her. That would all go; she would be like those

women taking careful exercise in the streets, who made her wonder at their hardihood in showing themselves.

It wasn't fair that one must become unsightly, offensive to the eye, in order to bring life into the world. Some

women seemed proud to be like that. How was that possible? She would never dare to show herself in the

She finished dressing and went downstairs. It was nearly eight, and Fiorsen had not come in. When the gong

was struck, she turned from the window with a sigh, and went in to dinner. That sigh had been relief. She ate

her dinner with the two pups beside her, sent them off, and sat down at her piano. She played

Chopinstudies, waltzes, mazurkas, preludes, a polonaise or two. And Betty, who had a weakness for that

composer, sat on a chair by the door which partitioned off the back premises, having opened it a little. She

wished she could go and take a peep at her "pretty" in her white frock, with the candleflames on each side,

and those lovely lilies in the vase close by, smelling beautiful. And one of the maids coming too near, she

It grew late. The tray had been brought up; the maids had gone to bed. Gyp had long stopped playing, had

turned out, ready to go up, and, by the French window, stood gazing out into the dark. How warm it

waswarm enough to draw forth the scent of the jessamine along the garden wall! Not a star. There always

seemed so few stars in London. A sound made her swing round. Something tall was over there in the

He spoke some words that she could not understand. Shutting the window quickly, she went toward him.

Light from the hall lit up one side of his face and figure. He was pale; his eyes shone strangely; his sleeve

"Little ghost!" and then some words that must be Swedish. It was the first time Gyp had ever come to close

quarters with drunkenness. And her thought was simply: 'How awful if anybody were to seehow awful!'

She made a rush to get into the hall and lock the door leading to the back regions, but he caught her frock,

ripping the lace from her neck, and his entangled fingers clutched her shoulder. She stopped dead, fearing to

make a noise or pull him over, and his other hand clutched her other shoulder, so that he stood steadying

himself by her. Why was she not shocked, smitten to the ground with grief and shame and rage? She only

felt: "What am I to do? How get him upstairs without anyone knowing?" And she looked up into his faceit

seemed to her so pathetic with its shining eyes and its staring whiteness that she could have burst into tears.

His hands, that seemed to have no power or purpose, touched her cheeks, mechanically caressing. More than

disgust, she felt that awful pity. Putting her arm round his waist, she moved with him toward the stairs. If

He seemed to make a big effort; his lips puffed out, and with an expression of pride that would have been

Holding him close with all her strength, as she might have held one desperately loved, she began to mount. It

was easier than she had thought. Only across the landing now, into the bedroom, and then the danger would

be over. Done! He was lying across the bed, and the door shut. Then, for a moment, she gave way to a fit of

shivering so violent that she could hear her teeth chattering yet could not stop them. She caught sight of

herself in the big mirror. Her pretty lace was all torn; her shoulders were red where his hands had gripped her,

holding himself up. She threw off her dress, put on a wrapper, and went up to him. He was lying in a sort of

stupor, and with difficulty she got him to sit up and lean against the bedrail. Taking off his tie and collar,

she racked her brains for what to give him. Sal volatile! Surely that must be right. It brought him to himself,

so that he even tried to kiss her. At last he was in bed, and she stood looking at him. His eyes were closed; he

would not see if she gave way now. But she would not cryshe would not. One sob camebut that was all.

Well, there was nothing to be done now but get into bed too. She undressed, and turned out the light. He was

in a stertorous sleep. And lying there, with eyes wide open, staring into the dark, a smile came on her lipsa

very strange smile! She was thinking of all those preposterous young wives she had read of, who, blushing,

trembling, murmur into the ears of their young husbands that they "have somethingsomething to tell

Looking at Fiorsen, next morning, still sunk in heavy sleep, her first thought was: 'He looks exactly the same.'

And, suddenly, it seemed queer to her that she had not been, and still was not, disgusted. It was all too deep

for disgust, and somehow, too natural. She took this new revelation of his unbridled ways without

resentment. Besides, she had long known of this taste of hisone cannot drink brandy and not betray it.

She stole noiselessly from bed, noiselessly gathered up his boots and clothes all tumbled on to a chair, and

took them forth to the dressingroom. There she held the garments up to the early light and brushed them,

then, noiseless, stole back to bed, with needle and thread and her lace. No one must know; not even he must

know. For the moment she had forgotten that other thing so terrifically important. It came back to her, very

sudden, very sickening. So long as she could keep it secret, no one should know that either he least of all.

The morning passed as usual; but when she came to the musicroom at noon, she found that he had gone out.

She was just sitting down to lunch when Betty, with the broad smile which prevailed on her moon face

"Say that Mr. Fiorsen is not in, Betty. Butbut ask if he will come and have some lunch, and get a bottle of

In the few seconds before her visitor appeared, Gyp experienced the sort of excitement one has entering a

But not even his severest critics could accuse Rosek of want of tact. He had hoped to see Gustav, but it was

He seemed to have put off, as if for her benefit, his corsets, and some, at all events, of his offending

looksseemed simpler, more genuine. His face was slightly browned, as if, for once, he had been taking his

due of air and sun. He talked without cynical submeanings, was most appreciative of her "charming little

house," and even showed some warmth in his sayings about art and music. Gyp had never disliked him less.

But her instincts were on the watch. After lunch, they went out across the garden to see the musicroom, and

he sat down at the piano. He had the deep, caressing touch that lies in fingers of steel worked by a real

passion for tone. Gyp sat on the divan and listened. She was out of his sight there; and she looked at him,

wondering. He was playing Schumann's Child Music. How could one who produced such fresh idyllic sounds

But instantly she regretted having asked that question. He had swung round on the musicstool and was

"Since you ask me, I thought you should know that Gustav is seeing a good deal of her."

She, too, had risen. Though he was little taller than herself, she was conscious suddenly of how thick and

steely he was beneath his dapper garments, and of a kind of snaky willpower in his face. Her heart beat

"I am glad you understand that it is over with Gustavfinished" He stopped dead, seeing at once that he

had gone wrong, and not knowing quite where. Gyp had simply smiled. A flush coloured his cheeks, and he

"He is a volcano soon extinguished. You see, I know him. Better you should know him, too. Why do you

"Gyp!" Gyp turned. But with the merest change of front, he had put himself between her and the door. "You

never loved him. That is my excuse. You have given him too much alreadymore than he is worth. Ah!

He had gone white through and through like a flame, save for his smouldering eyes. She was afraid, and

because she was afraid, she stood her ground. Should she make a dash for the door that opened into the little

lane and escape that way? Then suddenly he seemed to regain control; but she could feel that he was trying to

break through her defences by the sheer intensity of his gazeby a kind of mesmerism, knowing that he had

Under the strain of this duel of eyes, she felt herself beginning to sway, to get dizzy. Whether or no he really

moved his feet, he seemed coming closer inch by inch. She had a horrible feelingas if his arms were

With an effort, she wrenched her gaze from his, and suddenly his crisp hair caught her eyes. Surelysurely

it was curled with tongs! A kind of spasm of amusement was set free in her heart, and, almost inaudibly, the

words escaped her lips: "Une technique merveilleuse!" His eyes wavered; he uttered a little gasp; his lips fell

apart. Gyp walked across the room and put her hand on the bell. She had lost her fear. Without a word, he

turned, and went out into the garden. She watched him cross the lawn. Gone! She had beaten him by the one

thing not even violent passions can withstandridicule, almost unconscious ridicule. Then she gave way and

pulled the bell with nervous violence. The sight of the maid, in her trim black dress and spotless white apron,

coming from the house completed her restoration. Was it possible that she had really been frightened, nearly

failing in that encounter, nearly dominated by that manin her own house, with her own maids down there

Over the garden, the day brooded in the firstgathered warmth of summer. MidJune of a fine year. The air

And Gyp, sitting in the shade, while the puppies rolled and snapped, searched her little world for comfort and

some sense of safety, and could not find it; as if there were all round her a hot heavy fog in which things

lurked, and where she kept erect only by pride and the will not to cry out that she was struggling and afraid.

Fiorsen, leaving his house that morning, had walked till he saw a taxicab. Leaning back therein, with hat

thrown off, he caused himself to be driven rapidly, at random. This was one of his habits when his mind was

not at easean expensive idiosyncrasy, illafforded by a pocket that had holes. The swift motion and

titillation by the perpetual close shaving of other vehicles were sedative to him. He needed sedatives this

morning. To wake in his own bed without the least remembering how he had got there was no more new to

him than to many another man of twentyeight, but it was new since his marriage. If he had remembered

even less he would have been more at ease. But he could just recollect standing in the dark drawingroom,

seeing and touching a ghostly Gyp quite close to him. And, somehow, he was afraid. And when he was

If she had been like all the other women in whose company he had eaten passionfruit, he would not have

felt this carking humiliation. If she had been like them, at the pace he had been going since he obtained

possession of her, he would already have "finished," as Rosek had said. And he knew well enough that he had

not "finished." He might get drunk, might be looseended in every way, but Gyp was hooked into his senses,

and, for all that he could not get near her, into his spirit. Her very passivity was her strength, the secret of her

magnetism. In her, he felt some of that mysterious sentiency of nature, which, even in yielding to man's

fevers, lies apart with a faint smilethe uncapturable smile of the woods and fields by day or night, that

makes one ache with longing. He felt in her some of the unfathomable, soft, vibrating indifference of the

flowers and trees and streams, of the rocks, of birdsongs, and the eternal hum, under sunshine or starshine.

Her dark, halfsmiling eyes enticed him, inspired an unquenchable thirst. And his was one of those natures

which, encountering spiritual difficulty, at once jib off, seek anodynes, try to bandage wounded egoism with

excessa spoiled child, with the desperations and the inherent pathos, the something repulsive and the

something lovable that belong to all such. Having wished for this moon, and got her, he now did not know

what to do with her, kept taking great bites at her, with a feeling all the time of getting further and further

away. At moments, he desired revenge for his failure to get near her spiritually, and was ready to commit

follies of all kinds. He was only kept in control at all by his work. For he did work hard; though, even there,

something was lacking. He had all the qualities of making good, except the moral backbone holding them

together, which alone could give him his rightfulas he thoughtpreeminence. It often surprised and

"Did I do anything that really shocked her last night? Why didn't I wait for her this morning and find out the

worst?" And his lips twisted awryfor to find out the worst was not his forte. Meditation, seeking as usual a

scapegoat, lighted on Rosek. Like most egoists addicted to women, he had not many friends. Rosek was the

most constant. But even for him, Fiorsen had at once the contempt and fear that a man naturally uncontrolled

and yet of greater scope has for one of less talent but stronger willpower. He had for him, too, the feeling of

a wayward child for its nurse, mixed with the need that an artist, especially an executant artist, feels for a

'Curse Paul!' he thought. 'He must knowhe does knowthat brandy of his goes down like water. Trust

him, he saw I was getting silly! He had some game on. Where did I go after? How did I get home?' And

again: 'Did I hurt Gyp?' If the servants had seen that would be the worst; that would upset her fearfully!

And he laughed. Then he had a fresh access of fear. He didn't know her, never knew what she was thinking or

feeling, never knew anything about her. And he thought angrily: 'That's not fair! I don't hide myself from her.

I am as free as nature; I let her see everything. What did I do? That maid looked very queerly at me this

morning!' And suddenly he said to the driver: "Bury Street, St. James's." He could find out, at all events,

whether Gyp had been to her father's. The thought of Winton ever afflicted him; and he changed his mind

several times before the cab reached that little street, but so swiftly that he had not time to alter his

instructions to the driver. A light sweat broke out on his forehead while he was waiting for the door to be

He shrugged away the thought that he ought to give some explanation of his question, and got into the cab

again, telling the man to drive to Curzon Street. If she had not been to "that Aunt Rosamund" either it would

be all right. She had not. There was no one else she would go to. And, with a sigh of relief, he began to feel

hungry, having had no breakfast. He would go to Rosek's, borrow the money to pay his cab, and lunch there.

But Rosek was not in. He would have to go home to get the cab paid. The driver seemed to eye him queerly

Going in under the trellis, Fiorsen passed a man coming out, who held in his hand a long envelope and eyed

Gyp, who was sitting at her bureau, seemed to be adding up the counterfoils in her chequebook. She did not

She reached out and rang the bell. He felt sorry for himself. He had been quite ready to take her in his arms

He heard the stout woman sniff as she went out. She was a part of his ostracism. And, with sudden rage, he

"What do you want for a husbanda bourgeois who would die if he missed his lunch?"

"I don't in the least mind about meals; but I do about this." He read on the counterfoil:

"Messrs. Travers Sanborn, Tailors, Account rendered: L54 35s. 7d." "Are there many of these, Gustav?"

Fiorsen had turned the peculiar white that marked deep injury to his sellesteem. He said violently:

"Well, what of that? A bill! Did you pay it? You have no business to pay my bills."

"The man said if it wasn't paid this time, he'd sue you." Her lips quivered. "I think owing money is horrible.

"It is a lot to me. I have to keep this house and pay the maids and everything, and I want to know how I stand.

Her face had a hardness that he did not know. He perceived dimly that she was different from the Gyp of this

hour yesterdaythe last time when, in possession of his senses, he had seen or spoken to her. The novelty of

her revolt stirred him in strange ways, wounded his selfconceit, inspired a curious fear, and yet excited his

"Money! Curse money! Kiss me!" With a certain amazement at the sheer distaste in her face, he heard her

"It's childish to curse money. I will spend all the income I have; but I will not spend more, and I will not ask

"So you don't believe in me. You don't believe I can earn as much as I wantmore than you haveany

"That is what you think! I don't want moneyyour money! I can live on nothing, any time. I have done

"Please, sir, the driver says can he have his fare, or do you want him again? Twelve shillings."

Fiorsen stared at her a moment in the way thatas the maid often saidmade you feel like a silly.

Fiorsen laughed; he laughed, holding his sides. It was droll coming on the top of his assertion, too droll! And,

But her face had not abated its gravity; and, knowing that she was even more easily tickled by the

incongruous than himself, he felt again that catch of fear. Something was different. Yes; something was really

She shrugged her shoulders and went to the window. He looked at her darkly, jumped up, and swung out past

her into the garden. And, almost at once, the sound of his violin, furiously played in the musicroom, came

Gyp listened with a bitter smile. Money, too! But what did it matter? She could not get out of what she had

done. She could never get out. Tonight he would kiss her; and she would pretend it was all right. And so it

would go on and on! Well, it was her own fault. Taking twelve shillings from her purse, she put them aside

on the bureau to give the maid. And suddenly she thought: 'Perhaps he'll get tired of me. If only he would get

They who have known the doldrumshow the sails of the listless ship droop, and the hope of escape dies

day by daymay understand something of the life Gyp began living now. On a ship, even doldrums come to

an end. But a young woman of twentythree, who has made a mistake in her marriage, and has only herself

to blame, looks forward to no end, unless she be the new woman, which Gyp was not. Having settled that she

would not admit failure, and clenched her teeth on the knowledge that she was going to have a child, she

went on keeping things sealed up even from Winton. To Fiorsen, she managed to behave as usual, making

material life easy and pleasant for himplaying for him, feeding him well, indulging his amorousness. It did

not matter; she loved no one else. To count herself a martyr would be silly! Her malaise, successfully

concealed, was deeperof the spirit; the subtle utter discouragement of one who has done for herself,

As for Rosek, she treated him as if that little scene had never taken place. The idea of appealing to her

husband in a difficulty was gone for ever since the night he came home drunk. And she did not dare to tell her

father. He wouldwhat would he not do? But she was always on her guard, knowing that Rosek would not

forgive her for that dart of ridicule. His insinuations about Daphne Wing she put out of mind, as she never

could have if she had loved Fiorsen. She set up for herself the idol of pride, and became its faithful

worshipper. Only Winton, and perhaps Betty, could tell she was not happy. Fiorsen's debts and

irresponsibility about money did not worry her much, for she paid everything in the house rent, wages,

food, and her own dressand had so far made ends meet; and what he did outside the house she could not

So the summer wore on till concerts were over, and it was supposed to be impossible to stay in London. But

she dreaded going away. She wanted to be left quiet in her little house. It was this which made her tell

Fiorsen her secret one night, after the theatre. He had begun to talk of a holiday, sitting on the edge of the

settee, with a glass in his hand and a cigarette between his lips. His cheeks, white and hollow from too much

London, went a curious dull red; he got up and stared at her. Gyp made an involuntary movement with her

He put down glass and cigarette and began to tramp the room. And Gyp stood with a little smile, not even

"But I don't want it; I won't have itspoiling my Gyp." Then quickly going up to her with a scared face: "I

In Gyp's heart came the same feeling as when he had stood there drunk, against the wallcompassion, rather

"All right, Gustav. It shan't bother you. When I begin to get ugly, I'll go away with Betty till it's over."

And Gyp sat like a sphinx, for fear that she too might let slip those words: "Oh, no!"

The windows were open, and moths had come in. One had settled on the hydrangea plant that filled the

hearth. Gyp looked at the soft, white, downy thing, whose head was like a tiny owl's against the bluish petals;

looked at the purplegrey tiles down there, and the stuff of her own frock, in the shaded gleam of the lamps.

And all her love of beauty rebelled, called up by his: "Oh, no!" She would be unsightly soon, and suffer pain,

and perhaps die of it, as her own mother had died. She set her teeth, listening to that grownup child

revolting against what he had brought on her, and touched his hand, protectingly.

It interested, even amused her this night and next day to watch his treatment of the disconcerting piece of

knowledge. For when at last he realized that he had to acquiesce in nature, he began, as she had known he

would, to jib away from all reminder of it. She was careful not to suggest that he should go away without her,

knowing his perversity. But when he proposed that she should come to Ostend with him and Rosek, she

answered, after seeming deliberation, that she thought she had better notshe would rather stay at home

When he was really gone, peace fell on Gyppeace such as one feels, having no longer the tight, banded

sensations of a fever. To be without that strange, disorderly presence in the house! When she woke in the

sultry silence of the next morning, she utterly failed to persuade herself that she was missing him, missing the

sound of his breathing, the sight of his rumpled hair on the pillow, the outline of his long form under the

sheet. Her heart was devoid of any emptiness or ache; she only felt how pleasant and cool and tranquil it was

to lie there alone. She stayed quite late in bed. It was delicious, with window and door wide open and the

puppies running in and out, to lie and doze off, or listen to the pigeons' cooing, and the distant sounds of

traffic, and feel in command once more of herself, body and soul. Now that she had told Fiorsen, she had no

longer any desire to keep her condition secret. Feeling that it would hurt her father to learn of it from anyone

but herself, she telephoned to tell him she was alone, and asked if she might come to Bury Street and dine

Winton had not gone away, because, between Goodwood and Doncaster there was no racing that he cared

for; one could not ride at this time of year, so might just as well be in London. In fact, August was perhaps

the pleasantest of all months in town; the club was empty, and he could sit there without some old bore

buttonholing him. Little Boncarte, the fencingmaster, was always free for a boutWinton had long learned

to make his left hand what his right hand used to be; the Turkish baths in Jermyn Street were nearly void of

their fat clients; he could saunter over to Covent Garden, buy a melon, and carry it home without meeting any

but the most inferior duchesses in Piccadilly; on warm nights he could stroll the streets or the parks, smoking

his cigar, his hat pushed back to cool his forehead, thinking vague thoughts, recalling vague memories. He

received the news that his daughter was alone and free from that fellow with something like delight. Where

should he dine her? Mrs. Markey was on her holiday. Why not Blafard's? Quietsmall roomsnot too

When she drove up, he was ready in the doorway, his thin brown face with its keen, halfveiled eyes the

picture of composure, but feeling at heart like a schoolboy off for an exeat. How pretty she was

lookingthough pale from Londonher dark eyes, her smile! And stepping quickly to the cab, he said:

It gave him a thrill to walk into that little restaurant behind her; and passing through its low red rooms to

mark the diners turn and stare with envytaking him, perhaps, for a different sort of relation. He settled her

into a far corner by a window, where she could see the people and be seen. He wanted her to be seen; while

he himself turned to the world only the short back wings of his glossy greyish hair. He had no notion of being

disturbed in his enjoyment by the sight of Hivites and Amorites, or whatever they might be, lapping

champagne and shining in the heat. For, secretly, he was living not only in this evening but in a certain

evening of the past, when, in this very corner, he had dined with her mother. HIS face then had borne the

brunt; hers had been turned away from inquisition. But he did not speak of this to Gyp.

She drank two full glasses of wine before she told him her news. He took it with the expression she knew so

A shudder, not to be repressed, went through Winton. The very month! And stretching his hand across the

Each was trying to deceive the other; and neither was deceived. But both were good at putting a calm face on

things. Besides, this was "a night out"for her, the first since her marriageof freedom, of feeling

somewhat as she used to feel with all before her in a ballroom of a world; for him, the unfettered resumption

of a dear companionship and a stealthy revel in the past. After his, "So he's gone to Ostend?" and his thought:

'He would!' they never alluded to Fiorsen, but talked of horses, of Mildenhamit seemed to Gyp years since

she had been thereof her childish escapades. And, looking at him quizzically, she asked:

"What were you like as a boy, Dad? Aunt Rosamund says that you used to get into white rages when nobody

could go near you. She says you were always climbing trees, or shooting with a catapult, or stalking things,

and that you never told anybody what you didn't want to tell them. And weren't you desperately in love with

Winton smiled. How long since he had thought of that first affection. Miss Huntley! Helena Huntleywith

crinkly brown hair, and blue eyes, and fascinating frocks! He remembered with what grief and sense of bitter

"Yes, yes. By Jove, what a time ago! And my father's going off to India. He never came back; killed in that

first Afghan business. When I was fond, I WAS fond. But I didn't feel things like you not half so sensitive.

And watching her unconscious eyes following the movements of the waiters, never staring, but taking in all

"Well," he said: "What would you like to do nowdrop into a theatre or musichall, or what?"

Gyp shook her head. It was so hot. Could they just drive, and then perhaps sit in the park? That would be

lovely. It had gone dark, and the air was not quite so exhausteda little freshness of scent from the trees in

the squares and parks mingled with the fumes of dung and petrol. Winton gave the same order he had given

that long past evening: "Knightsbridge Gate." It had been a hansom then, and the night air had blown in their

faces, instead of as now in these infernal taxis, down the back of one's neck. They left the cab and crossed the

Row; passed the end of the Long Water, up among the trees. There, on two chairs covered by Winton's coat,

they sat side by side. No dew was falling yet; the heavy leaves hung unstirring; the air was warm,

sweetsmelling. Blotted against trees or on the grass were other couples darker than the darkness, very silent.

All was quiet save for the neverceasing hum of traffic. From Winton's lips, the cigar smoke wreathed and

curled. He was dreaming. The cigar between his teeth trembled; a long ash fell. Mechanically he raised his

Winton shivered, as one shivers recalled from dreams; and, carefully brushing off the ash with his left hand,

"All these people in love, and so dark and whisperyit makes a sort of strangeness in the air. Don't you feel

Again they were silent. A puff of wind ruffled the leaves; the night, for a moment, seemed full of whispering;

They went along paths, so as not to wet her feet in her thin shoes. And they talked. The spell was over; the

night again but a common London night; the park a space of parching grass and gravel; the people just clerks

Fiorsen's letters were the source of one long smile to Gyp. He missed her horribly; if only she were

there!and so forthblended in the queerest way with the impression that he was enjoying himself

uncommonly. There were requests for money, and careful omission of any real account of what he was doing.

Out of a balance running rather low, she sent him remittances; this was her holiday, too, and she could afford

to pay for it. She even sought out a shop where she could sell jewelry, and, with a certain malicious joy,

One night she went with Winton to the Octagon, where Daphne Wing was still performing. Remembering the

girl's squeaks of rapture at her garden, she wrote next day, asking her to lunch and spend a lazy afternoon

The little dancer came with avidity. She was pale, and droopy from the heat, but happily dressed in Liberty

silk, with a plain turn down straw hat. They lunched off sweetbreads, ices, and fruit, and then, with coffee,

cigarettes, and plenty of sugarplums, settled down in the deepest shade of the garden, Gyp in a low wicker

chair, Daphne Wing on cushions and the grass. Once past the exclamatory stage, she seemed a great talker,

laying bare her little soul with perfect liberality. And Gypexcellent listenerenjoyed it, as one enjoys all

confidential revelations of existences very different from one's own, especially when regarded as a superior

"Of course I don't mean to stay at home any longer than I can help; only it's no good going out into

life"this phrase she often used "till you know where you are. In my profession, one has to be so careful.

Of course, people think it's worse than it is; father gets fits sometimes. But you know, Mrs. Fiorsen, home's

awful. We have muttonyou know what mutton isit's really awful in your bedroom in hot weather. And

there's nowhere to practise. What I should like would be a studio. It would be lovely, somewhere down by the

river, or up here near you. That WOULD be lovely. You know, I'm putting by. As soon as ever I have two

hundred pounds, I shall skip. What I think would be perfectly lovely would be to inspire painters and

musicians. I don't want to be just a common 'turn'ballet business year after year, and that; I want to be

something rather special. But mother's so silly about me; she thinks I oughtn't to take any risks at all. I shall

never get on that way. It IS so nice to talk to you, Mrs. Fiorsen, because you're young enough to know what I

feel; and I'm sure you'd never be shocked at anything. You see, about men: Ought one to marry, or ought one

to take a lover? They say you can't be a perfect artist till you've felt passion. But, then, if you marry, that

means mutton over again, and perhaps babies, and perhaps the wrong man after all. Ugh! But then, on the

other hand, I don't want to be raffish. I hate raffish peopleI simply hate them. What do you think? It's

Miss Daphne Wing buried her perfect chin deeper in her hands, and said meditatively:

"Yes; I rather thought that, too; of course I could do either now. But, you see, I really don't care for men who

are not distinguished. I'm sure I shall only fall in love with a really distinguished man. That's what you

didisn't it?so you MUST understand. I think Mr. Fiorsen is wonderfully distinguished."

Sunlight, piercing the shade, suddenly fell warm on Gyp's neck where her blouse ceased, and fortunately

stilled the medley of emotion and laughter a little lower down. She continued to look gravely at Daphne

"Of course, Mother would have fits if I asked her such a question, and I don't know what Father would do.

Only it is important, isn't it? One may go all wrong from the start; and I do really want to get on. I simply

adore my work. I don't mean to let love stand in its way; I want to make it help, you know. Count Rosek says

my dancing lacks passion. I wish you'd tell me if you think it does. I should believe YOU."

"Oh, I'm sure you are! If I were a man, I should be passionately in love with you. I've got a new dance where

I'm supposed to be a nymph pursued by a faun; it's so difficult to feel like a nymph when you know it's only

the balletmaster. Do you think I ought to put passion into that? You see, I'm supposed to be flying all the

time; but it would be much more subtle, wouldn't it, if I could give the impression that I wanted to be caught.

A flame indeed had leaped up in Gyp. This fluffy, flabby talk of love set her instincts in revolt. She did not

want to love; she had failed to fall in love. But, whatever love was like, it did not bear talking about. How

was it that this little suburban girl, when she once got on her toes, could twirl one's emotions as she did?

"D'you know what I should simply revel in?" Daphne Wing went on: "To dance to you here in the garden

some night. It must be wonderful to dance out of doors; and the grass is nice and hard now. Only, I suppose it

would shock the servants. Do they look out this way?" Gyp shook her head. "I could dance over there in front

of the drawingroom window. Only it would have to be moonlight. I could come any Sunday. I've got a

dance where I'm supposed to be a lotus flowerthat would do splendidly. And there's my real moonlight

dance that goes to Chopin. I could bring my dresses, and change in the musicroom, couldn't I?" She

wriggled up, and sat crosslegged, gazing at Gyp, and clasping her hands. "Oh, may I?"

Her excitement infected Gyp. A desire to give pleasure, the queerness of the notion, and her real love of

Daphne Wing got up, made a rush, and kissed her. Her mouth was soft, and she smelled of orange blossom;

but Gyp recoiled a little she hated promiscuous kisses. Somewhat abashed, Miss Daphne hung her head,

They went indoors, to try over the music of the two dances; and soon after Daphne Wing departed, full of

She arrived punctually at eight o'clock next Sunday, carrying an exiguous green linen bag, which contained

her dresses. She was subdued, and, now that it had come to the point, evidently a little scared. Lobster salad,

hock, and peaches restored her courage. She ate heartily. It did not apparently matter to her whether she

When they had finished supper, Gyp shut the dogs into the back premises; she had visions of their rending

Miss Wing's draperies, or calves. Then they went into the drawingroom, not lighting up, that they might tell

when the moonlight was strong enough outside. Though it was the last night of August, the heat was as great

as evera deep, unstirring warmth; the climbing moon shot as yet but a thin shaft here and there through the

heavy foliage. They talked in low voices, unconsciously playing up to the nature of the escapade. As the

moon drew up, they stole out across the garden to the musicroom. Gyp lighted the candles.

Gyp stole back to the house; it being Sunday evening, the servants had been easily disposed of. She sat down

at the piano, turning her eyes toward the garden. A blurred white shape flitted suddenly across the darkness at

the far end and became motionless, as it might be a whiteflowering bush under the trees. Miss Daphne had

come out, and was waiting for the moon. Gyp began to play. She pitched on a little Sicilian pastorale that the

herdsmen play on their pipes coming down from the hills, softly, from very far, rising, rising, swelling to full

cadence, and failing, failing away again to nothing. The moon rose over the trees; its light flooded the face of

the house, down on to the grass, and spread slowly back toward where the girl stood waiting. It caught the

border of sunflowers along the garden wall with a stroke of magical, unearthly colourgold that was not

Gyp began to play the dance. The pale blurr in the darkness stirred. The moonlight fell on the girl now,

standing with arms spread, holding out her draperya white, winged statue. Then, like a gigantic moth she

fluttered forth, blanched and noiseless flew over the grass, spun and hovered. The moonlight etched out the

shape of her head, painted her hair with pallid gold. In the silence, with that unearthly gleam of colour along

the sunflowers and on the girl's head, it was as if a spirit had dropped into the garden and was fluttering to

Fiorsen was standing hallway in the darkened room staring out into the garden, where the girl had halted,

transfixed before the window, her eyes as round as saucers, her mouth open, her limbs rigid with interest and

affright. Suddenly she turned and, gathering her garment, fled, her limbs gleaming in the moonlight.

And Gyp sat looking up at the apparition of her husband. She could just see his eyes straining after that flying

nymph. Miss Daphne's faun! Why, even his ears were pointed! Had she never noticed before, how like a faun

"Daphne Wing was rehearsing her new dance. So you're back! Why didn't you let me know? Are you all

But even while his lips were pressed on hers, she felt rather than saw his eyes straying to the garden, and

The moment he had gone to get his things from the cab, she slipped out to the musicroom.

Miss Daphne was dressed, and stuffing her garments into the green linen bag. She looked up, and said

"Would you like to go by this back way into the lane? You turn to the right, into the road."

"Oh, yes; please. It would have been better if he could have seen the dance properly, wouldn't it? What will

Gyp smiled, and opened the door into the lane. When she returned, Fiorsen was at the window, gazing out.

September and October passed. There were more concerts, not very well attended. Fiorsen's novelty had worn

off, nor had his playing sweetness and sentiment enough for the big Public. There was also a financial crisis.

It did not seem to Gyp to matter. Everything seemed remote and unreal in the shadow of her coming time.

Unlike most mothers to be, she made no garments, no preparations of any kind. Why make what might never

be needed? She played for Fiorsen a great deal, for herself not at all, read many bookspoetry, novels,

biographiestaking them in at the moment, and forgetting them at once, as one does with books read just to

distract the mind. Winton and Aunt Rosamund, by tacit agreement, came on alternate afternoons. And

Winton, almost as much under that shadow as Gyp herself, would take the evening train after leaving her, and

spend the next day racing or cubhunting, returning the morning of the day after to pay his next visit. He had

Betty, who had been present at Gyp's birth, was in a queer state. The obvious desirability of such events to

one of motherly type defrauded by fate of children was terribly impinged on by that old memory, and a

solicitude for her "pretty" far exceeding what she would have had for a daughter of her own. What a peony

regards as a natural happening to a peony, she watches with awe when it happens to the lily. That other single

lady of a certain age, Aunt Rosamund, the very antithesis to Bettya long, thin nose and a mere button, a

sense of divine rights and no sense of rights at all, a drawl and a comforting wheeze, length and

circumference, decision and the curtsey to providence, humour and none, dyspepsia, and the digestion of an

ostrich, with other oppositionsAunt Rosamund was also uneasy, as only one could be who disapproved

But of all those round Gyp, Fiorsen gave the most interesting display. He had not even an elementary notion

of disguising his state of mind. And his state of mind was weirdly, wistfully primitive. He wanted Gyp as she

had been. The thought that she might never become herself again terrified him so at times that he was forced

to drink brandy, and come home only a little less far gone than that first time. Gyp had often to help him go

to bed. On two or three occasions, he suffered so that he was out all night. To account for this, she devised

the formula of a room at Count Rosek's, where he slept when music kept him late, so as not to disturb her.

Whether the servants believed her or not, she never knew. Nor did she ever ask him where he wenttoo

Deeply conscious of the unaesthetic nature of her condition, she was convinced that she could no longer be

attractive to one so easily upset in his nerves, so intolerant of ugliness. As to deeper feelings about herhad

he any? He certainly never gave anything up, or sacrificed himself in any way. If she had loved, she felt she

would want to give up everything to the loved one; but thenshe would never love! And yet he seemed

frightened about her. It was puzzling! But perhaps she would not be puzzled much longer about that or

anything; for she often had the feeling that she would die. How could she be going to live, grudging her fate?

What would give her strength to go through with it? And, at times, she felt as if she would be glad to die. Life

had defrauded her, or she had defrauded herself of life. Was it really only a year since that glorious day's

hunting when Dad and she, and the young man with the clear eyes and the irrepressible smile, had slipped

away with the hounds ahead of all the fieldthe fatal day Fiorsen descended from the clouds and asked for

her? An overwhelming longing for Mildenham came on her, to get away there with her father and Betty.

Over her departure, Fiorsen behaved like a tired child that will not go to bed. He could not bear to be away

from her, and so forth; but when she had gone, he spent a furious bohemian evening. At about five, he woke

with "an awful cold feeling in my heart," as he wrote to Gyp next day"an awful feeling, my Gyp; I walked

up and down for hours" (in reality, half an hour at most). "How shall I bear to be away from you at this time?

I feel lost." Next day, he found himself in Paris with Rosek. "I could not stand," he wrote, "the sight of the

streets, of the garden, of our room. When I come back I shall stay with Rosek. Nearer to the day I will come;

I must come to you." But Gyp, when she read the letter, said to Winton: "Dad, when it comes, don't send for

With those letters of his, she buried the last remnants of her feeling that somewhere in him there must be

something as fine and beautiful as the sounds he made with his violin. And yet she felt those letters genuine

From the moment she reached Mildenham, she began to lose that hopelessness about herself; and, for the first

time, had the sensation of wanting to live in the new life within her. She first felt it, going into her old

nursery, where everything was the same as it had been when she first saw it, a child of eight; there was her

old red doll's house, the whole side of which opened to display the various floors; the worn Venetian blinds,

the rattle of whose fall had sounded in her ears so many hundred times; the high fender, near which she had

lain so often on the floor, her chin on her hands, reading Grimm, or "Alice in Wonderland," or histories of

England. Here, too, perhaps this new child would live amongst the old familiars. And the whim seized her to

face her hour in her old nursery, not in the room where she had slept as a girl. She would not like the

daintiness of that room deflowered. Let it stay the room of her girlhood. But in the nurserythere was

safety, comfort! And when she had been at Mildenham a week, she made Betty change her over.

No one in that house was half so calm to look at in those days as Gyp. Betty was not guiltless of sitting on the

stairs and crying at odd moments. Mrs. Markey had never made such bad soups. Markey so far forgot himself

as frequently to talk. Winton lamed a horse trying an impossible jump that he might get home the quicker,

and, once back, was like an unquiet spirit. If Gyp were in the room, he would make the pretence of wanting to

warm his feet or hand, just to stroke her shoulder as he went back to his chair. His voice, so measured and

dry, had a ring in it, that too plainly disclosed the anxiety of his heart. Gyp, always sensitive to atmosphere,

felt cradled in all the love about her. Wonderful that they should all care so much! What had she done for

anyone, that people should be so sweethe especially, whom she had so grievously distressed by her

wretched marriage? She would sit staring into the fire with her wide, dark eyes, unblinking as an owl's at

nightwondering what she could do to make up to her father, whom already once she had nearly killed by

coming into life. And she began to practise the bearing of the coming pain, trying to project herself into this

unknown suffering, so that it should not surprise from her cries and contortions.

She had one dream, over and over again, of sinking and sinking into a feather bed, growing hotter and more

deeply walled in by that which had no stay in it, yet through which her body could not fall and reach anything

more solid. Once, after this dream, she got up and spent the rest of the night wrapped in a blanket and the

eider down, on the old sofa, where, as a child, they had made her lie flat on her back from twelve to one

every day. Betty was aghast at finding her there asleep in the morning. Gyp's face was so like the childface

she had seen lying there in the old days, that she bundled out of the room and cried bitterly into the cup of tea.

It did her good. Going back with the tea, she scolded her "pretty" for sleeping out there, with the fire out, too!

From the day of the nurse's arrival, Winton gave up hunting. He could not bring himself to be out of doors for

more than half an hour at a time. Distrust of doctors did not prevent him having ten minutes every morning

with the old practitioner who had treated Gyp for mumps, measles, and the other blessings of childhood. The

old fellowhis name was Rivershawwas a most peculiar survival. He smelled of mackintosh, had round

purplish cheeks, a rim of hair which people said he dyed, and bulging grey eyes slightly bloodshot. He was

short in body and wind, drank port wine, was suspected of taking snuff, read The Times, spoke always in a

husky voice, and used a very small brougham with a very old black horse. But he had a certain low cunning,

which had defeated many ailments, and his reputation for assisting people into the world stood extremely

high. Every morning punctually at twelve, the crunch of his little brougham's wheels would be heard. Winton

would get up, and, taking a deep breath, cross the hall to the diningroom, extract from a sideboard a

decanter of port, a biscuitcanister, and one glass. He would then stand with his eyes fixed on the door, till, in

The doctor, puffing out his cheeks, with eyes straying to the decanter, would murmur:

"Cardiac condition, capitala littleumnot to matter. Taking its course. These things!"

"Never fear, my dear sir! Little Miss Gypold friend of mine. At her service day and night. Never fear!"

A sensation of comfort would pass through Winton, which would last quite twenty minutes after the

In these days, his greatest friend was an old watch that had been his father's before him; a gold repeater from

Switzerland, with a chipped dialplate, and a case worn wondrous thin and smootha favourite of Gyp's

childhood. He would take it out about every quarter of an hour, look at its face without discovering the time,

finger it, all smooth and warm from contact with his body, and put it back. Then he would listen. There was

nothing whatever to listen to, but he could not help it. Apart from this, his chief distraction was to take a foil

and make passes at a leather cushion, set up on the top of a low bookshelf. In these occupations, varied by

constant visits to the room next the nursery, whereto save her the stairsGyp was now established, and by

excursions to the conservatory to see if he could not find some new flower to take her, he passed all his time,

save when he was eating, sleeping, or smoking cigars, which he had constantly to be relighting.

By Gyp's request, they kept from him knowledge of when her pains began. After that first bout was over and

she was lying half asleep in the old nursery, he happened to go up. The nursea bonny creatureone of

those free, independent, economic agents that now aboundmet him in the sittingroom. Accustomed to the

"fuss and botheration of men" at such times, she was prepared to deliver him a little lecture. But, in

approaching, she became affected by the look on his face, and, realizing somehow that she was in the

"It's beginning; but don't be anxiousshe's not suffering just now. We shall send for the doctor soon. She's

very plucky"; and with an unaccustomed sensation of respect and pity she repeated: "Don't be anxious, sir."

"If she wants to see me at any time, I shall be in my study. Save her all you can, nurse."

The nurse was left with a feeling of surprise at having used the word "Sir"; she had not done such a thing

"How long do you think beforebefore it'll begin again, nurse? I'd like to see him."

The nurse, watching those lips, still pale with pain, felt a queer pang. She smoothed the bedclothes and said:

"That's nothingit often happensthat is, I mean,you know it has no connection whatever."

"If by any chance I don't get through, I want to be cremated; I want to go back as quick as I can. I can't bear

the thought of the other thing. Will you remember, nurse? I can't tell my father that just now; it might upset

And the nurse thought: 'That can't be done without a will or something, but I'd better promise. It's a morbid

"Very well, my dear; only, you're not going to do anything of the sort. That's flat."

"I'm awfully ashamed, wanting all this attention, and making people miserable. I've read that Japanese

"Yes, that's a very good way. But don't you fancy you're half the trouble most of them are. You're very good,

and you're going to get on splendidly." And she thought: 'Odd! She's never once spoken of her husband. I

don't like it for this sorttoo perfect, too sensitive; her face touches you so!'

Gyp, who had clinched her hands under the bedclothes, fixed her eyes on the window. November! Acorns

and the leavesthe nice, damp, earthy smell! Acorns all over the grass. She used to drive the old retriever in

harness on the lawn covered with acorns and the dead leaves, and the wind still blowing them off the

treesin her brown velvetthat was a ducky dress! Who was it had called her once "a wise little owl," in

that dress? And, suddenly, her heart sank. The pain was coming again. Winton's voice from the door said:

"It was only to see how you are. I'm all right. What sort of a day is it? You'll go riding, won't you? Give my

Outside, in the passage, her smile, like something actual on the air, preceded himthe smile that had just

lasted out. But when he was back in the study, he sufferedsuffered! Why could he not have that pain to

The crunch of the brougham brought his ceaseless march over the carpet to an end. He went out into the hall

and looked into the doctor's facehe had forgotten that this old fellow knew nothing of his special reason for

deadly fear. Then he turned back into his study. The wild south wind brought wet driftleaves whirling

against the panes. It was here that he had stood looking out into the dark, when Fiorsen came down to ask for

Gyp a year ago. Why had he not bundled the fellow out neck and crop, and taken her away?India,

Japananywhere would have done! She had not loved that fiddler, never really loved him.

Monstrousmonstrous! The full bitterness of having missed right action swept over Winton, and he

positively groaned aloud. He moved from the window and went over to the bookcase; there in one row were

the few books he ever read, and he took one out. "Life of General Lee." He put it back and took another, a

novel of Whyte Melville's: "Good for Nothing." Sad booksad ending! The book dropped from his hand

and fell with a flump on the floor. In a sort of icy discovery, he had seen his life as it would be if for a second

time he had to bear such loss. She must notcould not die! If she didthen, for him! In old times they

buried a man with his horse and his dog, as if at the end of a good run. There was always that! The extremity

of this thought brought relief. He sat down, and, for a long time, stayed staring into the fire in a sort of coma.

Then his feverish fears began again. Why the devil didn't they come and tell him something,

anythingrather than this silence, this deadly solitude and waiting? What was that? The front door shutting.

Wheels? Had that hellhound of an old doctor sneaked off? He started up. There at the door was Markey,

"Bring in my fur coat and the port, and make the fire up. I want any news there is."

Odd to sit in a fur coat before a fire, and the day not cold! They said you lived on after death. He had never

been able to feel that SHE was living on. SHE lived in Gyp. And now if Gyp! Death your ownno

great matter! Butfor her! The wind was dropping with the darkness. He got up and drew the curtains.

It was seven o'clock when the doctor came down into the hall, and stood rubbing his freshly washed hands

before opening the study door. Winton was still sitting before the fire, motionless, shrunk into his fur coat. He

The doctor's face puckered, his eyelids drooped halfway across his bulging eyes; it was his way of smiling.

Winton's whole body seemed to swell, his lips opened, he raised his hand. Then, the habit of a lifetime

The doctor spying at him above the glass thought: 'This is "the fiftytwo." Give me "the sixtyeight"more

After a time, Winton went upstairs. Waiting in the outer room he had a return of his cold dread. "Perfectly

successfulthe patient died from exhaustion!" The tiny squawking noise that fell on his ears entirely failed

to reassure him. He cared nothing for that new being. Suddenly he found Betty just behind him, her bosom

She had leaned against his shoulder, appearing to have lost all sense of right and wrong, and, out of her

Pushing her abruptly from him, Winton peered in through the just opened door. Gyp was lying extremely

still, and very white; her eyes, very large, very dark, were fastened on her baby. Her face wore a kind of

wonder. She did not see Winton, who stood stone quiet, watching, while the nurse moved about her

business behind a screen. This was the first time in his life that he had seen a mother with her justborn baby.

That look on her facegone right away somewhere, right awayamazed him. She had never seemed to like

children, had said she did not want a child. She turned her head and saw him. He went in. She made a faint

motion toward the baby, and her eyes smiled. Winton looked at that swaddled speckled mite; then, bending

At dinner he drank champagne, and benevolence towards all the world spread in his being. Watching the

smoke of his cigar wreathe about him, he thought: 'Must send that chap a wire.' After all, he was a fellow

beingmight be suffering, as he himself had suffered only two hours ago. To keep him in ignoranceit

Returning the next afternoon from the first ride for several days, Winton passed the station fly rolling away

from the drivegate with the lighthearted disillusionment peculiar to quite empty vehicles.

The sight of a fur coat and broadbrimmed hat in the hall warned him of what had happened.

Gyp had passed the strangest morning in her life, so far. Her baby fascinated her, also the tug of its lips,

giving her the queerest sensation, almost sensual; a sort of meltedness, an infinite warmth, a desire to grip the

little creature right into herwhich, of course, one must not do. And yet, neither her sense of humour nor her

sense of beauty were deceived. It was a queer little affair with a tuft of black hair, in grace greatly inferior to

a kitten. Its tiny, pink, crisped fingers with their infinitesimal nails, its microscopic curly toes, and solemn

black eyeswhen they showed, its inimitable stillness when it slept, its incredible vigour when it fed, were

all, as it were, miraculous. Withal, she had a feeling of gratitude to one that had not killed nor even hurt her

so very desperatelygratitude because she had succeeded, performed her part of mother perfectlythe

nurse had said soshe, so distrustful of herself! Instinctively she knew, too, that this was HER baby, not his,

going "to take after her," as they called it. How it succeeded in giving that impression she could not tell,

unless it were the passivity, and dark eyes of the little creature. Then from one till three they had slept

together with perfect soundness and unanimity. She awoke to find the nurse standing by the bed, looking as if

And Gyp thought: 'He! I can't think quickly; I ought to think quicklyI want to, but I can't.' Her face

Her spirit had been very far away, she wanted time to get it back before she saw himtime to know in some

sort what she felt now; what this mite lying beside her had done for her and him. The thought that it was his,

toothis tiny, helpless beingseemed unreal. No, it was not his! He had not wanted it, and now that she

had been through the torture it was hers, not hisnever his. The memory of the night when she first yielded

to the certainty that the child was coming, and he had come home drunk, swooped on her, and made her

shrink and shudder and put her arm round her baby. It had not made any difference. Only Back came the

old accusing thought, from which these last days she had been free: 'But I married himI chose to marry

him. I can't get out of that!' And she felt as if she must cry out to the nurse: "Keep him away; I don't want to

see him. Oh, please, I'm tired." She bit the words back. And presently, with a very faint smile, said:

She noticed first what clothes he had onhis newest suit, dark grey, with little lighter linesshe had chosen

it herself; that his tie was in a bow, not a sailor's knot, and his hair brighter than usualas always just after

being cut; and surely the hair was growing down again in front of his ears. Then, gratefully, almost with

emotion, she realized that his lips were quivering, his whole face quivering. He came in on tiptoe, stood

looking at her a minute, then crossed very swiftly to the bed, very swiftly knelt down, and, taking her hand,

turned it over and put his face to it. The bristles of his moustache tickled her palm; his nose flattened itself

against her fingers, and his lips kept murmuring words into the hand, with the moist warm touch of his lips.

Gyp knew he was burying there all his remorse, perhaps the excesses he had committed while she had been

away from him, burying the fears he had felt, and the emotion at seeing her so white and still. She felt that in

a minute he would raise a quite different face. And it flashed through her: "If I loved him I wouldn't mind

what he didever! Why don't I love him? There's something loveable. Why don't I?"

"Look at this!" he said. "Is it possible? Oh, my Gyp, what a funny one! Oh, oh, oh!" He went off into an

ecstasy of smothered laughter; then his face grew grave, and slowly puckered into a sort of comic disgust.

Gyp too had seen the humours of her baby, of its queer little reddish pudge of a face, of its twentyseven

black hairs, and the dribble at its almost invisible mouth; but she had also seen it as a miracle; she had felt it,

and there surged up from her all the old revolt and more against his lack of consideration. It was not a funny

oneher baby! It was not ugly! Or, if it were, she was not fit to be told of it. Her arm tightened round the

warm bundled thing against her. Fiorsen put his finger out and touched its cheek.

The baby stirred. And Gyp thought: 'If I loved I wouldn't even mind his laughing at my baby. It would be

"Don't wake her!" she whispered. She felt his eyes on her, knew that his interest in the baby had ceased as

suddenly as it came, that he was thinking, "How long before I have you in my arms again?" He touched her

hair. And, suddenly, she had a fainting, sinking sensation that she had never yet known. When she opened her

eyes again, the economic agent was holding something beneath her nose and making sounds that seemed to

Seeing Gyp's eyes once more open, the nurse withdrew the ammonia, replaced the baby, and saying: "Now

go to sleep!" withdrew behind the screen. Like all robust personalities, she visited on others her vexations

with herself. But Gyp did not go to sleep; she gazed now at her sleeping baby, now at the pattern of the

wallpaper, trying mechanically to find the bird caught at intervals amongst its brownandgreen

foliageone bird in each alternate square of the pattern, so that there was always a bird in the centre of four

On being turned out of the nursery with the assurance that it was "all rightonly a little faint," Fiorsen went

downstairs disconsolate. The atmosphere of this dark house where he was a stranger, an unwelcome

stranger, was insupportable. He wanted nothing in it but Gyp, and Gyp had fainted at his touch. No wonder

he felt miserable. He opened a door. What room was this? A piano! The drawingroom. Ugh! No firewhat

misery! He recoiled to the doorway and stood listening. Not a sound. Grey light in the cheerless room; almost

dark already in the hall behind him. What a life these English livedworse than the winter in his old country

home in Sweden, where, at all events, they kept good fires. And, suddenly, all his being revolted. Stay here

and face that fatherand that image of a servant! Stay here for a night of this! Gyp was not his Gyp, lying

there with that baby beside her, in this hostile house. Smothering his footsteps, he made for the outer hall.

There were his coat and hat. He put them on. His bag? He could not see it. No matter! They could send it

after him. He would write to hersay that her fainting had upset him that he could not risk making her

faint againcould not stay in the house so near her, yet so far. She would understand. And there came over

him a sudden wave of longing. Gyp! He wanted her. To be with her! To look at her and kiss her, and feel her

his own again! And, opening the door, he passed out on to the drive and strode away, miserable and sick at

heart. All the way to the station through the darkening lanes, and in the railway carriage going up, he felt that

aching wretchedness. Only in the lighted street, driving back to Rosek's, did he shake it off a little. At dinner

and after, drinking that special brandy he nearly lost it; but it came back when he went to bed, till sleep

Gyp's recovery proceeded at first with a sure rapidity which delighted Winton. As the economic agent

Before Christmas Day, she was already out, and on Christmas morning the old doctor, by way of present,

pronounced her fit and ready to go home when she liked. That afternoon, she was not so well, and next day

back again upstairs. Nothing seemed definitely wrong, only a sort of desperate lassitude; as if the knowledge

that to go back was within her power, only needing her decision, had been too much for her. And since no

one knew her inward feelings, all were puzzled except Winton. The nursing of her child was promptly

"The house is quite ready. I think I had better go tomorrow. He's still at Rosek's. I won't let him know. Two

They travelled next day, reaching London at halfpast two. Betty had gone up in the early morning to prepare

the way. The dogs had been with Aunt Rosamund all this time. Gyp missed their greeting; but the installation

of Betty and the baby in the spare room that was now to be the nursery, absorbed all her first energies. Light

was just beginning to fail when, still in her fur, she took a key of the musicroom and crossed the garden, to

see how all had fared during her ten weeks' absence. What a wintry garden! How different from that

languorous, warm, moonlit night when Daphne Wing had come dancing out of the shadow of the dark trees.

How bare and sharp the boughs against the grey, darkening skyand not a song of any bird, not a flower!

She glanced back at the house. Cold and white it looked, but there were lights in her room and in the nursery,

and someone just drawing the curtains. Now that the leaves were off, one could see the other houses of the

road, each different in shape and colour, as is the habit of London houses. It was cold, frosty; Gyp hurried

down the path. Four little icicles had formed beneath the window of the musicroom. They caught her eye,

and, passing round to the side, she broke one off. There must be a fire in there, for she could see the flicker

through the curtains not quite drawn. Thoughtful Ellen had been airing it! But, suddenly, she stood still.

There was more than a fire in there! Through the chink in the drawn curtains she had seen two figures seated

on the divan. Something seemed to spin round in her head. She turned to rush away. Then a kind of

superhuman coolness came to her, and she deliberately looked in. He and Daphne Wing! His arm was round

her neck. The girl's face riveted her eyes. It was turned a little back and up, gazing at him, the lips parted, the

eyes hypnotized, adoring; and her arm round him seemed to shiverwith cold, with ecstasy?

Again that something went spinning through Gyp's head. She raised her hand. For a second it hovered close

Never! Never would she show him or that girl that they could hurt her! Never! They were safe from any

scene she would makesafe in their nest! And blindly, across the frosty grass, through the unlighted

drawingroom, she went upstairs to her room, locked the door, and sat down before the fire. Pride raged

within her. She stuffed her handkerchief between her teeth and lips; she did it unconsciously. Her eyes felt

scorched from the fireflames, but she did not trouble to hold her hand before them.

Suddenly she thought: 'Suppose I HAD loved him?' and laughed. The handkerchief dropped to her lap, and

she looked at it with wonder it was bloodstained. She drew back in the chair, away from the scorching of

the fire, and sat quite still, a smile on her lips. That girl's eyes, like a little adoring dog'sthat girl, who had

fawned on her so! She had got her "distinguished man"! She sprang up and looked at herself in the glass;

shuddered, turned her back on herself, and sat down again. In her own house! Why not here in this room?

Why not before her eyes? Not yet a year married! It was almost funnyalmost funny! And she had her first

But it did not seem to mean anything, had no value to a spirit so bitterly stricken in its pride. She moved her

chair closer to the fire again. Why had she not tapped on the window? To have seen that girl's face ashy with

fright! To have seen himcaught caught in the room she had made beautiful for him, the room where she

had played for him so many hours, the room that was part of the house that she paid for! How long had they

used it for their meetingssneaking in by that door from the back lane? Perhaps even before she went

awayto bear his child! And there began in her a struggle between mother instinct and her sense of

outragea spiritual tugofwar so deep that it was dumb, unconsciousto decide whether her baby would

be all hers, or would have slipped away from her heart, and be a thing almost abhorrent.

She huddled nearer the fire, feeling cold and physically sick. And suddenly the thought came to her: 'If I don't

let the servants know I'm here, they might go out and see what I saw!' Had she shut the drawingroom

window when she returned so blindly? Perhaps already! In a fever, she rang the bell, and unlocked the

"Please shut the drawingroom, window, Ellen; and tell Betty I'm afraid I got a little chill travelling. I'm

going to bed. Ask her if she can manage with baby." And she looked straight into the girl's face. It wore an

expression of concern, even of commiseration, but not that fluttered look which must have been there if she

"Yes, m'm; I'll get you a hotwater bottle, m'm. Would you like a hot bath and a cup of hot tea at once?"

Gyp nodded. Anythinganything! And when the maid was gone, she thought mechanically: 'A cup of hot

The maid came back with the tea; she was an affectionate girl, full of that admiring love servants and dogs

always felt for Gyp, imbued, too, with the instinctive partisanship which stores itself one way or the other in

the hearts of those who live in houses where the atmosphere lacks unity. To her mind, the mistress was much

too good for hima foreignerand such 'abits! Mannershe hadn't any! And no good would come of it.

Again Gyp nodded. And the girl, going downstairs for the mustard, told cook there was "that about the

mistress that makes you quite pathetic." The cook, who was fingering her concertina, for which she had a

"She 'ides up her feelin's, same as they all does. Thank 'eaven she haven't got that drawl, though, that 'er old

aunt 'asalways makes me feel to want to say, 'Buck up, old dear, you ain't 'alf so precious as all that!'"

And when the maid Ellen had taken the mustard and gone, she drew out her concertina to its full length and,

To Gyp, lying in her hot bath, those muffled strains just mounted, not quite as a tune, rather as some

faraway humming of large flies. The heat of the water, the pungent smell of the mustard, and that droning

hum slowly soothed and drowsed away the vehemence of feeling. She looked at her body, silverwhite in the

yellowish water, with a dreamy sensation. Some day she, too, would love! Strange feeling she had never had

before! Strange, indeed, that it should come at such a moment, breaking through the old instinctive shrinking.

Yes; some day love would come to her. There floated before her brain the adoring look on Daphne Wing's

face, the shiver that had passed along her arm, and pitifulness crept into her hearta halfbitter,

halfadmiring pitifulness. Why should she grudgeshe who did not love? The sounds, like the humming of

large flies, grew deeper, more vibrating. It was the cook, in her passion swelling out her music on the phrase,

That night, Gyp slept peacefully, as though nothing had happened, as though there were no future at all

before her. She woke into misery. Her pride would never let her show the world what she had discovered,

would force her to keep an unmoved face and live an unmoved life. But the struggle between motherinstinct

and revolt was still going on within her. She was really afraid to see her baby, and she sent word to Betty that

She got up at noon and stole downstairs. She had not realized how violent was her struggle over HIS child till

she was passing the door of the room where it was lying. If she had not been ordered to give up nursing, that

struggle would never have come. Her heart ached, but a demon pressed her on and past the door. Downstairs

she just pottered round, dusting her china, putting in order the books which, after housecleaning, the maid

had arranged almost too carefully, so that the first volumes of Dickens and Thackeray followed each other on

the top shell, and the second volumes followed each other on the bottom shelf. And all the time she thought

dully: 'Why am I doing this? What do I care how the place looks? It is not my home. It can never be my

For lunch she drank some beef tea, keeping up the fiction of her indisposition. After that, she sat down at her

bureau to write. Something must be decided! There she sat, her forehead on her hand, and nothing camenot

one wordnot even the way to address him; just the date, and that was all. At a ring of the bell she started

up. She could not see anybody! But the maid only brought a note from Aunt Rosamund, and the dogs, who

fell frantically on their mistress and instantly began to fight for her possession. She went on her knees to

separate them, and enjoin peace and good will, and their little avid tongues furiously licked her cheeks.

Under the eager touch of those wet tongues the band round her brain and heart gave way; she was

overwhelmed with longing for her baby. Nearly a day since she had seen herwas it possible? Nearly a day

without sight of those solemn eyes and crinkled toes and fingers! And followed by the dogs, she went

The house was invisible from the musicroom; and, spurred on by thought that, until Fiorsen knew she was

back, those two might be there in each other's arms any moment of the day or night, Gyp wrote that evening:

What else in the world could she say? He would not get it till he woke about eleven. With the instinct to take

all the respite she could, and knowing no more than before how she would receive his return, she went out in

the forenoon and wandered about all day shopping and trying not to think. Returning at teatime, she went

straight up to her baby, and there heard from Betty that he had come, and gone out with his violin to the

Bent over the child, Gyp needed all her selfcontrolbut her self control was becoming great. Soon, the

girl would come fluttering down that dark, narrow lane; perhaps at this very minute her fingers were tapping

at the door, and he was opening it to murmur, "No; she's back!" Ah, then the girl would shrink! The rapid

whisperingsome other meetingplace! Lips to lips, and that look on the girl's face; till she hurried away

from the shut door, in the darkness, disappointed! And he, on that silverandgold divan, gnawing his

moustache, his eyescatlikestaring at the fire! And then, perhaps, from his violin would come one of

those swaying bursts of sound, with tears in them, and the wind in them, that had of old bewitched her! She

There it was, rising, falling! Music! Why did it so move one even when, as now, it was the voice of insult!

And suddenly she thought: "He will expect me to go out there again and play for him. But I will not, never!"

She put her baby down, went into her bedroom, and changed hastily into a teagown for the evening, ready to

go downstairs. A little shepherdess in china on the mantelshelf attracted her attention, and she took it in her

hand. She had bought it three and more years ago, when she first came to London, at the beginning of that

time of girlgaiety when all life seemed a long cotillion, and she its leader. Its cool daintiness made it seem

the symbol of another world, a world without depths or shadows, a world that did not feela happy world!

She had not long to wait before he tapped on the drawingroom window. She got up from the teatable to let

him in. Why do faces gazing in through glass from darkness always look hungry searching, appealing for

what you have and they have not? And while she was undoing the latch she thought: 'What am I going to

say? I feel nothing!' The ardour of his gaze, voice, hands seemed to her so false as to be almost comic; even

"Tea! I have you back, and you ask me if I will have tea Gyp! Do you know what I have felt like all this

A smile of sheer irony formed on her lipswithout her knowing it was there. She said:

"Have you had a good time at Count Rosek's?" And, without her will, against her will, the words slipped out:

"Missed! Missed everything! I have been very miserable, Gyp. You've no idea how miserable. Yes,

miserable, miserable, miserable!" With each repetition of that word, his voice grew gayer. And kneeling

down in front of her, he stretched his long arms round her till they met behind her waist: "Ah, my Gyp! I shall

And Gyp went on smiling. Between that, and stabbing these false raptures to the heart, there seemed to be

She could feel him thinking: 'Perhaps it will make her nice to me!' He turned suddenly and went.

She stood with her eyes shut, seeing the divan in the musicroom and the girl's arm shivering. Then, going to

That evening they dined out, and went to "The Tales of Hoffmann." By such devices it was possible to put off

a little longer what she was going to do. During the drive home in the dark cab, she shrank away into her

corner, pretending that his arm would hurt her dress; her exasperated nerves were already overstrung. Twice

she was on the very point of crying out: "I am not Daphne Wing!" But each time pride strangled the words in

her throat. And yet they would have to come. What other reason could she find to keep him from her room?

But when in her mirror she saw him standing behind herhe had crept into the bedroom like a

catfierceness came into her. She could see the blood rush up in her own white face, and, turning round she

He recoiled against the foot of the bed and stared at her haggardly, and Gyp, turning back to her mirror, went

on quietly taking the pins out of her hair. For fully a minute she could see him leaning there, moving his head

and hands as though in pain. Then, to her surprise, he went. And a vague feeling of compunction mingled

with her sense of deliverance. She lay awake a long time, watching the fireglow brighten and darken on the

ceiling, tunes from "The Tales of Hoffmann" running in her head; thoughts and fancies crisscrossing in her

excited brain. Falling asleep at last, she dreamed she was feeding doves out of her hand, and one of them was

Daphne Wing. She woke with a start. The fire still burned, and by its light she saw him crouching at the foot

of the bed, just as he had on their weddingnightthe same hungry yearning in his face, and an arm

"Oh, Gyp, you don't understand! All that is nothingit is only you I wantalways. I am a fool who cannot

"No; but now you have it you are glad. Don't be unmerciful, my Gyp! It is like you to be merciful. That

His hand touched her foot through the soft eiderdown. Gyp thought: 'Why does he come and whine to me like

"She is a little fool. I do not care for the whole of her as much as I care for your one finger. What does it

matter what one does in that way if one does not care? The soul, not the body, is faithful. A man satisfies

At that bitter retort, he kept silence a long time, now and then heaving a long sigh. His words kept sounding

in her heart: "The soul, not the body, is faithful." Was he, after all, more faithful to her than she had ever

been, could ever bewho did not love, had never loved him? What right had she to talk, who had married

He bent down against the eiderdown. She could hear him drawing long, sobbing breaths, and, in the midst

of her lassitude and hopelessness, a sort of pity stirred her. What did it matter? She said, in a choked voice:

The human creature has wonderful power of putting up with things. Gyp never really believed that Daphne

Wing was of the past. Her sceptical instinct told her that what Fiorsen might honestly mean to do was very

different from what he would do under stress of opportunity carefully put within his reach.

Since her return, Rosek had begun to come again, very careful not to repeat his mistake, but not deceiving her

at all. Though his selfcontrol was as great as Fiorsen's was small, she felt he had not given up his pursuit of

her, and would take very good care that Daphne Wing was afforded every chance of being with her husband.

But pride never let her allude to the girl. Besides, what good to speak of her? They would both lieRosek,

because he obviously saw the mistaken line of his first attack; Fiorsen, because his temperament did not

Having set herself to endure, she found she must live in the moment, never think of the future, never think

much of anything. Fortunately, nothing so conduces to vacuity as a baby. She gave herself up to it with

desperation. It was a good baby, silent, somewhat understanding. In watching its face, and feeling it warm

against her, Gyp succeeded daily in getting away into the hypnotic state of mothers, and cows that chew the

cud. But the baby slept a great deal, and much of its time was claimed by Betty. Those hours, and they were

many, Gyp found difficult. She had lost interest in dress and household elegance, keeping just enough to

satisfy her fastidiousness; money, too, was scarce, under the drain of Fiorsen's irregular requirements. If she

read, she began almost at once to brood. She was cut off from the musicroom, had not crossed its threshold

since her discovery. Aunt Rosamund's efforts to take her into society were fruitlessall the effervescence

was out of that, and, though her father came, he never stayed long for fear of meeting Fiorsen. In this

condition of affairs, she turned more and more to her own music, and one morning, after she had come across

some compositions of her girlhood, she made a resolution. That afternoon she dressed herself with pleasure,

Monsieur Edouard Harmost inhabited the ground floor of a house in the Marylebone Road. He received his

pupils in a large back room overlooking a little sooty garden. A Walloon by extraction, and of great vitality,

he grew old with difficulty, having a soft corner in his heart for women, and a passion for novelty, even for

new music, that was unappeasable. Any fresh discovery would bring a tear rolling down his mahogany

cheeks into his clipped grey beard, the while he played, singing wheezily to elucidate the wondrous novelty;

When Gyp was shown into this wellremembered room he was seated, his yellow fingers buried in his stiff

grey hair, grieving over a pupil who had just gone out. He did not immediately rise, but stared hard at Gyp.

"Ah," he said, at last, "my little old friend! She has come back! Now that is good!" And, patting her hand he

looked into her face, which had a warmth and brilliance rare to her in these days. Then, making for the

mantelpiece, he took therefrom a bunch of Parma violets, evidently brought by his last pupil, and thrust them

under her nose. "Take them, take themthey were meant for me. Nowhow much have you forgotten?

Come!" And, seizing her by the elbow, he almost forced her to the piano. "Take off your furs. Sit down!"

And while Gyp was taking off her coat, he fixed on her his prominent brown eyes that rolled easily in their

slightly blood shot whites, under squared eyelids and cliffs of brow. She had on what Fiorsen called her

"hummingbird" blousedark blue, shot with peacock and old rose, and looked very warm and soft under

her fur cap. Monsieur Harmost's stare seemed to drink her in; yet that stare was not unpleasant, having in it

only the rather sad yearning of old men who love beauty and know that their time for seeing it is getting

Gyp played. Twice he nodded; once he tapped his fingers on his teeth, and showed her the whites of his

eyeswhich meant: "That will have to be very different!" And once he grunted. When she had finished, he

"Yes, yes, soon again! Spoiling yourself, playing for that fiddler! Trop sympathique! The backbone, the

backbonewe shall improve that. Now, four hours a day for six weeksand we shall have something

"What! That is a tragedy!" Gyp shook her head. "You like it? A baby! Does it not squall?"

"Mon Dieu! Well, well, you are still as beautiful as ever. That is something. Now, what can you do with this

baby? Could you get rid of it a little? This is serious. This is a talent in danger. A fiddler, and a baby! C'est

Gyp smiled. And Monsieur Harmost, whose exterior covered much sensibility, stroked her hand.

"You have grown up, my little friend," he said gravely. "Never mind; nothing is wasted. But a baby!" And he

Gyp turned her head away to hide the quiver of her lips. The scent of latakia tobacco that had soaked into

things, and of old books and music, a dark smell, like Monsieur Harmost's complexion; the old brown

curtains, the sooty little back garden beyond, with its catruns, and its one stunted sumach tree; the

darkbrown stare of Monsieur Harmost's rolling eyes brought back that time of happiness, when she used to

come week after week, full of gaiety and importance, and chatter away, basking in his brusque admiration

and in music, all with the glamourous feeling that she was making him happy, and herself happy, and going

The voice of Monsieur Harmost, softly gruff, as if he knew what she was feeling, increased her emotion; her

breast heaved under the hummingbird blouse, water came into her eyes, and more than ever her lips

"Come, come! The only thing we cannot cure is age. You were right to come, my child. Music is your proper

air. If things are not all what they ought to be, you shall soon forget. In musicin music, we can get away.

After all, my little friend, they cannot take our dreams from usnot even a wife, not even a husband can do

And Gyp, with a violent effort, threw off that sudden weakness. From those who serve art devotedly there

radiates a kind of glamour. She left Monsieur Harmost that afternoon, infected by his passion for music.

Poetic justiceon which all homeopathy is foundedwas at work to try and cure her life by a dose of what

had spoiled it. To music, she now gave all the hours she could spare. She went to him twice a week,

determining to get on, but uneasy at the expense, for monetary conditions were ever more embarrassed. At

home, she practised steadily and worked hard at composition. She finished several songs and studies during

the spring and summer, and left still more unfinished. Monsieur Harmost was tolerant of these efforts,

seeming to know that harsh criticism or disapproval would cut her impulse down, as frost cuts the life of

flowers. Besides, there was always something fresh and individual in her things. He asked her one day:

She never had; she instinctively kept back the knowledge that she composed, dreading his ruthlessness when

anything grated on his nerves, and knowing that a breath of mockery would wither her belief in herself, frail

enough plant already. The only person, besides her master, to whom she confided her efforts wasstrangely

enoughRosek. But he had surprised her one day copying out some music, and said at once: "I knew. I was

certain you composed. Ah, do play it to me! I am sure you have talent." The warmth with which he praised

that little "caprice" was surely genuine; and she felt so grateful that she even played him others, and then a

song for him to sing. From that day, he no longer seemed to her odious; she even began to have for him a

certain friendliness, to be a little sorry, watching him, pale, trim, and sphinxlike, in her drawingroom or

garden, getting no nearer to the fulfilment of his desire. He had never again made love to her, but she knew

that at the least sign he would. His face and his invincible patience made him pathetic to her. Women such as

Gyp cannot actively dislike those who admire them greatly. She consulted him about Fiorsen's debts. There

were hundreds of pounds owing, it seemed, and, in addition, much to Rosek himself. The thought of these

debts weighed unbearably on her. Why did he, HOW did he get into debt like this? What became of the

money he earned? His fees, this summer, were good enough. There was such a feeling of degradation about

debt. It was, somehow, so underbred to owe money to all sorts of people. Was it on that girl, on other women,

that he spent it all? Or was it simply that his nature had holes in every pocket?

Watching Fiorsen closely, that spring and early summer, she was conscious of a change, a sort of loosening,

something in him had given wayas when, in winding a watch, the key turns on and on, the ratchet being

broken. Yet he was certainly working hard perhaps harder than ever. She would hear him, across the

garden, going over and over a passage, as if he never would be satisfied. But his playing seemed to her to

have lost its fire and sweep; to be stale, and as if disillusioned. It was all as though he had said to himself:

"What's the use?" In his face, too, there was a change. She knewshe was certain that he was drinking

secretly. Was it his failure with her? Was it the girl? Was it simply heredity from a harddrinking ancestry?

Gyp never faced these questions. To face them would mean useless discussion, useless admission that she

could not love him, useless asseveration from him about the girl, which she would not believe, useless denials

He was very irritable, and seemed especially to resent her music lessons, alluding to them with a sort of

sneering impatience. She felt that he despised them as amateurish, and secretly resented it. He was often

impatient, too, of the time she gave to the baby. His own conduct with the little creature was like all the rest

of him. He would go to the nursery, much to Betty's alarm, and take up the baby; be charming with it for

about ten minutes, then suddenly dump it back into its cradle, stare at it gloomily or utter a laugh, and go out.

Sometimes, he would come up when Gyp was there, and after watching her a little in silence, almost drag her

Suffering always from the guilty consciousness of having no love for him, and ever more and more from her

sense that, instead of saving him she was, as it were, pushing him downhillironical nemesis for

vanity!Gyp was ever more and more compliant to his whims, trying to make up. But this compliance,

when all the time she felt further and further away, was straining her to breaking point. Hers was a nature

Those months of spring and summer were like a long spell of drought, when moisture gathers far away,

The tenth of July that year was as the first day of summer. There had been much fine weather, but always

easterly or northerly; now, after a broken, rainy fortnight, the sun had come in full summer warmth with a

gentle breeze, drifting here and there scent of the opening lime blossom. In the garden, under the trees at the

far end, Betty sewed at a garment, and the baby in her perambulator had her seventh morning sleep. Gyp

stood before a bed of pansies and sweet peas. How monkeyish the pansies' faces! The sweet peas, too, were

like tiny bright birds fastened to green perches swaying with the wind. And their little green tridents, growing

out from the queer, flat stems, resembled the antennae of insects. Each of these bright frail, growing things

The sound of footsteps on the gravel made her turn. Rosek was coming from the drawingroom window.

Rather startled, Gyp looked at him over her shoulder. What had brought him at eleven o'clock in the

"I came to see Gustav. He's not up yet, it seems. I thought I would speak to you first. Can we talk?"

A faint tremor passed through her, but she led the way, and seated herself where she could see Betty and the

baby. Rosek stood looking down at her; his stillness, the sweetish gravity of his wellcut lips, his spotless

"Bad business, I'm afraid. Something must be done at once. I have been trying to arrange things, but they will

"The lease is in his nameyou are his wife. They can do it, I assure you." A sort of shadow passed over his

"Noof course! You ought not to have helped him at all. I can't bear" He bowed, and she stopped,

"About thirteen hundred pounds. It isn't much, of course. But there is something else"

"I am afraid to tell you; you will think again perhaps that I am trying to make capital out of it. I can read your

"Yes. A child is coming. They have made her tell. It means the cancelling of her engagements, of

"He is rabida rabid man of his class is dangerous. A lot of money will be wanted, I should thinksome

"Gyp, it is a year since I told you of this. You did not believe me then. I told you, too, that I loved you. I love

He turned, and Gyp thought he was really going; but he stopped and came back past the line of the window.

The expression of his face was quite changed, so hungry that, for a moment, she felt sorry for him. And that

must have shown in her face, for he suddenly caught at her, and tried to kiss her lips; she wrenched back, and

he could only reach her throat, but that he kissed furiously. Letting her go as suddenly, he bent his head and

Gyp stood wiping his kisses off her throat with the back of her hand, dumbly, mechanically thinking: "What

have I done to be treated like this? What HAVE I done?" No answer came. And such rage against men flared

up that she just stood there, twisting her gardengloves in her hands, and biting the lips he would have kissed.

Then, going to her bureau, she took up her address book and looked for the name: Wing, 88, Frankland

Street, Fulham. Unhooking her little bag from off the back of the chair, she put her chequebook into it.

Then, taking care to make no sound, she passed into the hall, caught up her sunshade, and went out, closing

She walked quickly toward Baker Street. Her gardeninghat was right enough, but she had come out without

gloves, and must go into the first shop and buy a pair. In the choosing of them, she forgot her emotions for a

minute. Out in the street again, they came back as bitterly as ever. And the day was so beautifulthe sun

bright, the sky blue, the clouds dazzling white; from the top of her 'bus she could see all its brilliance. There

rose up before her the memory of the man who had kissed her arm at the first ball. And nowthis! But,

mixed with her rage, a sort of unwilling compassion and fellow feeling kept rising for that girl, that silly,

sugarplum girl, brought to such a pass byher husband. These feelings sustained her through that voyage

to Fulham. She got down at the nearest corner, walked up a widish street of narrow grey houses till she came

to number eightyeight. On that newly scrubbed step, waiting for the door to open, she very nearly turned

The door was opened by a servant in an untidy frock. Mutton! The smell of muttonthere it was, just as the

In that peculiar "I've given it up" voice of domestics in small households, the servant answered:

Gyp produced her card. The maid looked at it, at Gyp, and at two brownpainted doors, as much as to say,

Gyp went in. In the middle of what was clearly the diningroom, she tried to subdue the tremor of her limbs

and a sense of nausea. The table against which her hand rested was covered with red baize, no doubt to keep

the stains of mutton from penetrating to the wood. On the mahogany sideboard reposed a cruetstand and a

green dish of very red apples. A bambooframed talc screen painted with white and yellow marguerites stood

before a fireplace filled with pampas grass dyed red. The chairs were of red morocco, the curtains a

brownishred, the walls green, and on them hung a set of Landseer prints. The peculiar sensation which red

and green in juxtaposition produce on the sensitive was added to Gyp's distress. And, suddenly, her eyes

lighted on a little deepblue china bowl. It stood on a black stand on the mantelpiece, with nothing in it. To

Gyp, in this room of red and green, with the smell of mutton creeping in, that bowl was like the crystallized

whiff of another world. Daphne Wingnot Daisy Waggehad surely put it there! And, somehow, it

touched heremblem of stifled beauty, emblem of all that the girl had tried to pour out to her that August

afternoon in her garden nearly a year ago. Thin Eastern china, good and really beautiful! A wonder they

A sigh made her turn round. With her back against the door and a white, scared face, the girl was standing.

Gyp thought: 'She has suffered horribly.' And, going impulsively up to her, she held out her hand.

Daphne Wing sighed out: "Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen!" and, bending over that hand, kissed it. Gyp saw that her new

glove was wet. Then the girl relapsed, her feet a little forward, her head a little forward, her back against the

door. Gyp, who knew why she stood thus, was swept again by those two emotionsrage against men, and

Daphne Wing put her hands up over her white face and sobbed. She sobbed so quietly but so terribly deeply

that Gyp herself had the utmost difficulty not to cry. It was the sobbing of real despair by a creature bereft of

hope and strength, above all, of lovethe sort of weeping which is drawn from desolate, suffering souls only

by the touch of fellow feeling. And, instead of making Gyp glad or satisfying her sense of justice, it filled her

with more rage against her husbandthat he had taken this girl's infatuation for his pleasure and then thrown

her away. She seemed to see him discarding that clinging, dovefair girl, for cloying his senses and getting

on his nerves, discarding her with caustic words, to abide alone the consequences of her infatuation. She put

her hand timidly on that shaking shoulder, and stroked it. For a moment the sobbing stopped, and the girl said

"Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I do love him so!" At those naive words, a painful wish to laugh seized on Gyp, making

her shiver from head to foot. Daphne Wing saw it, and went on: "I knowI knowit's awful; but I doand

now hehe" Her quiet but really dreadful sobbing broke out again. And again Gyp began stroking and

stroking her shoulder. "And I have been so awful to you! Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, do forgive me, please!"

Very slowly the sobbing died away, till it was just a long shivering, but still the girl held her hands over her

face and her face down. Gyp felt paralyzed. The unhappy girl, the red and green room, the smell of

At last, a little of that white face showed; the lips, no longer craving for sugarplums, murmured:

"It's you hehereally loves all the time. And you don't love himthat's what's so funnyandandI

can't understand it. Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, if I could see himjust see him! He told me never to come again; and I

haven't dared. I haven't seen him for three weeksnot since I told him about IT. What shall I do? What shall

His being her own husband seemed as nothing to Gyp at that moment. She felt such pity and yet such violent

revolt that any girl should want to crawl back to a man who had spurned her. Unconsciously, she had drawn

herself up and pressed her lips together. The girl, who followed every movement, said piteously:

"I don't seem to have any pride. I don't mind what he does to me, or what he says, if only I can see him."

"I think I shall do something desperate. Now that I can't dance, and THEY know, it's too awful! If I could see

him, I wouldn't mind anything. But I knowI know he'll never want me again. Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I wish I

A heavy sigh escaped Gyp, and, bending suddenly, she kissed the girl's forehead. Still that scent of orange

blossom about her skin or hair, as when she asked whether she ought to love or not; as when she came,

mothlike, from the treeshade into the moonlight, spun, and fluttered, with her shadow spinning and

fluttering before her. Gyp turned away, feeling that she must relieve the strain. and pointing to the bowl, said:

"Oh, would you like it? Do take it. Count Rosek gave it me." She started away from the door. "Oh, that's

Gyp heard a man clear his throat, and the rattle of an umbrella falling into a stand; the sight of the girl wilting

and shrinking against the sideboard steadied her. Then the door opened, and Mr. Wagge entered. Short and

thick, in black frock coat and trousers, and a greyish beard, he stared from one to the other. He looked what

he was, an Englishman and a chapelgoer, nourished on sherry and mutton, who could and did make his own

way in the world. His features, coloured, as from a deep liverishness, were thick, like his body, and not

illnatured, except for a sort of anger in his small, rather piggy grey eyes. He said in a voice permanently

"Ow!" The sound of his breathing could be heard distinctly; he twisted a chair round and said:

In Mr. Wagge's face a kind of deference seemed to struggle with some more primitive emotion. Taking out a

large, blackedged handkerchief, he blew his nose, passed it freely over his visage, and turning to his

The girl turned quickly, and the last glimpse of her white face whipped up Gyp's rage against men. When the

door was shut, Mr. Wagge cleared his throat; the grating sound carried with it the suggestion of enormously

His little piggy eyes travelled from her face to her feet, to the walls of the room, to his own watchchain, to

his hands that had begun to rub themselves together, back to her breast, higher than which they dared not

mount. Their infinite embarrassment struck Gyp. She could almost hear him thinking: 'Now, how can I

discuss it with this attractive young female, wife of the scoundrel who's ruined my daughter? Delicatethat's

"This is an unpleasant business, ma'am. I don't know what to say. Reelly I don't. It's awkward; it's very

"Your daughter is desperately unhappy; and that can't be good for her just now."

Mr. Wagge's thick figure seemed to writhe. "Pardon me, ma'am," he spluttered, "but I must call your husband

a scoundrel. I'm sorry to be impolite, but I must do it. If I had 'im 'ere, I don't know that I should be able to

control myselfI don't indeed." Gyp made a movement of her gloved hands, which he seemed to interpret as

sympathy, for he went on in a stream of husky utterance: "It's a delicate thing before a lady, and she the

injured party; but one has feelings. From the first I said this dancin' was in the face of Providence; but women

have no more sense than an egg. Her mother she would have it; and now she's got it! Career, indeed! Pretty

career! Daughter of mine! I tell you, ma'am, I'm angry; there's no other word for itI'm angry. If that

scoundrel comes within reach of me, I shall mark 'imI'm not a young man, but I shall mark 'im. An' what to

say to you, I'm sure I don't know. That my daughter should be'ave like that! Well, it's made a difference to

me. An' now I suppose her name'll be dragged in the mud. I tell you frankly I 'oped you wouldn't hear of it,

because after all the girl's got her punishment. And this divorcecourt it's not niceit's a horrible thing for

respectable people. And, mind you, I won't see my girl married to that scoundrel, not if you do divorce 'im.

Gyp, who had listened with her head a little bent, raised it suddenly, and said:

"There'll be no public disgrace, Mr. Wagge, unless you make it yourself. If you send

DaphneDaisyquietly away somewhere till her trouble's over, no one need know anything."

Mr. Wagge, whose mouth had opened slightly, and whose breathing could certainly have been heard in the

"Well," he said, at length, "it's more than she deserves; but I don't disguise it's a relief to me. And I must say,

in a young lady like you, andand handsome, it shows a Christian spirit." Again Gyp shivered, and shook

her head. "It does. You'll allow me to say so, as a man old enough to be your fatherand a regular

Mr. Wagge recoiled a little, and for some seconds stood ruefully rubbing his hands together and looking from

"I'm a domestic man," he said suddenly. "A domestic man in a serious line of life; and I never thought to have

anything like this in my familynever! It's beenwell, I can't tell you what it's been!"

Gyp took up her sunshade. She felt that she must get away; at any moment he might say something she could

"I am sorry," she said again; "goodbye"; and moved past him to the door. She heard him breathing hard as

he followed her to open it, and thought: 'If onlyoh! please let him be silent till I get outside!' Mr. Wagge

passed her and put his hand on the latch of the front door. His little piggy eyes scanned her almost timidly.

"Well," he said, "I'm very glad to have the privilege of your acquaintance; and, if I may say so, you

The door once shut behind her, Gyp took a long breath and walked swiftly away. Her cheeks were burning;

and, with a craving for protection, she put up her sunshade. But the girl's white face came up again before

Gyp walked on beneath her sunshade, making unconsciously for the peace of trees. Her mind was a whirl of

impressionsDaphne Wing's figure against the door, Mr. Wagge's puggy greybearded countenance, the red

pampasgrass, the blue bowl, Rosek's face swooping at her, her last glimpse of her baby asleep under the

She reached Kensington Gardens, turned into that walk renowned for the beauty of its flowers and the

plainness of the people who frequent it, and sat down on a bench. It was near the luncheon hour;

nursemaids, dogs, perambulators, old gentlemenall were hurrying a little toward their food. They glanced

with critical surprise at this pretty young woman, leisured and lonely at such an hour, trying to find out what

was wrong with her, as one naturally does with beautybow legs or something, for sure, to balance a face

like that! But Gyp noticed none of them, except now and again a dog which sniffed her knees in passing. For

months she had resolutely cultivated insensibility, resolutely refused to face reality; the barrier was forced

now, and the flood had swept her away. "Proceedings!" Mr. Wagge had said. To those who shrink from

letting their secret affairs be known even by their nearest friends, the notion of a public exhibition of troubles

simply never comes, and it had certainly never come to Gyp. With a bitter smile she thought: 'I'm better off

than she is, after all! Suppose I loved him, too? No, I neverneverwant to love. Women who love suffer

She sat on that bench a long time before it came into her mind that she was due at Monsieur Harmost's for a

music lesson at three o'clock. It was well past two already; and she set out across the grass. The summer day

was full of murmurings of bees and flies, cooings of blissful pigeons, the soft swish and stir of leaves, and the

scent of lime blossom under a sky so blue, with few white clouds slow, and calm, and full. Why be unhappy?

And one of those spotty spaniel dogs, that have broad heads, with frizzy topknots, and are always rascals,

smelt at her frock and moved round and round her, hoping that she would throw her sunshade on the water

for him to fetch, this being in his view the only reason why anything was carried in the hand.

She found Monsieur Harmost fidgeting up and down the room, whose opened windows could not rid it of the

"Ah," he said, "I thought you were not coming! You look pale; are you not well? Is it the heat? Or"he

looked hard into her face "has someone hurt you, my little friend?" Gyp shook her head. "Ah, yes," he

went on irritably; "you tell me nothing; you tell nobody nothing! You close up your pretty face like a flower

at night. At your age, my child, one should make confidences; a secret grief is to music as the east wind to the

stomach. Put off your mask for once." He came close to her. "Tell me your troubles. It is a long time since I

have been meaning to ask. Come! We are only once young; I want to see you happy."

But Gyp stood looking down. Would it be relief to pour her soul out? Would it? His brown eyes questioned

Monsieur Harmost suddenly sat down at the piano. Resting his hands on the keys, he looked round at her, and

"I am in love with you, you know. Old men can be very much in love, but they know it is no goodthat

makes them endurable. Still, we like to feel of use to youth and beauty; it gives us a little warmth. Come; tell

me your grief!" He waited a moment, then said irritably: "Well, well, we go to music then!"

It was his habit to sit by her at the piano corner, but today he stood as if prepared to be exceptionally severe.

And Gyp played, whether from overexcited nerves or from not having had any lunch, better than she had ever

played. The Chopin polonaise in A flat, that song of revolution, which had always seemed so unattainable,

went as if her fingers were being worked for her. When she had finished, Monsieur Harmost, bending

forward, lifted one of her hands and put his lips to it. She felt the scrub of his little bristly beard, and raised

"Congratulations, madame! I have long wanted to see you under the inspiration of yourmaster!"

Gyp's heart began to beat desperately. Monsieur Harmost had not moved. A faint grin slowly settled in his

Fiorsen ran forward, stretching out his arms toward Monsieur Harmost, as if to take him by the throat.

Gyp slipped between, right up to those outstretched hands till she could feel their knuckles against her. Had

he gone mad? Would he strangle her? But her eyes never moved from his, and his began to waver; his hands

Fiorsen spun round, shook his fist, and went out muttering. They heard the front door slam. Gyp turned

abruptly to the window, and there, in her agitation, she noticed little outside things as one does in moments of

bewildered anger. Even into that back yard, summer had crept. The leaves of the sumachtree were

glistening; in a threecornered little patch of sunlight, a black cat with a blue ribbon round its neck was

basking. The voice of one hawking strawberries drifted melancholy from a side street. She was conscious that

Monsieur Harmost was standing very still, with a hand pressed to his mouth, and she felt a perfect passion of

compunction and anger. That kind and harmless old manto be so insulted! This was indeed the culmination

of all Gustav's outrages! She would never forgive him this! For he had insulted her as well, beyond what

pride or meekness could put up with. She turned, and, running up to the old man, put both her hands into his.

"I'm so awfully sorry. Goodbye, dear, dear Monsieur Harmost; I shall come on Friday!" And, before he

She dived into the traffic; but, just as she reached the pavement on the other side, felt her dress plucked and

saw Fiorsen just behind her. She shook herself free and walked swiftly on. Was he going to make a scene in

the street? Again he caught her arm. She stopped dead, faced round on him, and said, in an icy voice:

"Please don't make scenes in the street, and don't follow me like this. If you want to talk to me, you canat

Then, very calmly, she turned and walked on. But he was still following her, some paces off. She did not

quicken her steps, and to the first taxicab driver that passed she made a sign, and saying:

"Bury Streetquick!" got in. She saw Fiorsen rush forward, too late to stop her. He threw up his hand and

stood still, his face deadly white under his broadbrimmed hat. She was far too angry and upset to care.

From the moment she turned to the window at Monsieur Harmost's, she had determined to go to her father's.

She would not go back to Fiorsen; and the one thought that filled her mind was how to get Betty and her

baby. Nearly four! Dad was almost sure to be at his club. And leaning out, she said: "No; Hyde Park Corner,

The hall porter, who knew her, after calling to a pageboy: "Major Wintonsharp, now!" came specially out

Gyp sat with it on her knee, vaguely taking in her surroundingsa thin old gentleman anxiously weighing

himself in a corner, a white calved footman crossing with a teatray; a number of hats on pegs; the

greenbaize board with its white rows of tapelike paper, and three members standing before it. One of them,

a tall, stout, goodhumouredlooking man in pincenez and a white waistcoat, becoming conscious,

removed his straw hat and took up a position whence, without staring, he could gaze at her; and Gyp knew,

without ever seeming to glance at him, that he found her to his liking. She saw her father's unhurried figure

passing that little group, all of whom were conscious now, and eager to get away out of this sanctum of

He gave her a quick look, selected his hat, and followed to the door. In the cab, he put his hand on hers and

"I want to come back to you. I can't go on there. It'sit's I've come to an end."

His hand pressed hers tightly, as if he were trying to save her the need for saying more. Gyp went on:

"I'll take this cab on, then. You stay and get the room ready for her. Don't worry, and don't go out till I

The cab stopped at the Bury Street door. She took his hand, put it to her cheek, and got out. He said quietly:

"All right. There'll be time to get you in some things for the night after I come back. I shan't run any risks

Gyp watched the cab gather way again, saw him wave his hand; then, with a deep sigh, half anxiety, half

When the cab debouched again into St. James' Street, Winton gave the order: "Quick as you can!" One could

think better going fast! A little red had come into his brown cheeks; his eyes under their halfdrawn lids had

a keener light; his lips were tightly closed; he looked as he did when a fox was breaking cover. Gyp could do

no wrong, or, if she could, he would stand by her in it as a matter of course. But he was going to take no

risksmake no frontal attack. Time for that later, if necessary. He had better nerves than most people, and

that kind of steely determination and resource which makes many Englishmen of his class formidable in

small operations. He kept his cab at the door, rang, and asked for Gyp, with a kind of pleasure in his ruse.

"No, thanks." How to effect this withdrawal without causing gossip, and yet avoid suspicion of collusion with

Passing out into the garden, he became aware that Fiorsen was at the diningroom window watching him,

and decided to make no sign that he knew this. The baby was under the trees at the far end, and the dogs

came rushing thence with a fury which lasted till they came within scent of him. Winton went leisurely up to

the perambulator, and, saluting Betty, looked down at his grandchild. She lay under an awning of muslin, for

fear of flies, and was awake. Her solemn, large brown eyes, already like Gyp's, regarded him with gravity.

Clucking to her once or twice, as is the custom, he moved so as to face the house. In this position, he had

"I'm here with a message from your mistress, Betty. Keep your head; don't look round, but listen to me. She's

at Bury Street and going to stay there; she wants you and baby and the dogs." The stout woman's eyes grew

round and her mouth opened. Winton put his hand on the perambulator. "Steady, now! Go out as usual with

this thing. It's about your time; and wait for me at the turning to Regent's Park. I'll come on in my cab and

pick you all up. Don't get flurried; don't take anything; do exactly as you usually would. Understand?"

It is not in the nature of stout women with babies in their charge to receive such an order without question.

"Now, Betty, pull yourself together; Gyp wants you. I'll tell you all about it in the cab."

Conscious of that figure still at the window, Winton made some passes with his fingers at the baby, and said:

"Never mind them. As soon as you see me at the drawingroom window, get ready and go. Eyes front, Betty;

don't look round; I'll cover your retreat! Don't fail Gyp now. Pull yourself together."

With a sigh that could have been heard in Kensington, Betty murmured: "Very well, sir; oh dear!" and began

to adjust the strings of her bonnet. With nods, as if he had been the recipient of some sage remarks about the

baby, Winton saluted, and began his march again towards the house. He carefully kept his eyes to this side

and to that, as if examining the flowers, but noted all the same that Fiorsen had receded from the window.

Rapid thought told him that the fellow would come back there to see if he were gone, and he placed himself

before a rosebush, where, at that reappearance, he could make a sign of recognition. Sure enough, he came;

and Winton quietly raising his hand to the salute passed on through the drawingroom window. He went

quickly into the hall, listened a second, and opened the diningroom door. Fiorsen was pacing up and down,

pale and restless. He came to a standstill and stared haggardly at Winton, who said:

Something in the sound of that "No" touched Winton with a vaguea very vaguecompunction. To be left

by Gyp! Then his heart hardened again. The fellow was a rotterhe was sure of it, had always been sure.

"It's not late." And suddenly he felt a great aversion for the part he was playing. To get the baby; to make

Gyp safeyes! But, somehow, not this pretence that he knew nothing about it. He turned on his heel and

walked out. It imperilled everything; but he couldn't help it. He could not stay and go on prevaricating like

this. Had that woman got clear? He went back into the drawingroom. There they werejust passing the

side of the house. Five minutes, and they would be down at the turning. He stood at the window, waiting. If

only that fellow did not come in! Through the partition wall he could hear him still tramping up and down the

diningroom. What a long time a minute was! Three had gone when he heard the diningroom door opened,

and Fiorsen crossing the hall to the front door. What was he after, standing there as if listening? And

suddenly he heard him sigh. It was just such a sound as many times, in the longpast days, had escaped

himself, waiting, listening for footsteps, in parched and sickening anxiety. Did this fellow then really

lovealmost as he had loved? And in revolt at spying on him like this, he advanced and said:

Fiorsen started; he had evidently supposed himself alone. And Winton thought: 'By Jove! he does look bad!'

"Goodbye!" he said; but the words: "Give my love to Gyp," perished on their way up to his lips.

"Goodbye!" Fiorsen echoed. And Winton went out under the trellis, conscious of that forlorn figure still

standing at the halfopened door. Betty was nowhere in sight; she must have reached the turning. His mission

had succeeded, but he felt no elation. Round the corner, he picked up his convoy, and, with the perambulator

hoisted on to the taxi, journeyed on at speed. He had said he would explain in the cab, but the only remark he

And Betty, who had feared him ever since their encounter so many years ago, eyed his profile, without daring

to ask questions. Before he reached home, Winton stopped at a postoffice, and sent this telegram:

It salved a conscience on which that fellow's figure in the doorway weighed; besides, it was necessary, lest

Fiorsen should go to the police. The rest must wait till he had talked with Gyp.

There was much to do, and it was late before they dined, and not till Markey had withdrawn could they begin

Close to the open windows where Markey had placed two hydrangea plantsjust bought on his own

responsibility, in token of silent satisfactionGyp began. She kept nothing back, recounting the whole

miserable fiasco of her marriage. When she came to Daphne Wing and her discovery in the musicroom, she

could see the glowing end of her father's cigar move convulsively. That insult to his adored one seemed to

Winton so inconceivable that, for a moment, he stopped her recital by getting up to pace the room. In her own

househer own house! Andafter that, she had gone on with him! He came back to his chair and did not

Coming to the incidents of the day itself, she hesitated. Must she tell him, too, of Rosekwas it wise, or

necessary? The allor nothing candour that was part of her nature prevailed, and she went straight on, and,

save for the feverish jerking of his evening shoe, Winton made no sign. When she had finished, he got up and

slowly extinguished the end of his cigar against the windowsill; then looking at her lying back in her chair

At that hour before the theatres rose, a lull brooded in the London streets; in this quiet narrow one, the town's

hum was only broken by the clack of a halfdrunken woman bickering at her man as they lurched along for

home, and the strains of a street musician's fiddle, trying to make up for a blank day. The sound vaguely

irritated Winton, reminding him of those two damnable foreigners by whom she had been so treated. To have

"Dad, I should like to pay his debts. Then things would be as they were when I married him."

"I want to make sure, too, that the girl is all right till she's over her trouble. Perhaps I could use some of

It was sheer anger, not disapproval of her impulse, that made him hesitate; money and revenge would never

"I want to feel as if I'd never let him marry me. Perhaps his debts are all part of thatwho knows? Please!"

Winton looked at her. How likewhen she said that "Please!" How likeher figure sunk back in the old

chair, and the face lifted in shadow! A sort of exultation came to him. He had got her back had got her

Fiorsen's bedroom wasas the maid would remark"a proper pigsty" until he was out of it and it could

be renovated each day. He had a talent for disorder, so that the room looked as if three men instead of one

had gone to bed in it. Clothes and shoes, brushes, water, tumblers, breakfasttray, newspapers, French

novels, and cigaretteendsnone were ever where they should have been; and the stale fumes from the

many cigarettes he smoked before getting up incommoded anyone whose duty it was to take him tea and

shaving water. When, on that first real summer day, the maid had brought Rosek up to him, he had been

lying a long time on his back, dreamily watching the smoke from his cigarette and four flies waltzing in the

sunlight that filtered through the green sun blinds. This hour, before he rose, was his creative moment, when

he could best see the form of music and feel inspiration for its rendering. Of late, he had been stale and

wretched, all that side of him dull; but this morning he felt again the delicious stir of fancy, that vibrating,

halfdreamy state when emotion seems so easily to find shape and the mind pierces through to new

expression. Hearing the maid's knock, and her murmured: "Count Rosek to see you, sir," he thought: 'What

the devil does he want?' A larger nature, drifting without control, in contact with a smaller one, who knows

his own mind exactly, will instinctively be irritable, though he may fail to grasp what his friend is after.

And pushing the cigarettebox toward Rosek, he turned away his head. It would be money he had come

about, orthat girl! That girlhe wished she was dead! Soft, clinging creature! A baby! God! What a fool

he had beenah, what a fool! Such absurdity! Unheard of! First Gypthen her! He had tried to shake the

girl off. As well try to shake off a burr! How she clung! He had been patientoh, yespatient and kind, but

how go on when one was tiredtired of herand wanting only Gyp, only his own wife? That was a funny

thing! And now, when, for an hour or two, he had shaken free of worry, had been feeling happyyes,

happythis fellow must come, and stand there with his face of a sphinx! And he said pettishly:

Rosek lit a cigarette but did not sit down. He struck even Fiorsen by his unsmiling pallor.

"You had better look out for Mr. Wagge, Gustav; he came to me yesterday. He has no music in his soul."

"What! You did. What was your game? You never do anything without a game. You know you did. Come;

"Look here: I have done with your friendshipyou are no friend to me. I have never really known you, and I

"My dear, that is all very well, but friendships are not finished like that. Moreover, you owe me a thousand

"Well, I will pay it." Rosek's eyebrows mounted. "I will. Gyp will lend it to me."

"Gustav, don't be a fool! With a violin to your shoulder, you are a man. Withoutyou are a child. Lie quiet,

my friend, and think of Mr. Wagge. But you had better come and talk it over with me. Goodbye for the

moment. Calm yourself." And, flipping the ash off his cigarette on to the tray by Fiorsen's elbow, he nodded

Fiorsen, who had leaped out of bed, put his hand to his head. The cursed fellow! Cursed be every one of

themthe father and the girl, Rosek and all the other sharks! He went out on to the landing. The house was

quite still below. Rosek had gonegood riddance! He called, "Gyp!" No answer. He went into her room. Its

superlative daintiness struck his fancy. A scent of cyclamen! He looked out into the garden. There was the

baby at the end, and that fat woman. No Gyp! Never in when she was wanted. Wagge! He shivered; and,

going back into his bedroom, took a brandybottle from a locked cupboard and drank some. It steadied him;

Going out to the musicroom, he stopped under the trees to make passes with his fingers at the baby.

Sometimes he felt that it was an adorable little creature, with its big, dark eyes so like Gyp's. Sometimes it

excited his disgusta discoloured brat. This morning, while looking at it, he thought suddenly of the other

that was comingand grimaced. Catching Betty's stare of horrified amazement at the face he was making at

While he was keying up his violin, Gyp's conduct in never having come there for so long struck him as

bitterly unjust. The girl who cared about the wretched girl? As if she made any real difference! It was all

so much deeper than that. Gyp had never loved him, never given him what he wanted, never quenched his

thirst of her! That was the heart of it. No other woman he had ever had to do with had been like thatkept

his thirst unquenched. No; he had always tired of them before they tired of him. She gave him nothing

reallynothing! Had she no heart or did she give it elsewhere? What was that Paul had said about her

musiclessons? And suddenly it struck him that he knew nothing, absolutely nothing, of where she went or

what she did. She never told him anything. Musiclessons? Every day, nearly, she went out, was away for

hours. The thought that she might go to the arms of another man made him put down his violin with a feeling

of actual sickness. Why not? That deep and fearful whipping of the sexual instinct which makes the ache of

jealousy so truly terrible was at its full in such a nature as Fiorsen's. He drew a long breath and shuddered.

The remembrance of her fastidious pride, her candour, above all her passivity cut in across his fear. No, not

He went to a little table whereon stood a tantalus, tumblers, and a syphon, and pouring out some brandy,

drank. It steadied him. And he began to practise. He took a passage from Brahms' violin concerto and began

to play it over and over. Suddenly, he found he was repeating the same flaws each time; he was not attending.

The fingering of that thing was ghastly! Musiclessons! Why did she take them? Waste of time and

moneyshe would never be anything but an amateur! Ugh! Unconsciously, he had stopped playing. Had she

He put down his violin and went back to the house. No sign of her! The maid came to ask if he would lunch.

No! Was the mistress to be in? She had not said. He went into the diningroom, ate a biscuit, and drank a

brandy and soda. It steadied him. Lighting a cigarette, he came back to the drawingroom and sat down at

Gyp's bureau. How tidy! On the little calendar, a pencilcross was set against todayWednesday, another

against Friday. What for? Musiclessons! He reached to a pigeonhole, and took out her addressbook.

Three o'clock. So that was her hour! His eyes rested idly on a little old coloured print of a Bacchante, with

flowing green scarf, shaking a tambourine at a naked Cupid, who with a baby bow and arrow in his hands,

was gazing up at her. He turned it over; on the back was written in a pointed, scriggly hand, "To my little

friend.E. H." Fiorsen drew smoke deep down into his lungs, expelled it slowly, and went to the piano. He

opened it and began to play, staring vacantly before him, the cigarette burned nearly to his lips. He went on,

scarcely knowing what he played. At last he stopped, and sat dejected. A great artist? Often, nowadays, he

did not care if he never touched a violin again. Tired of standing up before a sea of dull faces, seeing the

blockheads knock their silly hands one against the other! Sick of the sameness of it all! Besidesbesides,

He got up, went into the diningroom, and drank some brandy. Gyp could not bear his drinking. Well, she

shouldn't be out so much taking musiclessons. Musiclessons! Nearly three o'clock. If he went for once

and saw what she really did Went, and offered her his escort home! An attention. It might please her.

Better, anyway, than waiting here until she chose to come in with her face all closed up. He drank a little

more brandyever so littletook his hat and went. Not far to walk, but the sun was hot, and he reached the

Why did she look at him like that? Ugly girl! How hateful ugly people were! When she was gone, he

Chopin! The polonaise in A flat. Good! Could that be Gyp? Very good! He moved out, down the passage,

drawn on by her playing, and softly turned the handle. The music stopped. He went in.

When Winton had left him, an hour and a half later that afternoon, Fiorsen continued to stand at the front

door, swaying his body to and fro. The brandynurtured burst of jealousy which had made him insult his wife

and old Monsieur Harmost had died suddenly when Gyp turned on him in the street and spoke in that icy

voice; since then he had felt fear, increasing every minute. Would she forgive? To one who always acted on

the impulse of the moment, so that he rarely knew afterward exactly what he had done, or whom hurt, Gyp's

selfcontrol had ever been mysterious and a little frightening. Where had she gone? Why did she not come

in? Anxiety is like a ball that rolls downhill, gathering momentum. Suppose she did not come back! But she

For the first time, the thought of it gave him unalloyed satisfaction. He left the door, and, after drinking a

glass to steady him, flung himself down on the sofa in the drawingroom. And while he lay there, the brandy

warm within him, he thought: 'I will turn over a new leaf; give up drink, give up everything, send the baby

into the country, take Gyp to Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Rome anywhere out of this England, anywhere, away

from that father of hers and all these stiff, dull folk! She will like thatshe loves travelling!' Yes, they would

be happy! Delicious nights delicious daysair that did not weigh you down and make you feel that you

must drinkreal inspirationreal music! The acrid wood smoke scent of Paris streets, the glistening

cleanness of the Thiergarten, a serenading song in a Florence back street, fireflies in the summer dusk at

Sorrentohe had intoxicating memories of them all! Slowly the warmth of the brandy died away, and,

despite the heat, he felt chill and shuddery. He shut his eyes, thinking to sleep till she came in. But very soon

he opened them, because a thing usual with him of latehe saw such ugly thingsfaces, vivid, changing

as he looked, growing ugly and uglier, becoming all holesholeshorrible holes Corruptionmatted,

twisted, dark humantreeroots of faces! Horrible! He opened his eyes, for when he did that, they always

went. It was very silent. No sound from above. No sound of the dogs. He would go up and see the baby.

While he was crossing the hall, there came a ring. He opened the door himself. A telegram! He tore the

He gave a short laugh, shut the door in the boy's face, and ran up stairs; whyheaven knew! There was

nobody there now! Nobody! Did it mean that she had really left himwas not coming back? He stopped by

the side of Gyp's bed, and flinging himself forward, lay across it, burying his face. And he sobbed, as men

will, unmanned by drink. Had he lost her? Never to see her eyes closing and press his lips against them!

Never to soak his senses in her loveliness! He leaped up, with the tears still wet on his face. Lost her?

Absurd! That calm, prim, devilish Englishman, her fatherhe was to blamehe had worked it allstealing

He went downstairs and drank some brandy. It steadied him a little. What should he do? "Letter follows."

He laughed, and, catching up his hat, went out, walking furiously at first, then slower and slower, for his head

began to whirl, and, taking a cab, was driven to a restaurant in Soho. He had eaten nothing but a biscuit since

his breakfast, always a small matter, and ordered soup and a flask of their best Chiantisolids he could not

face. More than two hours he sat, white and silent, perspiration on his forehead, now and then grinning and

flourishing his fingers, to the amusement and sometimes the alarm of those sitting near. But for being known

there, he would have been regarded with suspicion. About halfpast nine, there being no more wine, he got

up, put a piece of gold on the table, and went out without waiting for his change.

In the streets, the lamps were lighted, but daylight was not quite gone. He walked unsteadily, toward

Piccadilly. A girl of the town passed and looked up at him. Staring hard, he hooked his arm in hers without a

"Well, girl, are you happy?" The girl stopped and tried to disengage her arm; a rather frightened look had

come into her dark eyed powdered face. Fiorsen laughed, and held it firm. "When the unhappy meet, they

walk together. Come on! You are just a little like my wife. Will you have a drink?"

The girl shook her head, and, with a sudden movement, slipped her arm out of this madman's and dived away

like a swallow through the pavement traffic. Fiorsen stood still and laughed with his head thrown back. The

second time today. SHE had slipped from his grasp. Passers looked at him, amazed. The ugly devils! And

with a grimace, he turned out of Piccadilly, past St. James's Church, making for Bury Street. They wouldn't

let him in, of coursenot they! But he would look at the windows; they had flowerboxes flowerboxes!

And, suddenly, he groaned aloudhe had thought of Gyp's figure busy among the flowers at home. Missing

the right turning, he came in at the bottom of the street. A fiddler in the gutter was scraping away on an old

violin. Fiorsen stopped to listen. Poor devil! "Pagliacci!" Going up to the mandark, lame, very shabby, he

"Brother," he said, "lend me your fiddle. Here's money for you. Come; lend it to me. I am a great violinist."

The fiddler, doubting but hypnotized, handed him the fiddle; his dark face changed when he saw this stranger

fling it up to his shoulder and the ways of his fingers with bow and strings. Fiorsen had begun to walk up the

street, his eyes searching for the flower boxes. He saw them, stopped, and began playing "Che faro?" He

played it wonderfully on that poor fiddle; and the fiddler, who had followed at his elbow, stood watching

him, uneasy, envious, but a little entranced. Sapristi! This tall, pale monsieur with the strange face and the

eyes that looked drunk and the hollow chest, played like an angel! Ah, but it was not so easy as all that to

make money in the streets of this sacred town! You might play like forty angels and not a copper! He had

begun another tunelike little pluckings at your hearttres jolitout a fait ecoeurant! Ah, there it wasa

monsieur as usual closing the window, drawing the curtains! Always same thing! The violin and the bow

were thrust back into his hands; and the tall strange monsieur was off as if devils were after himnot badly

drunk, that one! And not a sou thrown down! With an uneasy feeling that he had been involved in something

that he did not understand, the lame, dark fiddler limped his way round the nearest corner, and for two streets

at least did not stop. Then, counting the silver Fiorsen had put into his hand and carefully examining his

Gyp hardly slept at all. Three times she got up, and, stealing to the door, looked in at her sleeping baby,

whose face in its new bed she could just see by the nightlight's glow. The afternoon had shaken her nerves.

Nor was Betty's method of breathing while asleep conducive to the slumber of anything but babies. It was so

hot, too, and the sound of the violin still in her ears. By that little air of Poise, she had known for certain it

was Fiorsen; and her father's abrupt drawing of the curtains had clinched that certainty. If she had gone to the

window and seen him, she would not have been half so deeply disturbed as she was by that echo of an old

emotion. The link which yesterday she thought broken for good was reforged in some mysterious way. The

sobbing of that old fiddle had been his way of saying, "Forgive me; forgive!" To leave him would have been

so much easier if she had really hated him; but she did not. However difficult it may be to live with an artist,

to hate him is quite as difficult. An artist is so flexibleonly the rigid can be hated. She hated the things he

did, and him when he was doing them; but afterward again could hate him no more than she could love him,

and that wasnot at all. Resolution and a sense of the practical began to come back with daylight. When

Winton, whose night had been almost as sleeplessto play like a beggar in the street, under his windows,

had seemed to him the limit!announced at breakfast that he must see his lawyer, make arrangements for

the payment of Fiorsen's debts, and find out what could be done to secure Gyp against persecution. Some

deed was probably necessary; he was vague on all such matters. In the meantime, neither Gyp nor the baby

must go out. Gyp spent the morning writing and rewriting to Monsieur Harmost, trying to express her

Her father came back from Westminster quiet and angry. He had with difficulty been made to understand that

the baby was Fiorsen's property, so that, if the fellow claimed it, legally they would be unable to resist. The

point opened the old wound, forced him to remember that his own daughter had once belonged to another

father. He had told the lawyer in a measured voice that he would see the fellow damned first, and had

directed a deed of separation to be prepared, which should provide for the complete payment of Fiorsen's

existing debts on condition that he left Gyp and the baby in peace. After telling Gyp this, he took an

opportunity of going to the extempore nursery and standing by the baby's cradle. Until then, the little creature

had only been of interest as part of Gyp; now it had for him an existence of its ownthis tiny, darkeyed

creature, lying there, watching him so gravely, clutching his finger. Suddenly the baby smilednot a

Wishing first to settle this matter of the deed, he put off going down to Mildenham; but "not trusting those

two scoundrels a yard" for he never failed to bracket Rosek and Fiorsenhe insisted that the baby should

not go out without two attendants, and that Gyp should not go out alone. He carried precaution to the point of

accompanying her to Monsieur Harmost's on the Friday afternoon, and expressed a wish to go in and shake

hands with the old fellow. It was a queer meeting. Those two had as great difficulty in finding anything to say

as though they were denizens of different planets. And indeed, there ARE two planets on this earth! When,

after a minute or so of the friendliest embarrassment, he had retired to wait for her, Gyp sat down to her

"Your letter was very kind, my little friendand your father is very kind. But, after all, it was a compliment

your husband paid me." His smile smote Gyp; it seemed to sum up so many resignations. "So you stay again

with your father!" And, looking at her very hard with his melancholy brown eyes, "When will you find your

"Ah," he said, "you think! No, that is impossible!" He walked twice very quickly up and down the room; then

spinning round on his heel, said sharply: "Well, we must not waste your father's time. To work."

At Bury Street, they found Gyp's agitated parlourmaid. Going to do the musicroom that morning, she had

"found the master sitting on the sofa, holding his head, and groaning awful. He's not been at home, ma'am,

since youyou went on your visit, so I didn't know what to do. I ran for cook and we got him up to bed, and

not knowing where you'd be, ma'am, I telephoned to Count Rosek, and he cameI hope I didn't do

wrongand he sent me down to see you. The doctor says his brain's on the touch and go, and he keeps askin'

"Wait here a minute, Ellen," and went into the diningroom. Winton followed. She turned to him at once, and

"Oh, Dad, what am I to do? His brain! It would be too awful to feel I'd brought that about."

"I must go and see. If it's really that, I couldn't bear it. I'm afraid I must go, Dad."

"Well, I'll come too," he said. "The girl can go back in the cab and say we're on the way."

Taking a parting look at her baby, Gyp thought bitterly: 'My fate? THIS is my fate, and no getting out of it!'

On the journey, she and Winton were quite silentbut she held his hand tight. While the cook was taking up

to Rosek the news of their arrival, Gyp stood looking out at her garden. Two days and six hours only since

she had stood there above her pansies; since, at this very spot, Rosek had kissed her throat! Slipping her hand

"Dad, please don't make anything of that kiss. He couldn't help himself, I suppose. What does it matter, too?"

"Thank you for letting us know, sir. But now that my daughter is here, there will be no further need for your

At the cruel curtness of those words, Gyp gave the tiniest start forward. She had seen them go through

Rosek's armour as a sword through brown paper. He recovered himself with a sickly smile, bowed, and went

out. Winton followedprecisely as if he did not trust him with the hats in the hall. When the outer door was

Gyp's gratitude was qualified by a queer compassion. After all, his offence had only been that of loving her.

Fiorsen had been taken to her room, which was larger and cooler than his own; and the maid was standing by

the side of the bed with a scared face. Gyp signed to her to go. He opened his eyes presently:

"Gyp! Oh! Gyp! Is it you? The devilish, awful things I see don't go away again! Oh, Gyp!" With a sob he

raised himself and rested his forehead against her. And Gyp feltas on the first night he came home

"It's all right, all right," she murmured. "I'm going to stay. Don't worry about anything. Keep quite quiet, and

In a quarter of an hour, he was asleep. His wasted look went to her heart, and that expression of terror which

had been coming and going until he fell asleep! Anything to do with the brain was so horrible! Only too clear

that she must staythat his recovery depended on her. She was still sitting there, motionless, when the

doctor came, and, seeing him asleep, beckoned her out. He looked a kindly man, with two waistcoats, the top

one unbuttoned; and while he talked, he winked at Gyp involuntarily, and, with each wink, Gyp felt that he

ripped the veil off one more domestic secret. Sleep was the ticketthe very ticket for him! Had something

on his mindyes! Andera little given tobrandy? Ah! all that must stop! Stomach as well as nerves

affected. Seeing thingsnasty thingssure sign. Perhaps not a very careful life before marriage. And

marriedhow long? His kindly appreciative eyes swept Gyp from top to toe. Year and a half! Quite so! Hard

worker at his violin, too? No doubt! Musicians always a little inclined to be immoderatetoo much sense of

beautyburn the candle at both ends! She must see to that. She had been away, had she notstaying with

her father? Yes. Butno one like a wife for nursing. As to treatment? Well! One would shove in a dash of

what he would prescribe, night and morning. Perfect quiet. No stimulant. A little cup of strong coffee without

milk, if he seemed low. Keep him in bed at present. No worry; no excitement. Young man still. Plenty of

vitality. As to herself, no undue anxiety. Tomorrow they would see whether a night nurse would be

necessary. Above all, no violin for a month, no alcoholin every way the strictest moderation! And with a

last and friendliest wink, leaning heavily on that word "moderation," he took out a stylographic pen,

scratched on a leaf of his notebook, shook Gyp's hand, smiled whimsically, buttoned his upper waistcoat,

Gyp went back to her seat by the bed. Irony! She whose only desire was to be let go free, was mainly

responsible for his breakdown! But for her, there would be nothing on his mind, for he would not be married!

Brooding morbidly, she asked herselfhis drinking, debts, even the girlhad she caused them, too? And

when she tried to free him and herselfthis was the result! Was there something fatal about her that must

destroy the men she had to do with? She had made her father unhappy, Monsieur HarmostRosek, and her

husband! Even before she married, how many had tried for her love, and gone away unhappy! And, getting

Three days after her abortive attempt to break away, Gyp, with much heartsearching, wrote to Daphne

Wing, telling her of Fiorsen's illness, and mentioning a cottage near Mildenham, whereif she liked to

goshe would be quite comfortable and safe from all curiosity, and finally begging to be allowed to make

Next morning, she found Mr. Wagge with a tall, crapebanded hat in his blackgloved hands, standing in the

very centre of her drawing room. He was staring into the garden, as if he had been vouchsafed a vision of

that warm night when the moonlight shed its ghostly glamour on the sunflowers, and his daughter had danced

out there. She had a perfect view of his thick red neck in its turndown collar, crossed by a black bow over a

"I hope I see you well, ma'am. Pretty place you 'ave 'ere. I'm fond of flowers myself. They've always been my

"Yees; I should think you might grow the dahlia here." And having thus obeyed the obscure instincts of

savoir faire, satisfied some obscurer desire to flatter, he went on: "My girl showed me your letter. I didn't like

to write; in such a delicate matter I'd rather be vivey vocey. Very kind, in your position; I'm sure I appreciate

it. I always try to do the Christian thing myself. Flesh passes; you never know when you may have to take

"I don't want to say anything harsh about a certain party in your presence, especially as I read he's indisposed,

but really I hardly know how to bear the situation. I can't bring myself to think of money in relation to that

matter; all the same, it's a serious loss to my daughter, very serious loss. I've got my family pride to think of.

My daughter's name, wellit's my own; and, though I say it, I'm respecteda regular attendantI think I

told you. Sometimes, I assure you, I feel I can't control myself, and it's only thatand you, if I may say so,

During this speech, his blackgloved hands were clenching and unclenching, and he shifted his broad,

shining boots. Gyp gazed at them, not daring to look up at his eyes thus turning and turning from Christianity

to shekels, from his honour to the world, from his anger to herself. And she said:

"Please let me do what I ask, Mr. Wagge. I should be so unhappy if I mightn't do that little something."

"It's a delicate matter," he said. "I don't know where my duty lays. I don't, reelly."

Mr. Wagge's face wore for a moment an expression of affront, as if from the thought: 'Sufferin'! You must

leave that to her father!' Then it wavered; the curious, furtive warmth of the attracted male came for a

Mr. Wagge's readjusted glance stopped in confusion at her waist. He answered, in a voice that he strove to

"If you put it in that way, I don't reelly know 'ow to refuse; but it must be quite between you and meI can't

"No, of course. Thank you so much; and you'll let me know about everything later. I mustn't take up your

"Well, I HAVE an appointment," he said; "a gentleman at Campden Hill. He starts at twelve. I'm never late.

When she had watched his square, black figure pass through the outer gate, busily rebuttoning those shining

For several days, Fiorsen wavered; but his collapse had come just in time, and with every hour the danger

lessened. At the end of a fortnight of a perfectly white life, there remained nothing to do in the words of the

doctor but "to avoid all recurrence of the predisposing causes, and shove in sea air!" Gyp had locked up all

brandyand violins; she could control him so long as he was tamed by his own weakness. But she passed

some very bitter hours before she sent for her baby, Betty, and the dogs, and definitely took up life in her

little house again. His debts had been paid, including the thousand pounds to Rosek, and the losses of Daphne

Wing. The girl had gone down to that cottage where no one had ever heard of her, to pass her time in lonely

grief and terror, with the aid of a black dress and a gold band on her third finger.

August and the first half of September were spent near Bude. Fiorsen's passion for the sea, a passion Gyp

could share, kept him singularly moderate and free from restiveness. He had been thoroughly frightened, and

such terror is not easily forgotten. They stayed in a farmhouse, where he was at his best with the simple folk,

and his best could be charming. He was always trying to get his "mermaid," as he took to calling Gyp, away

from the baby, getting her away to himself, along the grassy cliffs and among the rocks and yellow sands of

that free coast. His delight was to find every day some new nook where they could bathe, and dry themselves

by sitting in the sun. And very like a mermaid she was, on a seaweedy rock, with her feet close together in a

little pool, her fingers combing her drowned hair, and the sun silvering her wet body. If she had loved him, it

would have been perfect. But though, close to nature like thisthere are men to whom towns are poisonhe

was so much more easy to bear, even to like, her heart never opened to him, never fluttered at his voice, or

beat more quickly under his kisses. One cannot regulate these things. The warmth in her eyes when they

looked at her baby, and the coolness when they looked at him, was such that not even a man, and he an

egoist, could help seeing; and secretly he began to hate that tiny rival, and she began to notice that he did.

As soon as the weather broke, he grew restless, craving his violin, and they went back to town, in robust

healthall three. During those weeks, Gyp had never been free of the feeling that it was just a lull, of forces

held up in suspense, and the moment they were back in their house, this feeling gathered density and

darkness, as rain gathers in the sky after a fine spell. She had often thought of Daphne Wing, and had written

'Oh, it is kind of you to write, because I know what you must be feeling about me; and it was so kind of you

to let me come here. I try not to think about things, but of course I can't help it; and I don't seem to care what

happens now. Mother is coming down here later on. Sometimes I lie awake all night, listening to the wind.

Don't you think the wind is the most melancholy thing in the world? I wonder if I shall die? I hope I shall.

Oh, I do, really! Good bye, dear Mrs. Fiorsen. I shall never forgive myself about you.

The girl had never once been mentioned between her and Fiorsen since the night when he sat by her bed,

begging forgiveness; she did not know whether he ever gave the little dancer and her trouble a thought, or

even knew what had become of her. But now that the time was getting near, Gyp felt more and more every

day as if she must go down and see her. She wrote to her father, who, after a dose of Harrogate with Aunt

Rosamund, was back at Mildenham. Winton answered that the nurse was there, and that there seemed to be a

woman, presumably the mother, staying with her, but that he had not of course made direct inquiry. Could

not Gyp come down? He was alone, and cubbing had begun. It was like him to veil his longings under such

dry statements. But the thought of giving him pleasure, and of a gallop with hounds fortified intensely her

feeling that she ought to go. Now that baby was so well, and Fiorsen still not drinking, she might surely

snatch this little holiday and satisfy her conscience about the girl. Since the return from Cornwall, she had

played for him in the musicroom just as of old, and she chose the finish of a morning practice to say:

"To him? No. He will steal you as he stole the baby. Let him have the baby if he likes. Not you. No."

Gyp, who was standing by the piano, kept silence at this unexpected outburst, but revolt blazed up in her. She

never asked him anything; he should not refuse this. He came up behind and put his arms round her.

She tried to force his arms apart, but could not, and her anger grew. She said coldly:

"There is! The girl who is just going to have your child is staying near Mildenham, and I want to see how she

He let go of her then, and recoiling against the divan, sat down. And Gyp thought: 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean

"Yes! For all you care, she might be. I'm going, but you needn't be afraid that I shan't come back. I shall be

"Yes. You don't break your promises; you will not break it." But, suddenly, he said again: "Gyp, don't go!"

But she could not. It was one thing to put up with embraces, quite another to pretend that. When at last he

was gone, she sat smoothing her hair, staring before her with hard eyes, thinking: "Herewhere I saw him

Late that afternoon, she reached Mildenham. Winton met her at the station. And on the drive up, they passed

the cottage where Daphne Wing was staying. It stood in front of a small coppice, a creepered, plainfronted,

little brick house, with a garden still full of sunflowers, tenanted by the old jockey, Pettance, his widowed

daughter, and her three small children. "That talkative old scoundrel," as Winton always called him, was still

employed in the Mildenham stables, and his daughter was laundress to the establishment. Gyp had secured

for Daphne Wing the same free, independent, economic agent who had watched over her own event; the same

old doctor, too, was to be the presiding deity. There were no signs of life about the cottage, and she would not

stop, too eager to be at home again, to see the old rooms, and smell the old savour of the house, to get to her

old mare, and feel its nose nuzzling her for sugar. It was so good to be back once more, feeling strong and

well and able to ride. The smile of the inscrutable Markey at the front door was a joy to her, even the

darkness of the hall, where a gleam of last sunlight fell across the skin of Winton's first tiger, on which she

In her mare's box, old Pettance was putting a last touch to cleanliness. His shaven, skintight, wicked old

"Good evenin', miss; beautiful evenin', ma'am!" And his little burning brown eyes, just touched by age,

"Well, Pettance, how are you? And how's Annie, and how are the children? And how's this old darling?"

"Wonderful, miss; artful as a kitten. Carry you like a bird to morrow, if you're goin' out."

And while Gyp passed her hand down those iron legs, the old mare examined her down the back of her neck.

"They 'aven't filled not once since she come inshe was out all July and August; but I've kept 'er well at it

"They feel splendid." And, still bending down, Gyp asked: "And how is your lodgerthe young lady I sent

"Well, ma'am, she's very young, and these very young ladies they get a bit excited, you know, at such times; I

should say she've never been" With obvious difficulty he checked the words, "to an 'orse before!" "Well,

you must expect it. And her mother, she's a dreadful funny one, miss. She does needle me! Oh, she puts my

back up properly! No class, of coursethat's where it is. But this 'ere nursewell, you know, miss, she

won't 'ave no nonsense; so there we are. And, of course, you're bound to 'ave 'ighsteria, a bitlosin' her

Gyp could feel his wicked old smile even before she raised herself. But what did it matter if he did guess?

"Oh, we've 'ad some pretty flirtsup and cryin', dear me! I sleeps in the next roomoh, yes, at

nighttimewhen you're a widder at that age, you can't expect nothin' else. I remember when I was ridin' in

Gyp thought: 'I mustn't let him get offor I shall be late for dinner,' and she said:

"Mr. Bryn Summer'ay, ma'am, over at Widrington, for an 'unter, and 'ack in town, miss."

"Summerhay? Ah!" With a touch of the whip to her memory, Gyp recalled the young man with the clear eyes

and teasing smile, on the chestnut mare, the bold young man who reminded her of somebody, and she added:

"Oh, yes, miss; good 'omenice gentleman, too. He come over here to see it, and asked after you. I told 'im

you was a married lady now, miss. 'Ah,' he said; 'she rode beautiful!' And he remembered the 'orse well. The

major, he wasn't 'ere just then, so I let him try the young un; he popped 'im over a fence or two, and when he

come back he says, 'Well, I'm goin' to have 'im.' Speaks very pleasant, an' don't waste no time'orse was

away before the end of the week. Carry 'im well; 'e's a strong rider, too, and a good plucked one, but bad

"Yes, Pettance; I must go in now. Will you tell Annie I shall be round tomorrow, to see her?"

"Very good, miss. 'Ounds meets at Filly Cross, seventhirty. You'll be goin' out?"

Flying back across the yard, Gyp thought: "'She rode beautiful!' How jolly! I'm glad he's got my horse."

Still glowing from her morning in the saddle, Gyp started out next day at noon on her visit to the "old

scoundrel's" cottage. It was one of those lingering mellow mornings of late September, when the air, just

warmed through, lifts off the stubbles, and the hedgerows are not yet dried of dew. The short cut led across

two fields, a narrow strip of village common, where linen was drying on gorse bushes coming into bloom,

and one field beyond; she met no one. Crossing the road, she passed into the cottagegarden, where

sunflowers and Michaelmas daisies in great profusion were tangled along the low redbrick gardenwalls,

under some poplar trees yellowflecked already. A single empty chair, with a book turned face downward,

stood outside an open window. Smoke wreathing from one chimney was the only sign of life. But, standing

undecided before the halfopen door, Gyp was conscious, as it were, of too much stillness, of something

unnatural about the silence. She was just raising her hand to knock when she heard the sound of smothered

sobbing. Peeping through the window, she could just see a woman dressed in green, evidently Mrs. Wagge,

seated at a table, crying into her handkerchief. At that very moment, too, a low moaning came from the room

above. Gyp recoiled; then, making up her mind, she went in and knocked at the room where the woman in

green was sitting. After fully half a minute, it was opened, and Mrs. Wagge stood there. The nose and eyes

and cheeks of that thinnish, acid face were red, and in her green dress, and with her greenish hair (for it was

going grey and she put on it a yellow lotion smelling of cantharides), she seemed to Gyp just like one of those

green apples that turn reddish so unnaturally in the sun. She had rubbed over her face, which shone in streaks,

and her handkerchief was still crumpled in her hand. It was horrible to come, so fresh and glowing, into the

presence of this poor woman, evidently in bitter sorrow. And a desperate desire came over Gyp to fly. It

seemed dreadful for anyone connected with him who had caused this trouble to be coming here at all. But she

"Mrs. Wagge? Please forgive mebut is there any news? I am It was I who got Daphne down here."

The woman before her was evidently being torn this way and that, but at last she answered, with a sniff:

"Ititwas born this morningdead." Gyp gasped. To have gone through it all for that! Every bit of

motherfeeling in her rebelled and sorrowed; but her reason said: Better so! Much better! And she

"Badvery bad. I don't know I'm sure what to saymy feelings are all anyhow, and that's the truth. It's so

"Yes; she's there. She's a very headstrong woman, but capable, I don't deny. Daisy's very weak. Oh, it IS

upsetting! And now I suppose there'll have to be a burial. There really seems no end to it. And all because

Feeling she could never say or do the right thing to the poor lady, Gyp stole out. At the bottom of the stairs,

she hesitated whether to go up or no. At last, she mounted softly. It must be in the front room that the

bereaved girl was lyingthe girl who, but a year ago, had debated with such naive selfimportance whether

or not it was her duty to take a lover. Gyp summoned courage to tap gently. The economic agent opened the

door an inch, but, seeing who it was, slipped her robust and handsome person through into the corridor.

"I hardly think so. I can't make her out. She's got no spirit, not an ounce. She doesn't want to get well, I

believe. It's the man, I expect." And, looking at Gyp with her fine blue eyes, she asked: "Is that it? Is he tired

The economic agent swept her up and down. "It's a pleasure to look at you. You've got quite a colour, for

Gyp passed in behind her, and stood gazing, not daring to step forward. What a white face, with eyes closed,

with fair hair still damp on the forehead, with one white hand lying on the sheet above her heart! What a frail

madonna of the sugarplums! On the whole of that bed the only colour seemed the gold hoop round the

Daphne Wing's eyes and lips opened and closed again. And the awful thought went through Gyp: 'Poor thing!

She thought it was going to be him, and it's only me!' Then the white lips said:

"Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, it's youit is kind of you!" And the eyes opened again, but very little, and differently.

The economic agent slipped away. Gyp sat down by the bed and timidly touched the hand.

"It's over," she said just audibly, "and there's nothing nowit was dead, you know. I don't want to live. Oh,

Gyp bent over and kissed the hand, unable to bear the sight of those two slowly rolling tears. Daphne Wing

Gyp, knowing her own tears were wetting that hand, raised herself and managed to get out the words:

With eyes and mouth closed like that, and all alabaster white, the face was perfect, purged of its little

commonnesses. Strange freak that this white flower of a face could ever have been produced by Mr. and Mrs.

"Oh! Mrs. Fiorsen, I feel so weak. And I feel much more lonely now. There's nothing anywhere."

Gyp got up; she felt herself being carried into the mood of the girl's heart, and was afraid it would be seen.

"Do you know, when nurse said she'd brought a visitor, I thought it was him; but I'm glad now. If he had

Gyp bent down and put her lips to the damp forehead. Faint, very faint, there was still the scent of

When she was once more in the garden, she hurried away; but instead of crossing the fields again, turned past

the side of the cottage into the coppice behind. And, sitting down on a log, her hands pressed to her cheeks

and her elbows to her breast, she stared at the sunlit bracken and the flies chasing each other over it. Love!

Was it always something hateful and tragic that spoiled lives? Crisscross! One darting on another, taking

her almost before she knew she was seized, then darting away and leaving her wanting to be seized again. Or

darting on her, who, when seized, was fatal to the darter, yet had never wanted to be seized. Or darting one on

the other for a moment, then both breaking away too soon. Did never two dart at each other, seize, and cling,

and ever after be one? Love! It had spoiled her father's life, and Daphne Wing's; never came when it was

wanted; always came when it was not. Malevolent wanderer, alighting here, there; tiring of the spirit before it

tired of the body; or of the body before it tired of the spirit. Better to have nothing to do with itfar better! If

one never loved, one would never feel lonelylike that poor girl. And yet! Nothere was no "and yet."

Who that was free would wish to become a slave? A slavelike Daphne Wing! A slavelike her own

husband to his want of a wife who did not love him. A slave like her father had beenstill was, to a

memory. And watching the sunlight on the bracken, Gyp thought: 'Love! Keep far from me. I don't want you.

Every morning that week she made her way to the cottage, and every morning had to pass through the hands

of Mrs. Wagge. The good lady had got over the upsetting fact that Gyp was the wife of that villain, and had

taken a fancy to her, confiding to the economic agent, who confided it to Gyp, that she was "very

distangeyand such pretty eyes, quite Italian." She was one of those numberless persons whose passion for

distinction was just a little too much for their passionate propriety. It was that worship of distinction which

had caused her to have her young daughter's talent for dancing fostered. Who knew to what it might lead in

these days? At great length she explained to Gyp the infinite care with which she had always "brought Daisy

up like a ladyand now this is the result." And she would look piercingly at Gyp's hair or ears, at her hands

or her instep, to see how it was done. The burial worried her dreadfully. "I'm using the name of Daisy Wing;

she was christened 'Daisy' and the Wing's professional, so that takes them both in, and it's quite the truth. But

I don't think anyone would connect it, would they? About the father's name, do you think I might say the late

Mr. Joseph Wing, this once? You see, it never was alive, and I must put something if they're not to guess the

truth, and that I couldn't bear; Mr. Wagge would be so distressed. It's in his own line, you see. Oh, it is

Though the girl was so deathly white and spiritless, it soon became clear that she was going to pull through.

With each day, a little more colour and a little more commonness came back to her. And Gyp felt

instinctively that she would, in the end, return to Fulham purged of her infatuation, a little harder, perhaps a

Late one afternoon toward the end of her week at Mildenham, Gyp wandered again into the coppice, and sat

down on that same log. An hour before sunset, the light shone level on the yellowing leaves all round her; a

startled rabbit pelted out of the bracken and pelted back again, and, from the far edge of the little wood, a jay

cackled harshly, shifting its perch from tree to tree. Gyp thought of her baby, and of that which would have

been its halfbrother; and now that she was so near having to go back to Fiorsen, she knew that she had not

been wise to come here. To have been in contact with the girl, to have touched, as it were, that trouble, had

made the thought of life with him less tolerable even than it was before. Only the longing to see her baby

made return seem possible. Ah, wellshe would get used to it all again! But the anticipation of his eyes

fixed on her, then sliding away from the meeting with her eyes, of allof all that would begin again,

suddenly made her shiver. She was very near to loathing at that moment. He, the father of her baby! The

thought seemed ridiculous and strange. That little creature seemed to bind him to her no more than if it were

the offspring of some chance encounter, some pursuit of nymph by faun. No! It was hers alone. And a sudden

feverish longing to get back to it overpowered all other thought. This longing grew in her so all night that at

breakfast she told her father. Swallowing down whatever his feeling may have been, he said:

"Have you still got your key of Bury Street? Good! Remember, Gyp any time day or nightthere it is for

She had wired to Fiorsen from Mildenham that she was coming, and she reached home soon after three. He

was not in, and what was evidently her telegram lay unopened in the hall. Tremulous with expectation, she

ran up to the nursery. The pathetic sound of some small creature that cannot tell what is hurting it, or why,

met her ears. She went in, disturbed, yet with the halftriumphant thought: 'Perhaps that's for me!'

Betty, very flushed, was rocking the cradle, and examining the baby's face with a perplexed frown. Seeing

"Oh, be joyful! Oh, my dear! I AM glad. I can't do anything with baby since the morning. Whenever she

wakes up, she cries like that. And till today she's been a little model. Hasn't she! There, there!"

Gyp took up the baby, whose black eyes fixed themselves on her mother in a momentary contentment; but, at

"She's been like that ever since this morning. Mr. Fiorsen's been in more than once, ma'am, and the fact is,

baby don't like it. He stares at her so. But this morning I thoughtwellI thought: 'You're her father. It's

time she was getting used to you.' So I let them be a minute; and when I came backI was only just across

to the bathroomhe was comin' out lookin' quite fierce and white, and babyoh, screamin'! And except for

Pressing the baby to her breast, Gyp sat very still, and queer thoughts went through her mind.

"Well," she said, "I think he's been drinkin'. Oh, I'm sure he hasI've smelt it about him. The third day it

began. And night before last he came in dreadfully lateI could hear him staggerin' about, abusing the stairs

The baby, who had been still enough since she lay in her mother's lap, suddenly raised her little voice again.

"Betty, I believe something hurts her arm. She cries the moment she's touched there. Is there a pin or

Both the tiny arms above the elbow were circled with dark marks, as if they had been squeezed by ruthless

fingers. The two women looked at each other in horror; and under her breath Gyp said: "He!"

She had flushed crimson; her eyes filled but dried again almost at once. And, looking at her face, now gone

very pale, and those lips tightened to a line, Betty stopped in her outburst of ejaculation. When they had

wrapped the baby's arm in remedies and cottonwool, Gyp went into her bedroom, and, throwing herself

down on her bed, burst into a passion of weeping, smothering it deep in her pillow.

It was the crying of sheer rage. The brute! Not to have control enough to stop short of digging his claws into

that precious mite! Just because the poor little thing cried at that cat's stare of his! The brute! The devil! And

he would come to her and whine about it, and say: "My Gyp, I never meanthow should I know I was

hurting? Her crying was so Why should she cry at me? I was upset! I wasn't thinking!" She could hear him

pleading and sighing to her to forgive him. But she would notnot this time! He had hurt a helpless thing

once too often. Her fit of crying ceased, and she lay listening to the tick of the clock, and marshalling in her

mind a hundred little evidences of his malevolence toward her babyhis own baby. How was it possible?

Was he really going mad? And a fit of such chilly shuddering seized her that she crept under the eider down

to regain warmth. In her rage, she retained enough sense of proportion to understand that he had done this,

just as he had insulted Monsieur Harmost and her fatherand othersin an ungovernable access of nerve

irritation; just as, perhaps, one day he would kill someone. But to understand this did not lessen her feeling.

Her baby! Such a tiny thing! She hated him at last; and she lay thinking out the coldest, the cruellest, the most

But he did not come in that evening; and, too upset to eat or do anything, she went up to bed at ten o'clock.

When she had undressed, she stole across to the nursery; she had a longing to have the baby with hera

feeling that to leave her was not safe. She carried her off, still sleeping, and, locking her doors, got into bed.

Having warmed a nest with her body for the little creature, she laid it there; and then for a long time lay

awake, expecting every minute to hear him return. She fell asleep at last, and woke with a start. There were

vague noises down below or on the stairs. It must be he! She had left the light on in her room, and she leaned

over to look at the baby's face. It was still sleeping, drawing its tiny breaths peacefully, little dogshivers

passing every now and then over its face. Gyp, shaking back her dark plaits of hair, sat up by its side,

Yes; he WAS coming up, and, by the sounds, he was not sober. She heard a loud creak, and then a thud, as if

he had clutched at the banisters and fallen; she heard muttering, too, and the noise of boots dropped. Swiftly

the thought went through her: 'If he were quite drunk, he would not have taken them off at all;nor if he

were quite sober. Does he know I'm back?' Then came another creak, as if he were raising himself by support

of the banisters, and thenor was it fancy?she could hear him creeping and breathing behind the door.

Thenno fancy this timehe fumbled at the door and turned the handle. In spite of his state, he must know

that she was back, had noticed her travellingcoat or seen the telegram. The handle was tried again, then,

after a pause, the handle of the door between his room and hers was fiercely shaken. She could hear his voice,

The blood burned up in her cheeks, and she thought: 'No, my friend; you're not coming in!'

After that, sounds were more confused, as if he were now at one door, now at the other; then creakings, as if

For fully half an hour, Gyp continued to sit up, straining her ears. Where was he? What doing? On her

overexcited nerves, all sorts of possibilities came crowding. He must have gone downstairs again. In that

halfdrunken state, where would his baffled frenzies lead him? And, suddenly, she thought that she smelled

burning. It went, and came again; she got up, crept to the door, noiselessly turned the key, and, pulling it open

All was dark on the landing. There was no smell of burning out there. Suddenly, a hand clutched her ankle.

All the blood rushed from her heart; she stifled a scream, and tried to pull the door to. But his arm and her leg

were caught between, and she saw the black mass of his figure lying fulllength on its face. Like a vice, his

hand held her; he drew himself up on to his knees, on to his feet, and forced his way through. Panting, but in

utter silence, Gyp struggled to drive him out. His drunken strength seemed to come and go in gusts, but hers

Then her heart stood still with horror, for he had slued round to the bed and was stretching his hands out

Gyp flung herself on him from behind, dragging his arms down, and, clasping her hands together, held him

fast. He twisted round in her arms and sat down on the bed. In that moment of his collapse, Gyp snatched up

her baby and fled out, down the dark stairs, hearing him stumbling, groping in pursuit. She fled into the

diningroom and locked the door. She heard him run against it and fall down. Snuggling her baby, who was

crying now, inside her nightgown, next to her skin for warmth, she stood rocking and hushing it, trying to

listen. There was no more sound. By the hearth, whence a little heat still came forth from the ashes, she

cowered down. With cushions and the thick white felt from the diningtable, she made the baby snug, and

wrapping her shivering self in the tablecloth, sat staring wideeyed before herand always listening. There

were sounds at first, then none. A long, long time she stayed like that, before she stole to the door. She did

not mean to make a second mistake. She could hear the sound of heavy breathing. And she listened to it, till

she was quite certain that it was really the breathing of sleep. Then stealthily she opened, and looked. He was

over there, lying against the bottom chair, in a heavy, drunken slumber. She knew that sleep so well; he

It gave her a sort of evil pleasure that they would find him like that in the morning when she was gone. She

went back to her baby and, with infinite precaution, lifted it, still sleeping, cushion and all, and stole past him

up the stairs that, under her bare feet, made no sound. Once more in her locked room, she went to the window

and looked out. It was just before dawn; her garden was grey and ghostly, and she thought: 'The last time I

Then, with the utmost speed, she did her hair and dressed. She was very cold and shivery, and put on her fur

coat and cap. She hunted out two jerseys for the baby, and a certain old camel'shair shawl. She took a few

little things she was fondest of and slipped them into her wristbag with her purse, put on her hat and a pair

of gloves. She did everything very swiftly, wondering, all the time, at her own power of knowing what to

take. When she was quite ready, she scribbled a note to Betty to follow with the dogs to Bury Street, and

pushed it under the nursery door. Then, wrapping the baby in the jerseys and shawl, she went downstairs. The

dawn had broken, and, from the long narrow window above the door with spikes of iron across it, grey light

was striking into the hall. Gyp passed Fiorsen's sleeping figure safely, and, for one moment, stopped for

breath. He was lying with his back against the wall, his head in the hollow of an arm raised against a stair,

and his face turned a little upward. That face which, hundreds of times, had been so close to her own, and

something about this crumpled body, about his tumbled hair, those cheekbones, and the hollows beneath the

pale lips just parted under the dirtgold of his moustachesomething of lost divinity in all that inert

figure clutched for a second at Gyp's heart. Only for a second. It was over, this time! No morenever

again! And, turning very stealthily, she slipped her shoes on, undid the chain, opened the front door, took up

Gyp was going up to town. She sat in the corner of a firstclass carriage, alone. Her father had gone up by an

earlier train, for the annual June dinner of his old regiment, and she had stayed to consult the doctor

concerning "little Gyp," aged nearly nineteen months, to whom teeth were making life a burden.

Her eyes wandered from window to window, obeying the faint excitement within her. All the winter and

spring, she had been at Mildenham, very quiet, riding much, and pursuing her music as best she could, seeing

hardly anyone except her father; and this departure for a spell of London brought her the feeling that comes

on an April day, when the sky is blue, with snowwhite clouds, when in the fields the lambs are leaping, and

the grass is warm for the first time, so that one would like to roll in it. At Widrington, a porter entered,

carrying a kitbag, an overcoat, and some golf clubs; and round the door a little group, such as may be seen

at any English wayside station, clustered, filling the air with their clean, slightly drawling voices. Gyp noted a

tall woman whose blonde hair was going grey, a young girl with a foxterrier on a lead, a young man with a

Scotch terrier under his arm and his back to the carriage. The girl was kissing the Scotch terrier's head.

The young man's answer was not audible, but it was followed by irrepressible gurgles and a smothered:

"Oh, Bryan, you ARE Goodbye, dear Ossy!" "Goodbye!" "Good bye!" The young man who had got

in, made another unintelligible joke in a rather highpitched voice, which was somehow familiar, and again

the gurgles broke forth. Then the train moved. Gyp caught a side view of him, waving his hat from the

carriage window. It was her acquaintance of the huntingfieldthe "Mr. Bryn Summer'ay," as old Pettance

called him, who had bought her horse last year. Seeing him pull down his overcoat, to bank up the old Scotch

terrier against the jolting of the journey, she thought: 'I like men who think first of their dogs.' His round

head, with curly hair, broad brow, and those cleancut lips, gave her again the wonder: 'Where HAVE I seen

"How would you like Oh, how d'you do! We met out hunting. You don't remember me, I expect."

"In great form. I forgot to ask what you called him; I've named him Hotspurhe'll never be steady at his

There was another little silence while he contemplated her steadily with his clear eyes.

"I came over to call oncewith my mother; November the year before last. Somebody was ill."

"I heard you were married" The little drawl in his voice had increased, as though covering the abruptness

"Yes; but my little daughter and I live with my father again." What "came over" heras they sayto be so

"Ah! I've often thought it queer I've never seen you since. What a run that was!"

"Yesand my sister Edith. Extraordinary deadalive place, Widrington; I expect Mildenham isn't much

Gyp did not answer that odd remark, did not quite know what to make of this audacious young man, whose

hazel eyes and lazy smile were queerly lovable, but whose face in repose had such a broad gravity. He took

"Do you know these? I always take them travelling. Finest things ever written, aren't they?"

and looked out of the window. The train was passing through a country of fields and dykes, where the sun, far

down in the west, shone almost level over wide, whitishgreen space, and the spotted cattle browsed or stood

by the ditches, lazily flicking their tufted tails. A shaft of sunlight flowed into the carriage, filled with dust

motes; and, handing the little book back through that streak of radiance, she said softly:

"More law, I'm afraid. But it is about the finest thing in the world, isn't it?"

Gyp smiled. It was so long since she had talked to a man of her own age, so long since she had seen a face

that roused her curiosity and admiration, so long since she had been admired. The sunshaft, shifted by a

westward trend of the train, bathed her from the knees up; and its warmth increased her lighthearted sense

Astounding how much can be talked of in two or three hours of a railway journey! And what a friendly

afterwarmth clings round those hours! Does the difficulty of making oneself heard provoke confidential

utterance? Or is it the isolation or the continual vibration that carries friendship faster and further than will a

spasmodic acquaintanceship of weeks? But in that long talk he was far the more voluble. There was, too,

much of which she could not speak. Besides, she liked to listen. His slightly drawling voice fascinated

herhis audacious, often witty way of putting things, and the irrepressible bubble of laughter that would

keep breaking from him. He disclosed his past, such as it was, freelypublic school and college life, efforts

at the bar, ambitions, tastes, even his scrapes. And in this spontaneous unfolding there was perpetual flattery;

Gyp felt through it all, as pretty women will, a sort of subtle admiration. Presently he asked her if she played

She knew he only wanted to play because he could sit nearer, joined by the evening paper over their knees,

hand her the cards after dealing, touch her hand by accident, look in her face. And this was not unpleasant;

for she, in turn, liked looking at his face, which had what is called "charm"that something light and

But even railway journeys come to an end; and when he gripped her hand to say goodbye, she gave his an

involuntary little squeeze. Standing at her cab window, with his hat raised, the old dog under his arm, and a

"I shall see you at the opera, then, and in the Row perhaps; and I may come along to Bury Street, some time,

Nodding to those friendly words, Gyp drove off through the sultry London evening. Her father was not back

from the dinner, and she went straight to her room. After so long in the country, it seemed very close in Bury

Street; she put on a wrapper and sat down to brush the trainsmoke out of her hair.

For months after leaving Fiorsen, she had felt nothing but relief. Only of late had she begun to see her new

position, as it wasthat of a woman married yet not married, whose awakened senses have never been

gratified, whose spirit is still waiting for unfoldment in love, who, however disillusioned, iseven if in

secret from herselfmore and more surely seeking a real mate, with every hour that ripens her heart and

beauty. Tonightgazing at her face, reflected, intent and mournful, in the mirrorshe saw that position

more clearly, in all its aridity, than she had ever seen it. What was the use of being pretty? No longer use to

anyone! Not yet twentysix, and in a nunnery! With a shiver, but not of cold, she drew her wrapper close.

This time last year she had at least been in the main current of life, not a mere derelict. And yetbetter far be

like this than go back to him whom memory painted always standing over her sleeping baby, with his arms

After that earlymorning escape, Fiorsen had lurked after her for weeks, in town, at Mildenham, followed

them even to Scotland, where Winton had carried her off. But she had not weakened in her resolution a

second time, and suddenly he had given up pursuit, and gone abroad. Since thennothing had come from

him, save a few wild or maudlin letters, written evidently during drinkingbouts. Even they had ceased, and

for four months she had heard no word. He had "got over" her, it seemed, wherever he wasRussia,

She let the brush rest on her knee, thinking again of that walk with her baby through empty, silent streets, in

the early misty morning last October, of waiting deadtired outside here, on the pavement, ringing till they let

her in. Often, since, she had wondered how fear could have worked her up to that weird departure. She only

knew that it had not been unnatural at the time. Her father and Aunt Rosamund had wanted her to try for a

divorce, and no doubt they had been right. But her instincts had refused, still refused to let everyone know her

secrets and sufferingsstill refused the hollow pretence involved, that she had loved him when she never

She got up from before the mirror, and stood looking round her room, the room she had always slept in as a

girl. So he had remembered her all this time! It had not seemed like meeting a stranger. They were not

strangers now, anyway. And, suddenly, on the wall before her, she saw his face; or, if not, what was so like

that she gave a little gasp. Of course! How stupid of her not to have known at once! There, in a brown frame,

hung a photograph of the celebrated Botticelli or Masaccio "Head of a Young Man" in the National Gallery.

She had fallen in love with it years ago, and on the wall of her room it had been ever since. That broad face,

the clear eyes, the bold, cleancut mouth, the audacityonly, the live face was English, not Italian, had more

humour, more "breeding," less poetrysomething "old Georgian" about it. How he would laugh if she told

him he was like that peasant acolyte with fluffedout hair, and a little ruching round his neck! And, smiling,

But she could not sleep; she heard her father come in and go up to his room, heard the clocks strike midnight,

and one, and two, and always the dull roar of Piccadilly. She had nothing over her but a sheet, and still it was

too hot. There was a scent in the room, as of honeysuckle. Where could it come from? She got up at last, and

went to the window. There, on the windowsill, behind the curtains, was a bowl of jessamine. Her father

And, burying her nose in those white blossoms, she was visited by a memory of her first ballthat evening

of such delight and disillusionment. Perhaps Bryan Summerhay had been thereall that time ago! If he had

been introduced to her then, if she had happened to dance with him instead of with that man who had kissed

her arm, might she not have felt different toward all men? And if he had admired herand had not everyone,

that nightmight she not have liked, perhaps more than liked, him in return? Or would she have looked on

him as on all her swains before she met Fiorsen, so many moths fluttering round a candle, foolish to singe

themselves, not to be taken seriously? Perhaps she had been bound to have her lesson, to be humbled and

Taking a sprig of jessamine and holding it to her nose, she went up to that picture. In the dim light, she could

just see the outline of the face and the eyes gazing at her. The scent of the blossom penetrated her nerves; in

her heart, something faintly stirred, as a leaf turns over, as a wing flutters. And, blossom and all, she clasped

her hands over her breast, where again her heart quivered with that faint, shy tremor.

It was late, noearly, when she fell asleep and had a strange dream. She was riding her old mare through a

field of flowers. She had on a black dress, and round her head a crown of bright, pointed crystals; she sat

without saddle, her knee curled up, perched so lightly that she hardly felt the mare's back, and the reins she

held were long twisted stems of honeysuckle. Singing as she rode, her eyes flying here and there, over the

field, up to the sky, she felt happier, lighter than thistledown. While they raced along, the old mare kept

turning her head and biting at the honeysuckle flowers; and suddenly that chestnut face became the face of

Summerhay, looking back at her with his smile. She awoke. Sunlight, through the curtains where she had

Very late that same night, Summerhay came out of the little Chelsea house, which he inhabited, and walked

toward the river. In certain moods men turn insensibly toward any space where nature rules a littledowns,

woods, waterswhere the sky is free to the eye and one feels the broad comradeship of primitive forces. A

man is alone when he loves, alone when he dies; nobody cares for one so absorbed, and he cares for nobody,

nonot he! Summerhay stood by the riverwall and looked up at the stars through the planetree branches.

Every now and then he drew a long breath of the warm, unstirring air, and smiled, without knowing that he

smiled. And he thought of little, of nothing; but a sweetish sensation beset his heart, a kind of quivering

lightness his limbs. He sat down on a bench and shut his eyes. He saw a faceonly a face. The lights went

out one by one in the houses opposite; no cabs passed now, and scarce a passenger was afoot, but Summerhay

sat like a man in a trance, the smile coming and going on his lips; and behind him the air that ever stirs above

It was nearly three, just coming dawn, when he went in, and, instead of going to bed, sat down to a case in

which he was junior on the morrow, and worked right on till it was time to ride before his bath and breakfast.

He had one of those constitutions, not uncommon among barristersfostered perhaps by ozone in the Courts

of Lawthat can do this sort of thing and take no harm. Indeed, he worked best in such long spurts of

vigorous concentration. With real capacity and a liking for his work, this young man was certainly on his way

to make a name; though, in the intervals of energy, no one gave a more complete impression of imperturbable

drifting on the tides of the moment. Altogether, he was rather a paradox. He chose to live in that little Chelsea

house which had a scrap of garden rather than in the Temple or St. James's, because he often preferred

solitude; and yet he was an excellent companion, with many friends, who felt for him the affectionate distrust

inspired by those who are prone to fits and starts of work and play, conviviality and loneliness. To women, he

was almost universally attractive. But if he had scorched his wings a little once or twice, he had kept

heartfree on the whole. He was, it must be confessed, a bit of a gambler, the sort of gambler who gets in

deep, and then, by a plucky, lucky plunge, gets out again, until some day perhapshe stays there. His father,

a diplomatist, had been dead fifteen years; his mother was well known in the semi intellectual circles of

society. He had no brothers, two sisters, and an income of his own. Such was Bryan Summerhay at the age of

When he started that morning for the Temple, he had still a feeling of extraordinary lightness in his limbs,

and he still saw that faceits perfect regularity, its warm pallor, and dark smiling eyes rather wide apart, its

fine, small, closeset ears, and the sweep of the blackbrown hair across the low brow. Or was it something

much less definite he sawan emanation or expression, a trick, a turn, an indwelling grace, a something that

appealed, that turned, and touched him? Whatever it was, it would not let him be, and he did not desire that it

should. For this was in his character; if he saw a horse that he liked, he put his money on whatever it ran; if

charmed by an opera, he went over and over again; if by a poem, he almost learned it by heart. And while he

walked along the riverhis usual routehe had queer and unaccustomed sensations, now melting, now

He was rather late, and went at once into court. In wig and gown, that something "old Georgian" about him

was very visible. A beautyspot or two, a fullskirted velvet coat, a sword and snuff box, with that grey wig

or its equivalent, and there would have been a perfect eighteenthcentury specimen of the less bucolic

stampthe same strong, light build, breadth of face, brown pallor, clean and unpinched cut of lips, the same

slight insolence and devilmaycaredom, the same clear glance, and bubble of vitality. It was almost a pity to

Except that once or twice he drew a face on blottingpaper and smeared it over, he remained normally

attentive to his "lud" and the matters in hand all day, conducted without error the examination of two

witnesses and with terror the crossexamination of one; lunched at the Courts in perfect amity with the

sucking barrister on the other side of the case, for they had neither, as yet, reached that maturity which

enables an advocate to call his enemy his "friend," and treat him with considerable asperity. Though among

his acquaintances Summerhay always provoked badinage, in which he was scarcely ever defeated, yet in

chambers and court, on circuit, at his club, in society or the huntingfield, he had an unfavourable effect on

the grosser sort of stories. There are men by no means strikingly moralwho exercise this blighting

influence. They are generally what the French call "spirituel," and often have rather desperate loveaffairs

When at last in chambers, he had washed off that special reek of clothes, and parchment, faraway herrings,

and distemper, which clings about the law, dipping his whole curly head in water, and towelling vigorously,

he set forth alone along the Embankment, his hat tilted up, smoking a cigar. It was nearly seven. Just this time

yesterday he had got into the train, just this time yesterday turned and seen the face which had refused to

leave him since. Fever recurs at certain hours, just so did the desire to see her mount within him, becoming an

obsession, because it was impossible to gratify it. One could not call at seven o'clock! The idea of his club,

where at this time of day he usually went, seemed flat and stale, until he remembered that he might pass up

Bury Street to get to it. But, near Charing Cross, a hand smote him on the shoulder, and the voice of one of

Odd, that he had never noticed before how vacuous this fellow was with his talk of politics, and racing, of

this ass and that ass subjects hitherto of primary importance! And, stopping suddenly, he drawled out:

When his friend had disappeared, he resumed his journey toward Bury Street. He passed his boot shop,

where, for some time, he had been meaning to order two pairs, and went by thinking: 'I wonder where SHE

goes for things.' Her figure came to him so vividlysitting back in that corner, or standing by the cab, her

hand in his. The blood rushed up in his cheeks. She had been scented like flowers, andand a rainy wind!

He stood still before a plateglass window, in confusion, and suddenly muttered aloud: "Damn it! I believe I

am!" An old gentleman, passing, turned so suddenly, to see what he was, that he ricked his neck.

But Summerhay still stood, not taking in at all the reflected image of his frowning, rueful face, and of the

cigar extinct between his lips. Then he shook his head vigorously and walked on. He walked faster, his mind

blank, as it is sometimes for a short space after a piece of sellrevelation that has come too soon for

adjustment or even quite for understanding. And when he began to think, it was irritably and at random. He

had come to Bury Street, and, while he passed up it, felt a queer, weak sensation down the back of his legs.

No flowerboxes this year broke the plain front of Winton's house, and nothing whatever but its number and

the quickened beating of his heart marked it out for Summerhay from any other dwelling. The moment he

turned into Jermyn Street, that beating of the heart subsided, and he felt suddenly morose. He entered his club

at the top of St. James' Street and passed at once into the least used room. This was the library; and going to

the French section, he took down "The Three Musketeers" and seated himself in a window, with his back to

anyone who might come in. He had taken thishis favourite romance, feeling in want of warmth and

companionship; but he did not read. From where he sat he could throw a stone to where she was sitting

perhaps; except for walls he could almost reach her with his voice, could certainly see her. This was

"Point of five! Three queensthree knaves! Do you know that thing of Dowson's: 'I have been faithful to

thee, Cynara, in my fashion'? Better than any Verlaine, except 'Les sanglots longs.' What have you got?"

"Ah, poor old dog! Let him. Shuffle for me, please. Oh! there goes another card!" Her knee was touching

Dash it! Hopeless! And, turning round in that huge armchair, he snoozed down into its depths. In a few

It was two hours later when the same friend, seeking distraction, came on him, and stood grinning down at

that curly head and face which just then had the sleepy abandonment of a small boy's. Maliciously he gave

In front of the grinning face, above him, floated another, filmy, charming. He shook himself, and sat up. "Oh,

Summerhay uttered an unintelligible sound, and, turning over on the other arm, pretended to snooze down

again. But he slept no more. Instead, he saw her face, heard her voice, and felt again the touch of her warm,

At the opera, that Friday evening, they were playing "Cavalleria" and "Pagliacci"works of which Gyp

tolerated the first and loved the second, while Winton found them, with "Faust" and "Carmen," about the only

Women's eyes, which must not stare, cover more space than the eyes of men, which must not stare, but do;

women's eyes have less method, too, seeing all things at once, instead of one thing at a time. Gyp had seen

Summerhay long before he saw her; seen him come in and fold his opera hat against his white waistcoat,

looking round, as if forsomeone. Her eyes criticized him in this new garbhis broad head, and its crisp,

dark, shining hair, his air of sturdy, lazy, lovable audacity. He looked well in evening clothes. When he sat

down, she could still see just a little of his profile; and, vaguely watching the stout Santuzza and the stouter

Turiddu, she wondered whether, by fixing her eyes on him, she could make him turn and see her. Just then he

did see her, and his face lighted up. She smiled back. Why not? She had not so many friends nowadays. But it

was rather startling to find, after that exchange of looks, that she at once began to want another. Would he

like her dress? Was her hair nice? She wished she had not had it washed that morning. But when the interval

Winton had been told of the meeting in the train. He was pining for a cigarette, but had not liked to desert his

He went out, thinking, not for the first time by a thousand: 'Poor child, she never sees a soul! Twentyfive,

pretty as paint, and clean out of the running. What the devil am I to do about her?'

Summerhay sat down. Gyp had a queer feeling, then, as if the house and people vanished, and they two were

back again in the railway carriagealone together. Ten minutes to make the most of! To smile and talk,

and enjoy the look in his eyes, the sound of his voice and laugh. To laugh, too, and be warm and nice to him.

"Oh, by the way, there's a picture in the National Gallery, I want you to look at."

Gyp nodded. She knew she was flushing, and, at that moment, with the warmth in her cheeks and the smile in

her eyes, she had the sensation, so rare and pleasant, of feeling beautiful. Then he was gone! Her father was

slipping back into his stall; and, afraid of her own face, she touched his arm, and murmured:

"Dad, do look at that headdress in the next row but one; did you ever see anything so delicious!"

And while Winton was stargazing, the orchestra struck up the overture to "Pagliacci." Watching that

heartbreaking little plot unfold, Gyp had something more than the old thrill, as if for the first time she

understood it with other than her aesthetic sense. Poor Nedda! and poor Canio! Poor Silvio! Her breast

heaved, and her eyes filled with tears. Within those doubled figures of the tragicomedy she seemed to see,

to feel that passionate lovetoo swift, too strong, too violent, sweet and fearful within them.

"Thou hast my heart, and I am thine for ever Tonight and for ever I am thine! What is there left to me?

While she was putting on her cloak, her eyes caught Summerhay's. She tried to smilecould not, gave a

shake of her head, slowly forced her gaze away from his, and turned to follow Winton.

At the National Gallery, next day, she was not late by coquetry, but because she had changed her dress at the

last minute, and because she was afraid of letting him think her eager. She saw him at once standing under

the colonnade, looking by no means imperturbable, and marked the change in his face when he caught sight

of her, with a little thrill. She led him straight up into the first Italian room to contemplate his counterfeit. A

"I've had a photograph of that, ever since I was fifteen; so you see I've known you a long time."

"No. Come and look at my very favourite picture 'The Death of Procris.' What is it makes one love it so?

Procris is out of drawing, and not beautiful; the faun's queer and ugly. What is it can you tell?"

Summerhay looked not at the picture, but at her. In aesthetic sense, he was not her equal. She said softly:

"The wonder in the faun's face, Procris's closed eyes; the dog, and the swans, and the pity for what might

"Destruction byloveseems such a terrible thing! Now show me your favourites. I believe I can tell you

"You want decision, clarity, colour, and fine texture. Is that right? Here's another of MY favourites."

On a screen was a tiny "Crucifixion" by da Messinathe thinnest of high crosses, the thinnest of simple,

"I think that touches one more than the big, idealized sort. One feels it WAS like that. Oh! And lookthe

They spent two hours among those endless pictures, talking a little of art and of much besides, almost as

alone as in the railway carriage. But, when she had refused to let him walk back with her, Summerhay stood

stockstill beneath the colonnade. The sun streamed in under; the pigeons preened their feathers; people

passed behind him and down there in the square, black and tiny against the lions and the great column. He

took in nothing of all that. What was it in her? She was like no one he had ever known not one! Different

from girls and women in society as Simile failed. Still more different from anything in the halfworld he

had met! Not the new sortcollege, suffrage! Like no one! And he knew so little of her! Not even whether

she had ever really been in love. Her husbandwhere was he; what was he to her? "The rare, the mute, the

inexpressive She!" When she smiled; when her eyesbut her eyes were so quick, would drop before he

could see right into them! How beautiful she had looked, gazing at that pictureher favourite, so softly, her

lips just smiling! If he could kiss them, would he not go nearly mad? With a deep sigh, he moved down the

wide, grey steps into the sunlight. And London, throbbing, overflowing with the season's life, seemed to him

After that Sunday call, Gyp sat in the window at Bury Street close to a bowl of heliotrope on the

"I made a fearful mistakeagainst my father's wish. I haven't seen my husband for months; I shall never see

Was he, who gripped her hand so hard and said that, really the same nonchalant young man who had leaned

out of the carriage window, gurgling with laughter? And what had made the difference? She buried her face

in the heliotrope, whose perfume seemed the memory of his visit; then, going to the piano, began to play. She

played Debussy, McDowell, Ravel; the chords of modern music suited her feelings just then. And she was

still playing when her father came in. During these last nine months of his daughter's society, he had regained

a distinct measure of youthfulness, an extra twist in his little moustache, an extra touch of dandyism in his

clothes, and the gloss of his short hair. Gyp stopped playing at once, and shut the piano.

And there passed through Gyp the thought that she could never again be friends with a man without giving

that pause. Then, conscious that her father was gazing at her, she turned and said:

"Thirty years ago they were all nobs and snobs; now God himself doesn't know what they are!"

"Ahand the trees, and the birdsbut, by Jove, the humans do their best to dress the balance!"

"I'd like to run a stud for twoleggers; they want proper breeding. What sort of a fellow is young

In spite of his selfcontrol, she could always read her father's thoughts quicker than he could read hers, and

knew that he was struggling between the wish that she should have a good time and the desire to convey

Women who have subtle instincts and some experience are able to impose their own restraint on those who,

at the lifting of a hand, would become their lovers. From that afternoon on, Gyp knew that a word from her

would change everything; but she was far from speaking it. And yet, except at weekends, when she went

back to her baby at Mildenham, she saw Summerhay most daysin the Row, at the opera, or at Bury Street.

She had a habit of going to St. James's Park in the late afternoon and sitting there by the water. Was it by

chance that he passed one day on his way home from chambers, and that, after this, they sat there together

constantly? Why make her father uneasywhen there was nothing to be uneasy aboutby letting him come

too often to Bury Street? It was so pleasant, too, out there, talking calmly of many things, while in front of

them the small ragged children fished and put the fishes into clear glass bottles, to eat, or watch on rainy

So, in nature, when the seasons are about to change, the days pass, tranquil, waiting for the wind that brings

in the new. And was it not natural to sit under the trees, by the flowers and the water, the pigeons and the

ducks, that wonderful July? For all was peaceful in Gyp's mind, except, now and then, when a sort of remorse

Summerhay did not wear his heart on his sleeve, and when, on the closingday of term, he left his chambers

to walk to that last meeting, his face was much as usual under his grey top hat. But, in truth, he had come to a

pretty pass. He had his own code of what was befitting to a gentleman. It was perhaps a trifle "old Georgian,"

but it included doing nothing to distress a woman. All these weeks he had kept himself in hand; but to do so

had cost him more than he liked to reflect on. The only witness of his struggles was his old Scotch terrier,

whose dreams he had disturbed night after night, tramping up and down the long backtofront sittingroom

of his little house. She knewmust knowwhat he was feeling. If she wanted his love, she had but to raise

her finger; and she had not raised it. When he touched her, when her dress disengaged its perfume or his eyes

traced the slow, soft movement of her breathing, his head would go round, and to keep calm and friendly had

While he could see her almost every day, this control had been just possible; but now that he was about to

lose herfor weekshis heart felt sick within him. He had been hard put to it before the world. A man

passionately in love craves solitude, in which to alternate between fierce exercise and that trancelike

stillness when a lover simply aches or is busy conjuring her face up out of darkness or the sunlight. He had

managed to do his work, had been grateful for having it to do; but to his friends he had not given attention

enough to prevent them saying: "What's up with old Bryan?" Always rather elusive in his movements, he was

now too elusive altogether for those who had been accustomed to lunch, dine, dance, and sport with him. And

yet he shunned his own companygoing wherever strange faces, life, anything distracted him a little,

without demanding real attention. It must be confessed that he had come unwillingly to discovery of the

depth of his passion, aware that it meant giving up too much. But there are women who inspire feeling so

direct and simple that reason does not come into play; and he had never asked himself whether Gyp was

worth loving, whether she had this or that quality, such or such virtue. He wanted her exactly as she was; and

did not weigh her in any sort of balance. It is possible for men to love passionately, yet know that their

passion is but desire, possible for men to love for sheer spiritual worth, feeling that the loved one lacks this or

Summerhay's love had no such divided consciousness. About her past, too, he dismissed speculation. He

remembered having heard in the huntingfield that she was Winton's natural daughter; even then it had made

him long to punch the head of that covertside scandal monger. The more there might be against the

desirability of loving her, the more he would love her; even her wretched marriage only affected him in so far

as it affected her happiness. It did not matternothing mattered except to see her and be with her as much as

she would let him. And now she was going to the sea for a month, and he himselfcurse it!was due in

He walked slowly along the river. Dared he speak? At times, her face was like a child's when it expects some

harsh or frightening word. One could not hurt herimpossible! But, at times, he had almost thought she

would like him to speak. Once or twice he had caught a slow soft glancegone the moment he had sight of

He was before his time, and, leaning on the river parapet, watched the tide run down. The sun shone on the

water, brightening its yellowish swirl, and little black eddiesthe same water that had flowed along under

the willows past Eynsham, past Oxford, under the church at Clifton, past Moulsford, past Sonning. And he

thought: 'My God! To have her to myself one day on the riverone whole long day!' Why had he been so

pusillanimous all this time? He passed his hand over his face. Broad faces do not easily grow thin, but his felt

thin to him, and this gave him a kind of morbid satisfaction. If she knew how he was longing, how he

suffered! He turned away, toward Whitehall. Two men he knew stopped to bandy a jest. One of them was just

married. They, too, were off to Scotland for the twelfth. Pah! How stale and flat seemed that which till then

had been the acme of the whole year to him! Ah, but if he had been going to Scotland WITH HER! He drew

Oblivious of the gorgeous sentries at the Horse Guards, oblivious of all beauty, he passed irresolute along the

water, making for their usual seat; already, in fancy, he was sitting there, prodding at the gravel, a nervous

twittering in his heart, and that eternal question: Dare I speak? asking itself within him. And suddenly he saw

that she was before him, sitting there already. His heart gave a jump. No more craninghe WOULD speak!

She was wearing a maizecoloured muslin to which the sunlight gave a sort of transparency, and sat, leaning

back, her knees crossed, one hand resting on the knob of her furled sunshade, her face half hidden by her

"Gyp! No, I won't call you anything else. This can't go on! You know it can't. You know I worship you! If

you can't love me, I've got to break away. All day, all night, I think and dream of nothing but you. Gyp, do

Suppose she said: "Yes, go!" She made a little movement, as if in protest, and without looking at him,

"Wait, please. Wait a little longer. When we come back I'll tell you: I promise!"

"A month. Is that long? Please! It's not easy for me." She smiled faintly, lifted her eyes to him just for a

That evening at his club, through the bluish smoke of cigarette after cigarette, he saw her face as she had

The verandahed bungalow on the South Coast, built and inhabited by an artist friend of Aunt Rosamund's,

had a garden of which the chief feature was one pinetree which had strayed in advance of the wood behind.

The little house stood in solitude, just above a low bank of cliff whence the beach sank in sandy ridges. The

verandah and thick pine wood gave ample shade, and the beach all the sun and sea air needful to tan little

Gyp, a fat, tumbling soul, as her mother had been at the same age, incurably fond and fearless of dogs or any

At night, Gyp, looking from her bedroom through the flat branches of the pine, would get a feeling of being

the only creature in the world. The crinkled, silvery sea, that lonely pinetree, the cold moon, the sky dark

cornflower blue, the hiss and sucking rustle of the surf over the beach pebbles, even the salt, chill air,

seemed lonely. By day, tooin the hazy heat when the clouds merged, scarce drifting, into the blue, and the

coarse seagrass tufts hardly quivered, and seabirds passed close above the water with chuckle and cryit

all often seemed part of a dream. She bathed, and grew as tanned as her little daughter, a regular Gypsy, in

her broad hat and linen frocks; and yet she hardly seemed to be living down here at all, for she was never free

of the memory of that last meeting with Summerhay. Why had he spoken and put an end to their quiet

friendship, and left her to such heartsearchings all by herself? But she did not want his words unsaid. Only,

how to know whether to recoil and fly, or to pass beyond the dread of letting herself go, of plunging deep into

the unknown depths of loveof that passion, whose nature for the first time she had tremulously felt,

watching "Pagliacci"and had ever since been feeling and trembling at! Must it really be neck or nothing?

Did she care enough to break through all barriers, fling herself into midstream? When they could see each

other every day, it was so easy to live for the next meetingnot think of what was coming after. But now,

with all else cut away, there was only the future to think about hers and his. But need she trouble about

Then she thought of her fatherstill faithful to a memoryand felt ashamed. Some men loved

onyeseven beyond death! But, sometimes, she would think: 'Am I a candleflame again? Is he just

going to burn himself? What real good can I be to himI, without freedom, and with my baby, who will

grow up?' Yet all these thoughts were, in a way, unreal. The struggle was in herself, so deep that she could

hardly understand it; as might be an effort to subdue the instinctive dread of a precipice. And she would feel a

kind of resentment against all the happy life round her these summer daysthe seabirds, the sunlight, and

the waves; the white sails far out; the calm sunsteeped pinetrees; her baby, tumbling and smiling and softly

twittering; and Betty and the other servantsall this life that seemed so simple and untortured.

To the one post each day she looked forward terribly. And yet his letters, which began like hers: "My dear

friend," might have been read by anyonealmost. She spent a long time over her answers. She was not

sleeping well; and, lying awake, she could see his face very distinct before her closed eyesits teasing, lazy

smile, its sudden intent gravity. Once she had a dream of him, rushing past her down into the sea. She called,

but, without turning his head, he swam out further, further, till she lost sight of him, and woke up suddenly

with a pain in her heart. "If you can't love me, I've got to break away!" His face, his flungback head

reminded her too sharply of those words. Now that he was away from her, would he not feel that it was best

to break, and forget her? Up there, he would meet girls untouched by lifenot like herself. He had

everything before him; could he possibly go on wanting one who had nothing before her? Some blueeyed

girl with auburn hairthat type so superior to her ownwould sweep, perhaps had already swept him, away

from her! What then? No worse than it used to be? Ah, so much worse that she dared not think of it!

Then, for five days, no letter came. And, with each blank morning, the ache in her grewa sharp, definite

ache of longing and jealousy, utterly unlike the mere feeling of outraged pride when she had surprised

Fiorsen and Daphne Wing in the musicrooma hundred years ago, it seemed. When on the fifth day the

postman left nothing but a bill for little Gyp's shoes, and a note from Aunt Rosamund at Harrogate, where she

had gone with Winton for the annual cure, Gyp's heart sank to the depths. Was this the end? And, with a

blind, numb feeling, she wandered out into the wood, where the fall of the pineneedles, season after season,

had made of the ground one soft, dark, dustcoloured bed, on which the sunlight traced the pattern of the pine

Gyp went along till she could see no outer world for the greybrown treestems streaked with gumresin;

and, throwing herself down on her face, dug her elbows deep into the pine dust. Tears, so rare with her,

forced their way up, and trickled slowly to the hands whereon her chin rested. No goodcrying! Crying only

made her ill; crying was no relief. She turned over on her back and lay motionless, the sunbeams warm on her

cheeks. Silent here, even at noon! The sough of the calm sea could not reach so far; the flies were few; no

bird sang. The tall bare pine stems rose up all round like columns in a temple roofed with the dark boughs

and sky. Cloudfleeces drifted slowly over the blue. There should be peace but in her heart there was

A dusky shape came padding through the trees a little way off, anothertwo donkeys loose from

somewhere, who stood licking each other's necks and noses. Those two humble beasts, so friendly, made her

feel ashamed. Why should she be sorry for herself, she who had everything in life she wantedexcept

lovethe love she had thought she would never want? Ah, but she wanted it now, wanted it at last with all

With a shudder, she sprang up; the ants had got to her, and she had to pick them off her neck and dress. She

wandered back towards the beach. If he had truly found someone to fill his thoughts, and drive her out, all the

better for him; she would never, by word or sign, show him that she missed, and wanted himnever! She

She came out into the sunshine. The tide was low; and the wet foreshore gleamed with opal tints; there were

wandering tracks on the sea, as of great serpents winding their way beneath the surface; and away to the west

the archwayed, tawny rock that cut off the line of coast was like a dreamshape. All was dreamy. And,

suddenly her heart began beating to suffocation and the colour flooded up in her cheeks. On the edge of the

He got up and came toward her. Putting her hands up to her glowing face, she said:

"Yes; it's me. Did you ever see such a gipsified object? I thought you were still in Scotland. How's dear

It seemed to Gyp that her heart had given up beating; she said quietly: "Let's sit down a minute"; and moved

under the cliff bank where they could not be seen from the house. There, drawing the coarse grass blades

"Who cares? No one could care who loves as I do. Oh, Gyp, can't you love me? I know I'm nothing much."

How quaint and boyish! "But it's eleven weeks today since we met in the train. I don't think I've had one

"Then what is to be done? Look over therethat bit of blue in the grass is my baby daughter. There's

"I might love too much. Don't say any more now. No; don't! Let's go in and have lunch." And she got up.

He stayed till teatime, and not a word more of love did he speak. But when he was gone, she sat under the

pinetree with little Gyp on her lap. Love! If her mother had checked love, she herself would never have

been born. The midges were biting before she went in. After watching Betty give little Gyp her bath, she

crossed the passage to her bedroom and leaned out of the window. Could it have been today she had lain on

the ground with tears of despair running down on to her hands? Away to the left of the pinetree, the moon

had floated up, soft, barely visible in the paling sky. A new world, an enchanted garden! And between her

That evening she sat with a book on her lap, not reading; and in her went on the strange revolution which

comes in the souls of all women who are not halfmen when first they lovethe sinking of 'I' into 'Thou,' the

passionate, spiritual subjection, the intense, unconscious givingup of will, in preparation for completer

She slept without dreaming, awoke heavy and oppressed. Too languid to bathe, she sat listless on the beach

with little Gyp all the morning. Had she energy or spirit to meet him in the afternoon by the rock archway, as

she had promised? For the first time since she was a small and naughty child, she avoided the eyes of Betty.

One could not be afraid of that stout, devoted soul, but one could feel that she knew too much. When the time

came, after early tea, she started out; for if she did not go, he would come, and she did not want the servants

This last day of August was warm and still, and had a kind of beneficencethe corn all gathered in, the

apples mellowing, robins singing already, a few slumberous, soft clouds, a pale blue sky, a smiling sea. She

went inland, across the stream, and took a footpath back to the shore. No pines grew on that side, where the

soil was richerof a ruddy brown. The second crops of clover were already high; in them humblebees were

hard at work; and, above, the whitethroated swallows dipped and soared. Gyp gathered a bunch of chicory

flowers. She was close above the shore before she saw him standing in the rock archway, looking for her

across the beach. After the hum of the bees and flies, it was very quiet hereonly the faintest hiss of tiny

waves. He had not yet heard her coming, and the thought flashed through her: 'If I take another step, it is for

ever! She stood there scarcely breathing, the chicory flowers held before her lips. Then she heard him sigh,

He turned round, seized her hand, and, without a word, they passed through the archway. They walked on the

They scrambled up the low cliff and went along the grassy top to a gate into a stubble field. He held it open

for her, but, as she passed, caught her in his arms and kissed her lips as if he would never stop. To her, who

had been kissed a thousand times, it was the first kiss. Deadly pale, she fell back from him against the gate;

then, her lips still quivering, her eyes very dark, she looked at him distraught with passion, drunk on that kiss.

And, suddenly turning round to the gate, she laid her arms on the top bar and buried her face on them. A sob

came up in her throat that seemed to tear her to bits, and she cried as if her heart would break. His timid

"Gyp, Gyp! My darling! My love! Oh, don't, Gyp!" were not of the least avail; she could not stop. That kiss

had broken down something in her soul, swept away her life up to that moment, done something terrible and

"I'm sorryso sorry! Don'tdon't look at me! Go away a little, and I'llI'll be all right."

He obeyed without a word, and, passing through the gate, sat down on the edge of the cliff with his back to

Gripping the wood of the old grey gate till it hurt her hands, Gyp gazed at the chicory flowers and poppies

that had grown up again in the stubble field, at the butterflies chasing in the sunlight over the hedge toward

the crinkly foam edging the quiet sea till they were but fluttering white specks in the blue.

But when she had rubbed her cheeks and smoothed her face, she was no nearer to feeling that she could trust

herself. What had happened in her was too violent, too sweet, too terrifying. And going up to him she said:

He pressed her hand against his cheek, then let it go, and, folding his arms tight, resumed his meaningless

stare at the sea. Gyp turned away. She crossed back to the other side of the stream, but did not go in for a long

time, sitting in the pine wood till the evening gathered and the stars crept out in a sky of that mauve blue

Late that night, when she had finished brushing her hair, she opened her window and stepped out on to the

verandah. How warm! How still! Not a sound from the sleeping housenot a breath of wind! Her face,

framed in her hair, her hands, and all her body, felt as if on fire. The moon behind the pinetree branches was

filling every cranny of her brain with wakefulness. The soft shiver of the wellnigh surfless sea on a rising

tide, rose, fell, rose, fell. The sand cliff shone like a bank of snow. And all was inhabited, as a moonlit night

is wont to be, by a magical Presence. A big moth went past her face, so close that she felt the flutter of its

wings. A little night beast somewhere was scruttling in bushes or the sand. Suddenly, across the wan grass

the shadow of the pinetrunk moved. It movedever so littlemoved! And, petrifiedGyp stared. There,

joined to the trunk, Summerhay was standing, his face just visible against the stem, the moonlight on one

cheek, a hand shading his eyes. He moved that hand, held it out in supplication. For longhow longGyp

did not stir, looking straight at that beseeching figure. Then, with a feeling she had never known, she saw him

coming. He came up to the verandah and stood looking up at her. She could see all the workings of his

From the moment of surrender, Gyp passed straight into a state the more enchanted because she had never

believed in it, had never thought that she could love as she now loved. Days and nights went by in a sort of

dream, and when Summerhay was not with her, she was simply waiting with a smile on her lips for the next

hour of meeting. Just as she had never felt it possible to admit the world into the secrets of her married life,

so, now she did not consider the world at all. Only the thought of her father weighed on her conscience. He

was back in town. And she felt that she must tell him. When Summerhay heard this he only said: "All right,

And two days before her month at the bungalow was up, she went, leaving Betty and little Gyp to follow on

the last day. Winton, pale and somewhat languid, as men are when they have been cured, found her when he

came in from the club. She had put on evening dress, and above the pallor of her shoulders, her sunwarmed

face and throat had almost the colour of a nectarine. He had never seen her look like that, never seen her eyes

so full of light. And he uttered a quiet grunt of satisfaction. It was as if a flower, which he had last seen in

close and elegant shape, had bloomed in full perfection. She did not meet his gaze quite steadily and all that

evening kept putting her confession off and off. It was not easyfar from easy. At last, when he was

smoking his "gotobed" cigarette, she took a cushion and sank down on it beside his chair, leaning against

his knee, where her face was hidden from him, as on that day after her first ball, when she had listened to HIS

"Dad, do you remember my saying once that I didn't understand what you and my mother felt for each

other?" Winton did not speak; misgiving had taken possession of him. Gyp went on: "I know now how one

In disconsolate silence, he thought rapidly: 'What's to be done? What can I do? Get her a divorce?'

Perhaps because of the ring in her voice, or the sheer seriousness of the position, he did not feel resentment as

when he lost her to Fiorsen. Love! A passion such as had overtaken her mother and himself! And this young

man? A decent fellow, a good rider comprehensible! Ah, if the course had only been clear! He put his

Winton needed all his selfcontrol at that moment. Too late? Already! Sudden recollection that he had not the

"I love him, with every bit of me. I don't care what comes whether it's open or secret. I don't care what

She had turned round now, and if Winton had doubt of her feeling, he lost it. This was a Gyp he had never

seen! A glowing, soft, quickbreathing creature, with just that lithe watchful look of the mother cat or lioness

whose whelps are threatened. There flashed through him a recollection of how, as a child, with face very

She was pressing his hand to her cheek that felt burning hot. And he thought: "Forgive! Of course I forgive.

And a vision of his loved one talked about, besmirched, bandied from mouth to mouth, or elsefor her what

there had been for him, a holeandcorner life, an underground existence of stealthy meetings kept dark,

above all from her own little daughter. Ah, not that! And yetwas not even that better than the other, which

revolted to the soul his fastidious pride in her, roused in advance his fury against tongues that would wag, and

eyes that would wink or be uplifted in righteousness? Summerhay's world was more or less his world;

scandal, whichlike all parasitic growths flourishes in enclosed spaces, would have every chance. And, at

once, his brain began to search, steely and quick, for some way out; and the expression as when a fox broke

That was something! With an irritation that rose from his very soul, he muttered:

"I can't stand it that you should suffer, and that fellow Fiorsen go scotfree. Can you give up seeing

Summerhay while we get you a divorce? We might do it, if no one knows. I think you owe it to me, Gyp."

Gyp got up and stood by the window a long time without answering. Winton watched her face. At last she

"I couldn't. We might stop seeing each other; it isn't that. It's what I should feel. I shouldn't respect myself

after; I should feel so mean. Oh, Dad, don't you see? He really loved me in his way. And to pretend! To make

out a case for myself, tell about Daphne Wing, about his drinking, and baby; pretend that I wanted him to

love me, when I got to hate it and didn't care really whether he was faithful or notand knowing all the

while that I've been everything to someone else! I couldn't. I'd much rather let him know, and ask him to

"Some day, she'll understand, as I do. Or perhaps it will be all over before she knows. Does happiness ever

And, going up to him, she bent over, kissed his forehead, and went out. The warmth from her lips, and the

Was there then nothing to be donenothing? Men of his stamp do not, as a general thing, see very deep even

into those who are nearest to them; but tonight he saw his daughter's nature more fully perhaps than ever

before. No use to importune her to act against her instinctsnot a bit of use! And yethow to sit and watch

it allwatch his own passion with its ecstasy and its heart burnings reenacted with herperhaps for

many years? And the old vulgar saying passed through his mind: "What's bred in the bone will come out in

the meat." Now she had given, she would give with both handsbeyond measurebeyond!as he himself,

as her mother had given! Ah, well, she was better off than his own loved one had been. One must not go

Gyp had a wakeful night. The question she herself had raised, of telling Fiorsen, kept her thoughts in turmoil.

Was he likely to divorce her if she did? His contempt for what he called 'these bourgeois morals,' his

instability, the very unpleasantness, and offence to his vanityall this would prevent him. No; he would not

divorce her, she was sure, unless by any chance he wanted legal freedom, and that was quite unlikely. What

then would be gained? Ease for her conscience? But had she any right to ease her conscience if it brought

harm to her lover? And was it not ridiculous to think of conscience in regard to one who, within a year of

marriage, had taken to himself a mistress, and not even spared the home paid for and supported by his wife?

No; if she told Fiorsen, it would only be to salve her pride, wounded by doing what she did not avow.

She came down to breakfast, dark under the eyes and no whit advanced toward decision. Neither of them

mentioned their last night's talk, and Gyp went back to her room to busy herself with dress, after those weeks

away. It was past noon when, at a muffled knock, she found Markey outside her door.

"In the hall, m'mslipped in when I answered the bell; short of shoving, I couldn't keep him out."

"Said I would see. So far as I was aware, nobody was in. Shall I have a try to shift him, m'm?"

Markey's W. eyes, under their thin, dark, twisting brows, fastened on her dolefully; he opened the

door to go. Fiorsen was standing there, and, with a quick movement, came in. She saw Markey raise his arms

When the door was shut, she retreated against her dressingtable and stood gazing at her husband, while her

He had grown a short beard, his cheeks seemed a little fatter, and his eyes surely more green; otherwise, he

looked much as she remembered him. And the first thought that passed through her was: 'Why did I ever pity

him? He'll never fret or drink himself to deathhe's got enough vitality for twenty men.'

His face, which had worn a fixed, nervous smile, grew suddenly grave as her own, and his eyes roved round

"Well, Gyp," he said, and his voice shook a little: "At last! Won't you kiss me?"

"Is it likely? Look, Gyp! I returned from Russia yesterday. I was a great success, made a lot of money out

there. Come back to me! I will be goodI swear it! Now I have seen you again, I can't be without you. Ah,

Gyp, come back to me! And see how good I will be. I will take you abroad, you and the bambina. We will go

"Gyp, I swear to you I have not seen a womannot one fit to put beside you. Oh, Gyp, be good to me once

Only at this moment of his pleading, whose tragic tones seemed to her both false and childish, did Gyp

realize the strength of the new feeling in her heart. And the more that feeling throbbed within her, the harder

"If that is all you came to sayplease go. I will never come back to you. Once for all, understand, PLEASE."

The silence in which he received her words, and his expression, impressed her far more than his appeal; with

one of his stealthy movements he came quite close, and, putting his face forward till it almost touched her,

"You are my wife. I want you back. I must have you back. If you do not come, I will kill either you or

And suddenly she felt his arms knotted behind her back, crushing her to him. She stilled a scream; then, very

The tone of her voice made him loosen his grasp and crane back to see her face. Gyp detached his arms from

her completely, sat down on an old oak chest, and motioned him to the windowseat. Her heart thumped

pitifully; cold waves of almost physical sickness passed through and through her. She had smelt brandy in his

breath when he was close to her. It was like being in the cage of a wild beast; it was like being with a

madman! The remembrance of him with his fingers stretched out like claws above her baby was so vivid at

that moment that she could scarcely see him as he was, sitting there quietly, waiting for what she was going

"You say you love me, Gustav. I tried to love you, too, but I never couldnever from the first. I tried very

"When I found I couldn't love you, I felt I had no right over you. I didn't stand on my rights. Did I?"

"But you wouldn't expect me to go all through my life without ever feeling loveyou who've felt it so many

times?" Then, clasping her hands tight, with a sort of wonder at herself, she murmured: "I AM in love. I've

He made a queer, whining sound, covering his face. And the beggar's tag: "'Ave a feelin' 'eart,

gentleman'ave a feelin' 'eart!" passed idiotically through Gyp's mind. Would he get up and strangle her?

Should she dash to the doorescape? For a long, miserable moment, she watched him swaying on the

windowseat, with his face covered. Then, without looking at her, he crammed a clenched hand up against

Through the open door, Gyp had a glimpse of Markey's motionless figure, coming to life as Fiorsen passed.

She drew a long breath, locked the door, and lay down on her bed. Her heart beat dreadfully. For a moment,

something had checked his jealous rage. But if on this shock he began to drink, what might not happen? He

had said something wild. And she shuddered. But what right had he to feel jealousy and rage against her?

What right? She got up and went to the glass, trembling, mechanically tidying her hair. Miraculous that she

Her thoughts flew to Summerhay. They were to meet at three o'clock by the seat in St. James's Park. But all

was different, now; difficult and dangerous! She must wait, take counsel with her father. And yet if she did

not keep that tryst, how anxious he would bethinking that all sorts of things had happened to her; thinking

perhapsoh, foolish!that she had forgotten, or even repented of her love. What would she herself think, if

he were to fail her at their first tryst after those days of bliss? Certainly that he had changed his mind, seen

she was not worth it, seen that a woman who could give herself so soon, so easily, was one to whom he could

In this cruel uncertainty, she spent the next two hours, till it was nearly three. If she did not go out, he would

come on to Bury Street, and that would be still more dangerous. She put on her hat and walked swiftly

towards St. James's Palace. Once sure that she was not being followed, her courage rose, and she passed

rapidly down toward the water. She was ten minutes late, and seeing him there, walking up and down, turning

his head every few seconds so as not to lose sight of the bench, she felt almost lightheaded from joy. When

they had greeted with that pathetic casualness of lovers which deceives so few, they walked on together past

Buckingham Palace, up into the Green Park, beneath the trees. During this progress, she told him about her

father; but only when they were seated in that comparative refuge, and his hand was holding hers under cover

He made a little shuddering sound; and, wondering, mournful, she looked at him. His hands and teeth were

Gyp sat motionless, cut to the heart. She was soiled, and spoiled for him! Of course! And yet a sense of

injustice burned in her. Her heart had never been touched; it was his utterly. But that was not enough for a

manhe wanted an untouched body, too. That she could not give; he should have thought of that sooner,

instead of only now. And, miserably, she, too, stared before her, and her face hardened.

A little boy came and stood still in front of them, regarding her with 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.

Ah, he might promisemight even keep that promise. But he would suffer, always suffer, thinking of that

"You can only have me as I am, Bryan. I can't make myself new for you; I wish I couldoh, I wish I could!"

"I ought to have cut my tongue out first! Don't think of it! Come home to me and have teathere's no one

He took her hands and pulled her up. And all else left Gyp but the joy of being close to him, going to

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

widebrimmed 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 himnever any! Innumerable images of her passed before himsurrendering, always

surrendering. It could not all have been pretence! He was not a common manshe herself had said so; he

had charmor, 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 sandwichboard just in front of him were the

words: "Daphne Wing. Pantheon. Daphne Wing. Plastic Danseuse. Poetry of Motion. Today at three

Ah, SHE had loved himlittle 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! Ahand here she

came! A Pierrettein 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

thighjoint. 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 startno more. She had seen him. 'Ah! Some

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 seagreen gown, cut here and there to show her inevitable legs, with

marguerites and cornflowers 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

And leaning against the distempered wall of the draughty corridor, a queer smile on his face, Fiorsen

When he was admitted, she was standing with her hat on, while her "dresser" buttoned her patentleather

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 selfpossessed, 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:

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 lovejust a little love? Ah, but she was more desirable, much more

Daphne Wing, still motionless in the centre of her little crowded dressingroom said, in a matteroffact

"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;

Exactly! Why had he come? The thought flashed through him: 'She'll help me to forget.' And he said:

"Oh, no; you can't make upthank 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

Fiorsen stared fixedly at that perfectly shaped face, where a faint, underdone pink mingled with the fairness

"Yes, thank you; I'm very hungry. I don't eat lunch on matinee days; I find it better not. Do you like my

"Yes, it IS artificialit's done with mirrors and wire netting, you know. But do I give you the illusion of

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'sthey have lovely things

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

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 sweetsoh, and

some whipped cream with my cake. Do you mind?" And, sitting down, she fixed her eyes on his face and

"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:

"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

She fell silent, casting her eyes down. Her profile at that moment, against the light, was very pure and soft in

Daphne Wing looked up; her round, bluegrey eyes passed over him much as they had been passing over the

"No; I don't hate younow. Of course, if I had any love left for you, I should. Oh, isn't that Irish? But one

"But aren't you? You couldn't be anything elsecould you?with the sort of things you did."

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

"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"

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 twentyfive 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

likea 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

"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 latchkey, paused to

"I like it's being in a little sordid streetit takes away all amateurishness. It wasn't a studio, of course; it was

the back part of a papermaker's. Any space conquered for art is something, isn't it?" She led the way up a

few greencarpeted 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

"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 windowsill, 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 knowto 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

"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

"Please sit down on the divan," she said. "Will you smoke? These are Russians." And she took a white box of

pinkcoloured 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

Fiorsen remembered only too well. The pink cigarette trembled in his fingers, and he said rather hoarsely:

"Then why did you ask me here? What are you playing at, you little" At sight of her round, unmoving

"I thought you'd like to see that I'd mastered my fatethat's all. But, of course, if you don't, you needn't

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.

She had seated herself on an Indian stool covered with a bit of Turkish embroidery, and, joining her hands on

"It has made a woman of you, Daphne. Your face is different. Your mouth is prettier for my kissesor 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"

"We won't talk about love, will we? Did you have a big triumph in Moscow and St. Petersburg? It must be

"You can help me not to be. Little Daphne, you can help me to forget." He had stopped, and put his hands on

"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

"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 catchMr. Dawson? How do you do, sir? One of my daughter's

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 workquiet and unconventional. I hope you think well of her talent,

"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

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, greybearded figure, with

"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 pugfaced vulgarian by the throat? As for that minx! But his feelings about HER were too complicated

for expression. And thenso 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.

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 knewwhy 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 onceabroaduntil 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 overat once!' And, with a grimace of discomfort, he set out for his aunt's house in Cadogan

Lady Summerhay was in the boudoir, waiting for dinner and reading a book on dreams. A redshaded 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 yearsone 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 mustdiscussion, 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, conduitpipes, 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

"Well, Bryan, I think this man's book disgraceful; he simply runs his sexidea 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."

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 daughteryou know. Well, I'm in love with

"That fellow she married drinks. He's impossible. She had to leave him a year ago, with her babyother

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

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

"Don't run ahead of things. You needn't tell Edith or Flo. You needn't tell anybody. We don't know what'll

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

"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 herdon't! She won't want anything of anybodyI can tell you that. She

"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

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

"My dear mother, the more there is against her, the more I shall love herthat's obvious."

"I don't know. Nothing, I dare say. Morally and legally, he's out of court. I only wish to God he WOULD

"Gyp? Is that her name?" And a sudden wish, almost a longing, not a friendly one, to see this woman seized

"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.

"Say? What can anyone say? From your point of view, or his, it's rotten, of course. But in her position,

At that encouraging word, the floodgates gave way in Lady Summerhay, and she poured forth a stream of

"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 arebelieve me! Really, Bryan, experience does show that the pressure's

too great. It's only once in a wayvery 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 youcan you possibly make her happy in

She stopped at the expression on his face. It was as if he were saying: "I have left your world. Talk to your

"Look here, Mother: you don't seem to understand. I'm devoted devoted so that there's nothing else for

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

Summerhay went straight home. The lamps were brightening in the earlyautumn 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 townthat 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 worldthe 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

passerby. 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 latchkey 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

"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.

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

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

His feelings, at that moment, were perhaps as mixed as they had ever beencuriosity, 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.

"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, darkeyed, cooing little Gyp, brown as a roasted

coffeeberry. 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 childlover 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 greatgreatgrandmother 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 halfmoons, at the sleeping tranquillity stirred by breathing no more than a roseleaf 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 selfindulgence. Soothed, hypnotized, almost in a dream, she lay there beside her

"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

Winton smiled grimly. How to convey his impression of the figure he had seen coming down the stepsof

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 hatvery 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

Gyp smiled. She could see it all so well. The black walls, the silver statuettes, Rops drawings, scent of dead

roseleaves and pastilles and cigarettesand those two by the pianoand 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,

Through Gyp passed a quiver of dread, a vague return of the feelings once inspired by Rosek.

"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."

"I'd almost rather it had beenthe other." Rosek's pale, suave face, with the eyes behind which there were

such hidden things, and the lips sweetish and restrained and sensualhe 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 loveletter. 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 threecornered garden stood a decayed statue of a naked boy with a broken

bowa sparrow was perching on his greenish shoulder; sooty, heartshaped 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,

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? Doubtsthose hasty attendants on passioncame

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 houseparty, 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 suchof 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 jealousya sensation so dark

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 trumpedup 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

townships of night with sails setcame rounding out of side streets or down the main stream, with their

skilled, rapidseeming slowness. And at the discomfited, halfhostile stares on their rouged and powdered

faces, Gyp felt a wicked glee. She was disturbing, hurting themand 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 halfsmile, 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 passersby? 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 musichall, or stroll home

thinking of herperhaps 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 manwho was only paying her a man's compliment, after all? And with these tears, her jealous,

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:

In the train on the way down, she sat with closed eyes, in a sort of trance. If her lover had been there holding

She saw him as the train ran in; but they met without a handclasp, without a word, simply looking at each

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

The day was beautiful, as only early September days can bewhen 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 silverygold reaped

fields, silverygreen 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 turninga house with an ingle nook and low, broad chimneys. Before it was a walled, neglected lawn,

with poplars and one large walnuttree. 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:

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 waterlily leaves over the greenish depths, to listen

to the pigeons, watch the dragonflies flitting past, and the fish leaping lazily, not even steering, letting her

hand dabble in the water, then cooling her sunwarmed cheek with it, and all the time gazing at Summerhay,

who, dipping his sculls gently, gazed at herall 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 worlda bright maze into which, for a moment now and then, we escape and wander.

Today, he was more than ever like her Botticelli "Young Man," with his neck bare, and his face so

cleareyed and broad and brown. Had she really had a life with another man? And only a year ago? It seemed

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

"Gyp, we MUST go away together. We can never stand it going on apart, snatching hours here and there."

"Why not, darling? Hasn't this been perfect? What could we ever have more perfect? It's been paradise

"Yes; but to be thrown out every day! To be whole days and nights without you! Gyp, you mustyou must!

"Too much, I think. It's tempting Providence to change. Let's go on as we are, Bryan. No; don't look like

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

For a long time more he pleadednow with anger, now with kisses, now with reasonings; but, to all, she

opposed that same tender, halfmournful "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.

And, in the train, she tried to think herself once more in the boat, among the shadows and the whispering

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

"Oh, my dear, where HAVE you been? Such a dreadful piece of news! They've stolen her! That wicked

manyour husbandhe took her right out of her pramand went off with her in a great carhe and that

other one! I've been half out of my mind!" Gyp stared aghast. "I hollered to a policeman. 'He's stolen

herher 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 homeI didn't

know where you were. Oh dear! The major away and allwhat 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

Gyp stood still. Nemesis for her happiness? That vengeful wretch, Rosek! This was his doing. And she said:

A fresh outburst of moans was the only answer. Gyp remembered suddenly what the lawyer had said over a

year agoit 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 ator the giving up of her lover? She went over to her mirror,

While she made ready, she fought down those two horrible fearsof 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 redleather 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

Behind that moonface with the troubled eyes, what conflict was in progressbetween 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

"No; Betty, I never was. I only thought I was in love." A convulsive squeeze and creaking, whiffling sounds

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 spinememories of Daphne Wing and Rosek, of

that large womanwhat 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, broadcheekboned 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

"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?"

"One o'clock, ma'amby car. Count Rosek was driving himself. I should say they won't be away longthey

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."

"Thank you, Ford; thank you very much," she grasped Betty's arm again and leaned heavily on her going

It was real, black fear now. To lose helpless thingschildren dogsand 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 childthis horror, Gyp suffered now. And nothing to be done! Nothing but to go to bed and

wait hardest of all tasks! Mercifullythanks to her long day in the openshe fell at last into a dreamless

sleep, and when she was called, there was a letter from Fiorsen on the tray with her tea.

"I am not a babystealer 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.

When Gyp had finished reading, she went through some moments of such mental anguish as she had never

known, butjust as when Betty first told her of the stealingher 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 againthis 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

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 justborn

An hour later, her cab stopped before the Wagges' door in Frankland Street. But just as she was about to ring

"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

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

In that too well remembered room, the table was laid with a stained white cloth, a cruetstand, and bottle of

Worcestershire sauce. The little blue bowl was gone, so that nothing now marred the harmony of red and

The expression on Mr. Wagge's face was singular; suspicion, relief, and a sort of craftiness were blended with

"Yes; I dare say she sees my husband, if that's what you mean; and I don't mindhe's nothing to me now."

"Well," he said, "it's not to be wondered at, perhaps, in the circumstances. I'm sure I always thought"

Mr. Wagge remained a moment in deep thought; then he said, in a gruff, jerky voice:

"Seventythree 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 himhe 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 independenceI beg pardonbut who wouldn't?" he ended

"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

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!'

Seventythree Comrade Street, Soho, was difficult to find; but, with the aid of a milkboy, Gyp discovered

the alley at last, and the right door. There her pride took sudden alarm, and but for the milkboy's eyes fixed

on her while he let out his professional howl, she might have fled. A plump white hand and wrist emerging

"Didn't you want to speak to her, miss?" He beat the closing door. "Lidy wants to speak to you!

The figure of Daphne Wing in a blue kimono was revealed. Her eyes peered round at Gyp.

In the middle of the studio, a little table was laid for two. Daphne Wing went up to it, holding in one hand the

milkcan 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 Vshaped

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 roomdo 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,

"Of course, I'm quite mistress of myself now." Then, all at once, the uneasy womanoftheworld mask

dropped from her face and she seized Gyp's hand. "Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I shall never be like you!"

"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

"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 knowI thinkI think your

selfcontrol is something awful. It frightens me. If my baby had lived and been stolen like that, I should have

"Oh, I expect I can make him" She stopped, confused, then added hastily: "Are you sure you don't mind?"

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

"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 youyou 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

Her eyes lighted on the table, and a faint ruefulness came into them, as if she were going to ask Gyp to eat the

And she turned to go. She heard a sob. Daphne Wing was crying; then, before Gyp could speak, she struck

"Thathat's idiotic! II haven't cried sincesince, you know. II'm perfect mistress of myself; only,

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. Ifif 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 followher

She went to the window for airthe 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 stronghow 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 resemblancenone. He

was much too real, and loved, and wanted. Less than twentyfour 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 nowgo 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 babythat tiny thinghow could she give her up, and

never again hold close and kiss that round, perfect little body, that grave little darkeyed face?

The roar of London came in through the open window. So much life, so many peopleand not a soul could

help! She left the window and went to the cottagepiano 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 concertsong of the broken

No, no; she couldn'tcouldn't! It was to her lover she would cling. And tears ran down her cheeks.

When, trembling all over, she entered the diningroom, Fiorsen was standing by the sideboard, holding the

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.

"Yes! You never believed in me; you never thought me capable of good! Why didn't you?"

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,

That passionate "I am not!" saved Gyp from a breakdown. No; even at his highest pitch of abnegation, he

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

"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 sawafter all. Onlynow is the

time for you to draw back. Look into the future look far! Don't let any foolish pityor honourweigh

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 suremake sure! I shall

understand. I mean this with every bit of me. And now, goodnight, and perhapsgoodbye.

She read it over and shivered. Did she really mean that she could bear it if he drew backif 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

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

"Goodbye, my love! Take care of yourself; wire from London, and again from Paris." And, smiling up at

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

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 ovalshaped face, dark arched brows, large and clear brown eyes; but she had the

modern child's openair look; her hair, that curled over at the ends, was not allowed to be long, and her

"Turkeys! You aren't good, are you? Come ON!" And, stretching out her hands with the palms held up, she

backed away from the tulipbed. The turkeys, trailing delicately their longtoed 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 teatime, slanted from over the roof of the red house, and painted up that small

processionthe deep blue frock of little Gyp, the glint of gold in the chestnut of her hair; the daisystarred

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 walnuttreethe one large tree of that walled gardena very old Scotch terrier was lying, and

Presently, seeing her mother in the porch, she jumped up, and crying out: "OssyOssy! Walk!" rushed to

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

differentlyinstead 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 waterbowl, 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 tonight. Oh, ducky, you're not smelling your best! Yes; onlynot my face!"

A telegraphboy was coming from the gate. Gyp opened the missive with the faint tremor she always felt

The "old scoundrel," Pettance, stiffer in the anklejoints, 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 tomorrow, 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

"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,

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!"

"Yes, ma'amvery 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 beechclumps; it was favoured by beasts and birds, and little Gyp had recently seen two baby

hares there. From an oaktree, 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 flowersmarshorchis, ladies' smocks, and cuckoobuds, starring the rushy

grassall 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

"Yes, dear, it's a curlewI wonder what's the matter with it. Perhaps its mate is hurt."

"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?"

They went on into the sedgy grass and the curlew continued to circle, vanishing and reappearing from behind

"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 birdsongs in the bright shadowy quiet of the evening

"Oh, look; it's dipping close to the ground, over there in that cornerit's got a nest! We won't go near, will

They stole back out of the gate close to the linhay, the curlew still fighting and crying behind them.

"Yes, darling, fearfully glad. Now then, shall we go down and ask Grandy to come up to dinner?"

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

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

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

diningroom. Winton never failed to scrutinize it when he came in to a mealthat "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

curtainsall 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 absentminded.

"It must be pretty dull for you, my dear, sometimes. I wish you saw more people."

Watching her smile, he thought: 'That's not sour grapes"What is the trouble, then?'

"Is he? Ah, that'll cheer them." And he thought: 'It's not that, then. But there's somethingI'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

"Yes; he's doing awfully well." And a sound like a faint sigh caught his ears. "Would you say he's changed

"Can't expect him to keep that," he answered, "turning people inside out, day after dayand most of them

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 Bryanor have people been making

He had, in these last three years, become unconsciously inimical to his own class and their imitators, and

more than ever friendly to the poorvisiting 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,

When he first came down, the chief landownera man he had known for yearshad 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

courseyes." 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

Outside the inn door, exhaling the last puffs of his goodnight cigarette, he thought: 'What wouldn't I give for

The last train was not due till eleventhirty, 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 reallove, 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 itas 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 loveor one does not."

She even derived a positive joy from the feeling that her love imposed a sort of isolation; she liked to be

apartfor him. Besides, by her very birth she was outside the fold of society, her love beyond the love of

those within itjust 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 yetdid he perhaps feel himself more bound than if they were marriedunfairly bound? It

was this thought barely more than the shadow of a thoughtwhich had given her, of late, the extra gravity

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 fingertips, 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

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 prideno wonder that she doubts.

For their Odyssey they had gone to Spainthat brown unEuropean 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 blackclothed 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 watersellers 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 themthey 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 lawterm began. There, in a

queer little French hotelall 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 leanthey 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," whenhis "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 seenRosek 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

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 everthat man with his little beard and his white face and those

eyeshow could she ever! Ugh! And then, in the mirror, she saw Rosek's darkcircled 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 turnedher perfect backand 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

consciouswas 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 nowquite 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!

She felt as if they had both escaped a deadly perilnot 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 menmarried 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 pageboy 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 hertoo 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

In the little lowroofed 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!'

"Thank you. It was very good of you. I'm sorry Bryan isn't in yet. Will you have some tea?"

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,

"II hope you won't mind my being frankI'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 gladit must be horrid

"Oh! no. I'm perfectly happycouldn't be happier." And she thought: 'I suppose she doesn't believe that.'

"One doesn't realize these things at firstneither of you will, till you see how dreadfully Society can

"One can only be coldshouldered 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,

whodisguise 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

"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

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 pridedemon within her; at the moment,

it was almost stronger than her love. She was still sitting there, when the pageboy brought her another

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 prayersand 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'

rabbitfaces; old Pettance's carved grin the film lifting from his little burning eyes: "Ha! Mr. Bryn

Winton patted her hand. "We must stand up to 'em, you know, Gyp. You mustn't get your tail down."

"I want you to let me take the lease of the Red Houselet it be mine, the whole thinglet me pay for

"Only that I shall have a proper home of my own. I can't explain, but your mother's coming today made me

"You can pay for everything else; Londontravellingclothes, 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,

"No, no; so many women lose men's love because they seem to claim things of them. I don't want to lose

"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

"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

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.

There, in the study, the moonlight had reached her face; an owl was hooting not far away, and still more

memories camethe happiest of all, perhapsof 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 almondblossom and snows against the bluea 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:

A tall woman or girlredhaired, with one of those wonderful white skins that go therewith; and

brownyes, brown eyes; Gyp could see those eyes sweeping her up and down with a sort of burninglive

As soon as they were clear of the crowd, she pressed his hand to her breast, and said:

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 burningwhite skin, the

burningbrown eyes, the burningred 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 desirableso 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 returnfor 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

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 paperweights'; and, in the strange light, its first words caught her eyes:

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 sayyou 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, becausehe had not told her! Wasting himselfon 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 vacationthat clear, cold, wonderful fortnight in Florence, he had been full of fun. It was

May now. Was there no memory sinceof his old infectious gaiety? She could not think of any. "But I

sayyou ARE wasting yourself." A sudden hatred flared up in her against the unknown woman who had

said that thingand 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

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 shadowpatterned beechmast. 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 gossipany 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

They sat down on a great root, and leaning against him, looking up at the dark branches, she said:

"Yes; got hung up by a late consultation; and old Leyton asked me to come and dine."

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 neverneverfeel 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

Gyp put up her lips, and tried to drown for ever in a kiss the memory of those words: "But I sayyou ARE

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

"But I sayyou 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 graveat

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 'Dn the world!' Butare

you? I should have thought it was 'dning' 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

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 boyyour 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 tomorrow 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 haira 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 redhaired girl,

with the skin so white that it burns you, and the eyes so brown that they burn youdon't they?" Old Satan!

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 funnyverycapacious!" A tiny

"Hallo, Baryn!" She came flying to him, and he caught her up so that she stood on his knees with the sunlight

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 footrail 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

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 today 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 theatrethe Diana of his last night's dinner. HumptyDumpty was up on the bedrail 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 notno, she would not brood and spoil her day

But that afternoon, at the end of a long gallop on the downs, she turned her head away and said suddenly:

She knew that tone, that expression on his face, knew he was angry; but could not stop herself.

It was one of those cold, naked sayings that should never be spoken between loversone 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

But she only shook her head. He HAD meant ithad wanted to hurt her! It didn't mattershe wouldn't give

"Look at that long white cloud, and the applegreen in the sky rain tomorrow. One ought to enjoy any

That night, she cried in her sleep; and, when he awakened her, clung to him and sobbed out:

For a long time he held and soothed her. Never, never! He would never leave off loving her!

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 itnever 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 cleverso 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 utterlyher

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:

"Keen to get rid!" When she could not bear to be away from him! But she forced her feeling back, and said,

"At last! There's a good boy!" Anything! If only it would bring him back to her exactly as he had been. She

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 golfclubs 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 longpast 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

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 fitfulnow 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 marriagelaws; 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 marriagelaws, 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

"I was walking down Bond Street past that teaandtart shop, my dearyou know, where they have those

special coffeecreams, 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

"'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."

"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

That same afternoon, Gyp was sitting in a shelter on the common, a book on her kneethinking her one long

thought: 'Today is ThursdayMonday week! Eleven daysstill!'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 asthmaand

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 sidewhiskers, and Mrs.

But the dog, standing stockily on the pathway was gazing at Gyp, while what was left of its broad nose

"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 aapleasure," she murmured. "Who WOULD have thought of meeting you! Oh, don't let Duckie

But Duckie did not move, resting his back against Gyp's shinbones. Mr. Wagge, whose tongue had been

passing over a mouth which she saw to its full advantage for the first time, said abruptly:

"Ah, I thought not, never havin' seen you. We've been retired here ourselves a matter of twelve months. A

"We wanted nature. The air suits us, though a bitertoo irony, as you might say. But it's a longlived

"Yeswe'd thought of Wimbledon, you see, but Mr. Wagge liked this better; he can get his walk, here; and

"I was always a chapel man; butI don't know how it isthere's something in a place like this that makes

church seem moremore suitable; my wife always had a leaning that way. I never conceal my actions."

"No; I don't hold with incensewe're not 'Igh Church. But how are YOU, ma'am? We often speak of you.

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:

"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 successno 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

"Have you seen her last photographthe one where she's standing between two hydrangeatubs? It was her

"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, halfveiled 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,

thickskinned, thickfeatured face, thick, rather hoarse yet oily voice. It was as if Providence had arranged a

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

"Well, as a fact, I've come here for rest. But I take a Turkish bath once a fortnightfind it refreshing; keeps

The dog Duckie, feeling himself the cynosure of every eye, rose and stood panting into Gyp's face. She took

"We must go, I'm afraid. Goodbye. It's been very nice to meet you again. When you see Daisy, will you

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

"So those two got that pretty filly! Well, she didn't show much quality, when you come to think of it. She's

"Well, one oughtn't to wish any man worse than he's likely to get. But when I see people daring to look down

"It matters very much to methe impudence of it!" His mouth relaxed in a grim little smile: "Ah,

wellthere's not much to choose between us so far as condemning our neighbours goes. 'Charity

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 bitertoo 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 beforehow 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

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 selfinflicted 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 racingworld so plutocratic now, with the American seat, the

increase of bookmaking owners, and other tragic occurrenceshe launched forth into a jeremiad on the

condition of things in general. Parliament, he thought, especially now that members were paid, had lost its

selfrespect; 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 halfcrown they spent, and every halfhour of their time; the horse, too,

would be an extinct animal, brought out once a year at the lordmayor's show. He hopedthe deucehe

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

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 yourselfnothing 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

"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."

"Yees," 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 caredthey thought they were going to be all right themselves, in Kingdom Come. But

"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 beechtree hung a board, on which were the freshly painted words:

"That board is stuck up all over this life and the next. Well, WE won't give them the chance to warn us off,

"No, Dad; you and I will go off with the wind and the sun, and the trees and the waters, like Procris in my

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,

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

hearta 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 redhaired girl, and this

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 longingto get to Gyp. Sitting back in his cab, hands

deepthrust into the pockets of his ulster, he smiled, enjoying even the smell of the misty London morning.

She was standing in the far corner motionless, deadly pale, quivering from head to foot; and when he flung

his arms round her, she gave a long sigh, closing her eyes. With his lips on hers, he could feel her almost

Next day, they went abroad to a little place not far from Fecamp, in that Normandy countryside where all

things are largethe people, the beasts, the unhedged fields, the courtyards of the farms guarded so squarely

by tall trees, the skies, the sea, even the blackberries large. And Gyp was happy. But twice there came letters,

in that toowellremembered handwriting, which bore a Scottish postmark. A phantom increases in darkness,

solidifies when seen in mist. Jealousy is rooted not in reason, but in the nature that feels itin her nature that

loved desperately, felt proudly. And jealousy flourishes on scepticism. Even if pride would have let her ask,

what good? She would not have believed the answers. Of course he would sayif only out of pitythat he

never let his thoughts rest on another woman. But, after all, it was only a phantom. There were many hours in

They went back to the Red House at the end of the first week in October. Little Gyp, home from the sea, was

now an almost accomplished horsewoman. Under the tutelage of old Pettance, she had been riding steadily

round and round those rough fields by the linhay which they called "the wild," her firm brown legs astride of

the mousecoloured pony, her little brown face, with excited, dark eyes, very erect, her auburn crop of short

curls flopping up and down on her little straight back. She wanted to be able to "go out riding" with Grandy

and Mum and Baryn. And the first days were spent by them all more or less in fulfilling her new desires.

Then term began, and Gyp sat down again to the long sharing of Summerhay with his other life.

One afternoon at the beginning of November, the old Scotch terrier, Ossian, lay on the path in the pale

sunshine. He had lain there all the morning since his master went up by the early train. Nearly sixteen years

old, he was deaf now and disillusioned, and every time that Summerhay left him, his eyes seemed to say:

"You will leave me once too often!" The blandishments of the other nice people about the house were

becoming to him daily less and less a substitute for that which he felt he had not much time left to enjoy; nor

could he any longer bear a stranger within the gate. From her window, Gyp saw him get up and stand with his

back ridged, growling at the postman, and, fearing for the man's calves, she hastened out.

Among the letters was one in that dreaded hand writing marked "Immediate," and forwarded from his

chambers. She took it up, and put it to her nose. A scentof what? Too faint to say. Her thumb nails sought

the edge of the flap on either side. She laid the letter down. Any other letter, but not thatshe wanted to

open it too much. Readdressing it, she took it out to put with the other letters. And instantly the thought went

through her: 'What a pity! If I read it, and there was nothing!' All her restless, jealous misgivings of months

past would then be set at rest! She stood, uncertain, with the letter in her hand. Ahbut if there WERE

something! She would lose at one stroke her faith in him, and her faith in herselfnot only his love but her

own selfrespect. She dropped the letter on the table. Could she not take it up to him herself? By the three

o'clock slow train, she could get to him soon after five. She looked at her watch. She would just have time to

walk down. And she ran upstairs. Little Gyp was sitting on the top stairher favourite seatlooking at a

"I'm going up to London, darling. Tell Betty I may be back to night, or perhaps I may not. Give me a good

While Gyp was putting on hat and furs, she thought: "I shan't take a bag; I can always make shift at Bury

Street if" She did not finish the thought, but the blood came up in her cheeks. "Take care of Ossy, darling!"

She ran down, caught up the letter, and hastened away to the station. In the train, her cheeks still burned.

Might not this first visit to his chambers be like her old first visit to the little house in Chelsea? She took the

letter out. How she hated that large, scrawly writing for all the thoughts and fears it had given her these past

months! If that girl knew how much anxiety and suffering she had caused, would she stop writing, stop

seeing him? And Gyp tried to conjure up her face, that face seen only for a minute, and the sound of that

clipped, clear voice but once heardthe face and voice of one accustomed to have her own way. No! It

would only make her go on all the more. Fair game, against a woman with no claimbut that of love. Thank

heaven she had not taken him away from any woman unlessthat girl perhaps thought she had! Ah! Why,

in all these years, had she never got to know his secrets, so that she might fight against what threatened her?

But would she have fought? To fight for love was degrading, horrible! And yetif one did not? She got up

and stood at the window of her empty carriage. There was the riverand thereyes, the very backwater

where he had begged her to come to him for good. It looked so different, bare and shorn, under the light grey

sky; the willows were all polled, the reeds cut down. And a line from one of his favourite sonnets came into

Ah, well! Time enough to face things when they came. She would only think of seeing him! And she put the

The train was late; it was past five, already growing dark, when she reached Paddington and took a cab to the

Temple. Strange to be going there for the first timenot even to know exactly where Harcourt Buildings

were. At Temple Lane, she stopped the cab and walked down that narrow, illlighted, busy channel into the

"Up those stone steps, miss; along the railin', second doorway." Gyp came to the second doorway and in the

doubtful light scrutinized the names. "Summerhaysecond floor." She began to climb the stairs. Her heart

beat fast. What would he say? How greet her? Was it not absurd, dangerous, to have come? He would be

having a consultation perhaps. There would be a clerk or someone to beard, and what name could she give?

Then, taking a long breath to quiet her heart, she went on up. There was the name, and there the door. She

rangno one came; listenedcould hear no sound. All looked so massive and bleak and dimthe iron

railings, stone stairs, bare walls, oak door. She rang again. What should she do? Leave the letter? Not see him

after allher little romance all come to naughtjust a chilly visit to Bury Street, where perhaps there would

be no one but Mrs. Markey, for her father, she knew, was at Mildenham, hunting, and would not be up till

Sunday! And she thought: 'I'll leave the letter, go back to the Strand, have some tea, and try again.'

She took out the letter, with a sort of prayer pushed it through the slit of the door, heard it fall into its wire

cage; then slowly descended the stairs to the outer passage into Temple Lane. It was thronged with men and

boys, at the end of the day's work. But when she had nearly reached the Strand, a woman's figure caught her

eye. She was walking with a man on the far side; their faces were turned toward each other. Gyp heard their

voices, and, faint, dizzy, stood looking back after them. They passed under a lamp; the light glinted on the

woman's hair, on a trick of Summerhay's, the lift of one shoulder, when he was denying something; she heard

his voice, highpitched. She watched them cross, mount the stone steps she had just come down, pass along

the railed stone passage, enter the doorway, disappear. And such horror seized on her that she could hardly

"Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!" So it went in her minda kind of moaning, like that of a cold, rainy wind through

dripping trees. What did it mean? Oh, what did it mean? In this miserable tumult, the only thought that did

not come to her was that of going back to his chambers. She hurried away. It was a wonder she was not run

over, for she had no notion what she was doing, where going, and crossed the streets without the least

attention to traffic. She came to Trafalgar Square, and stood leaning against its parapet in front of the

National Gallery. Here she had her first coherent thought: So that was why his chambers had been empty! No

clerk no one! That they might be alone. Alone, where she had dreamed of being alone with him! And only

that morning he had kissed her and said, "Goodbye, treasure!" A dreadful little laugh got caught in her

throat, confused with a sob. Whywhy had she a heart? Down there, against the plinth of one of the lions, a

young man leaned, with his arms round a girl, pressing her to him. Gyp turned away from the sight and

resumed her miserable wandering. She went up Bury Street. No light; not any sign of life! It did not matter;

she could not have gone in, could not stay still, must walk! She put up her veil to get more air, feeling

The trees of the Green Park, under which she was passing now, had still a few leaves, and they gleamed in

the lamplight copper coloured as that girl's hair. All sorts of torturing visions came to her. Those empty

chambers! She had seen one little minute of their intimacy. A hundred kisses might have passed between

thema thousand words of love! And he would lie to her. Already he had acted a lie! She had not deserved

that. And this sense of the injustice done her was the first relief she feltthis definite emotion of a mind

clouded by sheer misery. She had not deserved that he should conceal things from her. She had not had one

thought or look for any man but him since that night down by the sea, when he came to her across the garden

in the moonlightnot one thoughtand never would! Poor relief enough! She was in Hyde Park now,

wandering along a pathway which cut diagonally across the grass. And with more resolution, more purpose,

she began searching her memory for signs, proofs of WHEN he had changed to her. She could not find them.

He had not changed in his ways to her; not at all. Could one act love, then? Act passion, orhorrible

She heard the rustling of leaves behind. A youth was following her along the path, some ravening youth,

whose ungoverned breathing had a kind of pathos in it. Heaven! What irony! She was too miserable to care,

hardly even knew when, in the main path again, she was free from his pursuit. Love! Why had it such

possession of her, that a little thingyes, a little thingonly the sight of him with another, should make her

suffer so? She came out on the other side of the park. What should she do? Crawl home, creep into her hole,

and lie there stricken! At Paddington she found a train just starting and got in. There were other people in the

carriage, business men from the city, lawyers, from thatplace where she had been. And she was glad of

their company, glad of the crackle of evening papers and stolid faces giving her looks of stolid interest from

behind them, glad to have to keep her mask on, afraid of the violence of her emotion. But one by one they got

out, to their cars or their constitutionals, and she was left alone to gaze at darkness and the deserted river just

visible in the light of a moon smothered behind the sou'westerly sky. And for one wild moment she thought:

She hurried away from the station. It was raining, and she drew up her veil to feel its freshness on her hot

face. There was just light enough for her to see the pathway through the beech clump. The wind in there was

sighing, soughing, driving the dark boughs, tearing off the leaves, little black wet shapes that came whirling

at her face. The wild melancholy in that swaying wood was too much for Gyp; she ran, thrusting her feet

through the deep rustling drifts of leaves not yet quite drenched. They clung all wet round her thin stockings,

and the rainy wind beat her forehead. At the edge, she paused for breath, leaning against the bole of a beech,

peering back, where the wild whirling wind was moaning and tearing off the leaves. Then, bending her head

to the rain, she went on in the open, trying to prepare herself to show nothing when she reached home.

She got in and upstairs to her room, without being seen. If she had possessed any sedative drug she would

have taken it. Anything to secure oblivion from this aching misery! Huddling before the freshly lighted fire,

she listened to the wind driving through the poplars; and once more there came back to her the words of that

She woke next morning with the joyful thought: 'It's Saturday; he'll be down soon after lunch!' And then she

remembered. Ah, no! It was too much! At the pang of that remembrance, it was as if a devil entered into

hera devil of stubborn pride, which grew blacker with every hour of that morning. After lunch, that she

might not be in when he came, she ordered her mare, and rode up on the downs alone. The rain had ceased,

but the wind still blew strong from the sou'west, and the sky was torn and driven in swathes of white and grey

to north, south, east, and west, and puffs of what looked like smoke scurried across the cloud banks and the

glacierblue rifts between. The mare had not been out the day before, and on the springy turf stretched

herself in that thoroughbred gallop which bears a rider up, as it were, on air, till nothing but the thud of hoofs,

the grass flying by, the beating of the wind in her face betrayed to Gyp that she was moving. For full two

miles they went without a pull, only stopped at last by the finish of the level. From there, one could see far

away over to Wittenham Clumps across the Valley, and to the high woods above the river in the eastaway,

in the south and west, under that strange, torn sky, to a whole autumn land, of whitish grass, bare fields,

woods of grey and gold and brown, fast being pillaged. But all that sweep of wind, and sky, freshness of rain,

and distant colour could not drive out of Gyp's heart the hopeless aching and the devil begotten of it.

There are men who, however welloffeither in money or lovemust gamble. Their affections may be

deeply rooted, but they cannot repulse fate when it tantalizes them with a risk.

Summerhay, who loved Gyp, was not tired of her either physically or mentally, and even felt sure he would

never tire, had yet dallied for months with this risk which yesterday had come to a head. And now, taking his

seat in the train to return to her, he felt unquiet; and since he resented disquietude, he tried defiantly to think

of other things, but he was very unsuccessful. Looking back, it was difficult for him to tell when the snapping

of his defences had begun. A preference shown by one accustomed to exact preference is so insidious. The

girl, his cousin, was herself a gambler. He did not respect her as he respected Gyp; she did not touch him as

Gyp touched him, was notno, not halfso deeply attractive; but she hadconfound her! the power of

turning his head at moments, a queer burning, skindeep fascination, and, above all, that most dangerous

quality in a womanthe lure of an imperious vitality. In love with life, she made him feel that he was letting

things slip by. And since to drink deep of life was his nature, toowhat chance had he of escape? Faroff

cousinhood is a dangerous relationship. Its familiarity is not great enough to breed contempt, but sufficient to

remove those outer defences to intimacy, the conquest of which, in other circumstances, demands the

Summerhay had not realized the extent of the danger, but he had known that it existed, especially since

Scotland. It would be interestingas the historians sayto speculate on what he would have done, if he

could have foretold what would happen. But he had certainly not foretold the crisis of yesterday evening. He

had received a telegram from her at lunchtime, suggesting the fulfilment of a jesting promise, made in

Scotland, that she should have tea with him and see his chambersa small and harmless matter. Only, why

had he dismissed his clerk so early? That is the worst of gamblersthey will put a polish on the risks they

run. He had not reckoned, perhaps, that she would look so pretty, lying back in his big Oxford chair, with furs

thrown open so that her white throat showed, her hair gleaming, a smile coming and going on her lips; her

white hand, with polished nails, holding that cigarette; her brown eyes, so unlike Gyp's, fixed on him; her

slim foot with high instep thrust forward in transparent stocking. Not reckoned that, when he bent to take her

cup, she would put out her hands, draw his head down, press her lips to his, and say: "Now you know!" His

head had gone round, still went round, thinking of it! That was all. A little matterexcept that, in an hour, he

would be meeting the eyes of one he loved much more. And yetthe poison was in his blood; a kiss so cut

shortby whatwhat counter impulse?leaving him gazing at her without a sound, inhaling that scent of

herssomething like a pine wood's scent, only sweeter, while she gathered up her gloves, fastened her furs,

as if it had been he, not she, who had snatched that kiss. But her hand had pressed his arm against her as they

went down the stairs. And getting into her cab at the Temple Station, she had looked back at him with a little

halfmocking smile of challenge and comradeship and promise. The link would be hard to breakeven if he

wanted to. And yet nothing would come of it! Heavens, no! He had never thought! Marriage! Impossible!

Anything elseeven more impossible! When he got back to his chambers, he had found in the box the letter,

which her telegram had repeated, readdressed by Gyp from the Red House. And a faint uneasiness at its

having gone down there passed through him. He spent a restless evening at the club, playing cards and losing;

sat up late in his chambers over a case; had a hard morning's work, and only now that he was nearing Gyp,

When he reached the house and found that she had gone out riding alone, his uneasiness increased. Why had

she not waited as usual for him to ride with her? And he paced up and down the garden, where the wind was

melancholy in the boughs of the walnuttree that had lost all its leaves. Little Gyp was out for her walk, and

only poor old Ossy kept him company. Had she not expected him by the usual train? He would go and try to

find out. He changed and went to the stables. Old Pettance was sitting on a cornbin, examining an aged

Ruff's Guide, which contained records of his longpast glory, scored under by a pencil: "June Stakes: Agility.

E. Pettance 3rd." "Tidport Selling H'Cap: Dorothea, E. Pettance, o." "Salisbury Cup: Also ran Plum Pudding,

"Goodafternoon, sir; windy afternoon, sir. The mistress 'as been gone out over two hours, sir. She wouldn't

Over two hours! He went up on to the downs, by the way they generally came home, and for an hour he rode,

keeping a sharp lookout for any sign of her. No use; and he turned home, hot and uneasy. On the hall table

were her ridingwhip and gloves. His heart cleared, and he ran upstairs. She was doing her hair and turned

her head sharply as he entered. Hurrying across the room he had the absurd feeling that she was standing at

He had never seen her look or speak like thather face so hard, her eyes so stabbing! And he recoiled

"Nothing. Onlydon't pretend!" And, turning to the glass, she went on twisting and coiling up her hair.

She looked lovely, flushed from her ride in the wind, and he had a longing to seize her in his arms. But her

"Don't you?" There was something deadly in her utter disregard of him, while her fingers moved swiftly

about her dark, shining hair something so appallingly sudden in this hostility that Summerhay felt a

peculiar sensation in his head, as if he must knock it against something. He sat down on the side of the bed.

"What on earth has happened, Gyp, since I went up yesterday? Speak out, and don't keep me like this!"

"Don't pretend that you're upset because you can't kiss me! Don't be false, Bryan! You know it's been

Summerhay's mind was trained to quickness, and the full significance of those words came home to him at

Gyp gave a little laugh, turned her back, and went on coiling at her hair. And again that horrid feeling that he

"I only gave her tea. Why not? She's my cousin. It's nothing! Why should you think the worst of me? She

"I've always told you you were perfectly free. Do you think I haven't felt it going on for months? There

"I am not in the habit of lying." But still he did not go. That awful feeling of encirclement, of a net round him,

through which he could not breaka net which he dimly perceived even in his resentment to have been spun

by himself, by that cursed intimacy, kept from her all to no purposebeset him more closely every minute.

Could he not make her see the truth, that it was only her he REALLY loved? And he said:

"It's only you I really love. I swear it! Why don't you believe me? You must believe me. You can't be so

wicked as not to. It's foolishfoolish! Think of our lifethink of our lovethink of all" Her face was

"Yes, it's all I've got. Lucky for you I have it. You can go to her when you like."

Nothing is harder for one whom life has always spoiled than to find his best and deepest feelings disbelieved

in. At that moment, Summerhay meant absolutely what he said. The girl was nothing to him! If she was

pursuing him, how could he help it? And he could not make Gyp believe it! How awful! How truly terrible!

How unjust and unreasonable of her! And why? What had he done that she should be so

unbelievingshould think him such a shallow scoundrel? Could he help the girl's kissing him? Help her

being fond of him? Help having a man's nature? Unreasonable, unjust, ungenerous! And giving her a furious

He went down to his study, flung himself on the sofa and turned his face to the wall. Devilish! But he had not

been there five minutes before his anger seemed childish and evaporated into the chill of deadly and insistent

fear. He was perceiving himself up against much more than a mere incident, up against her natureits pride

and scepticismyesand the very depth and singleness of her love. While she wanted nothing but him, he

wanted and took so much else. He perceived this but dimly, as part of that feeling that he could not break

through, of the irritable longing to put his head down and butt his way out, no matter what the obstacles.

What was coming? How long was this state of things to last? He got up and began to pace the room, his

hands clasped behind him, his head thrown back; and every now and then he shook that head, trying to free it

from this feeling of being held in chancery. And then Diana! He had said he would not see her again. But was

that possible? After that kissafter that last look back at him! How? What could he saydo? How break so

suddenly? Then, at memory of Gyp's face, he shivered. Ah, how wretched it all was! There must be some

way outsome way! Surely some way out! For when first, in the wood of life, fatality halts, turns her dim

dark form among the trees, shows her pale cheek and those black eyes of hers, shows with awful swiftness

Gyp stayed in her room doing little thingsas a woman will when she is particularly wretchedsewing pale

ribbons into her garments, polishing her rings. And the devil that had entered into her when she woke that

morning, having had his fling, slunk away, leaving the old bewildered misery. She had stabbed her lover with

words and looks, felt pleasure in stabbing, and now was bitterly sad. What usewhat satisfaction? How by

vengeful prickings cure the deep wound, disperse the canker in her life? How heal herself by hurting him

whom she loved so? If he came up again now and made but a sign, she would throw herself into his arms. But

hours passed, and he did not come, and she did not go downtoo truly miserable. It grew dark, but she did

not draw the curtains; the sight of the windy moonlit garden and the leaves driving across brought a

melancholy distraction. Little Gyp came in and prattled. There was a tree blown down, and she had climbed

on it; they had picked up two baskets of acorns, and the pigs had been so greedy; and she had been blown

away, so that Betty had had to run after her. And Baryn was walking in the study; he was so busy he had only

When she was gone, Gyp opened the window and let the wind full into her face. If only it would blow out of

her heart this sickening sense that all was over, no matter how he might pretend to love her out of pity! In a

nature like hers, so doubting and self distrustful, confidence, once shaken to the roots, could never be

restored. A proud nature that went all lengths in love could never be content with a halflove. She had been

born too doubting, proud, and jealous, yet made to love too utterly. Shewho had been afraid of love, and

when it came had fought till it swept her away; who, since then, had lived for love and nothing else, who

gave all, and wanted allknew for certain and for ever that she could not have all.

It was "nothing" he had said! Nothing! That for months he had been thinking at least a little of another

woman besides herself. She believed what he had told her, that there had been no more than a kissbut was

it nothing that they had reached that kiss? This girlthis cousinwho held all the cards, had everything on

her sidethe world, family influence, security of life; yes, and more, so terribly much morea man's

longing for the young and unawakened. This girl he could marry! It was this thought which haunted her. A

mere momentary outbreak of man's natural wildness she could forgive and forgetoh, yes! It was the feeling

that it was a girl, his own cousin, besieging him, dragging him away, that was so dreadful. Ah, how horrible it

She heard him come up to his dressingroom, and while he was still there, stole out and down. Life must go

on, the servants be hoodwinked, and so forth. She went to the piano and played, turning the dagger in her

heart, or hoping forlornly that music might work some miracle. He came in presently and stood by the fire,

Dinner, with the talk needful to blinding the householdfor what is more revolting than giving away the

sufferings of the heart? was almost unendurable and directly it was over, they went, he to his study, she

back to the piano. There she sat, ready to strike the notes if anyone came in; and tears fell on the hands that

rested in her lap. With all her soul she longed to go and clasp him in her arms and cry: "I don't careI don't

care! Do what you likego to herif only you'll love me a little!" And yet to lovea LITTLE! Was it

In sheer misery she went upstairs and to bed. She heard him come up and go into his dressingroomand, at

She raised herself and threw her arms round him. Such an embrace a drowning woman might have given.

Pride and all were abandoned in an effort to feel him close once more, to recover the irrecoverable past. For a

long time she listened to his pleading, explanations, justifications, his protestations of undying lovestrange

to her and painful, yet so boyish and pathetic. She soothed him, clasping his head to her breast, gazing out at

the flickering fire. In that hour, she rose to a height above herself. What happened to her own heart did not

matter so long as he was happy, and had all that he wanted with her and away from herif need be, always

But, when he had gone to sleep, a terrible time began; for in the small hours, when things are at their worst,

she could not keep back her weeping, though she smothered it into the pillow. It woke him, and all began

again; the burden of her cry: "It's gone!" the burden of his: "It's NOTcan't you see it isn't?" Till, at last, that

awful feeling that he must knock his head against the wall made him leap up and tramp up and down like a

beast in a cagethe cage of the impossible. For, as in all human tragedies, both were right according to their

natures. She gave him all herself, wanted all in return, and could not have it. He wanted her, the rest besides,

and no complaining, and could not have it. He did not admit impossibility; she did.

At last came another of those pitying lulls till he went to sleep in her arms. Long she lay awake, staring at the

darkness, admitting despair, trying to find how to bear it, not succeeding. Impossible to cut his other life

away from himimpossible that, while he lived it, this girl should not be tugging him away from her.

Impossible to watch and question him. Impossible to live dumb and blind, accepting the crumbs left over,

showing nothing. Would it have been better if they had been married? But then it might have been the

samereversed; perhaps worse! The roots were so much deeper than that. He was not singlehearted and

she was. In spite of all that he said, she knew he didn't really want to give up that girl. How could he? Even if

the girl would let him go! And slowly there formed within her a gruesome little plan to test him. Then, ever

Next morning, remorselessly carrying out that plan, she forced herself to smile and talk as if nothing had

happened, watching the relief in his face, his obvious delight at the change, with a fearful aching in her heart.

"Forget all about yesterday, darling. Promise me you won't let it make any difference. You must keep up your

friendship; you mustn't lose anything. I shan't mind; I shall be quite happy." He knelt down and leaned his

forehead against her waist. And, stroking his hair, she repeated: "I shall only be happy if you take everything

that comes your way. I shan't mind a bit." And she watched his face that had lost its trouble.

"Then you do see that it's nothing, never has been anything compared with younever!"

"It would be so difficult and awkward for you to give up that intimacy. It would hurt your cousin so."

She saw the relief deepen in his face and suddenly laughed. He got up from his knees and stared at her.

But she went on laughing; then, with a sob, turned away and buried her face in her hands. To all his prayers

and kisses she answered nothing, and breaking away from him, she rushed toward the door. A wild thought

possessed her. Why go on? If she were dead, it would be all right for him, quietpeaceful, quietfor them

"Gyp, for heaven's sake! I'll give her upof course I'll give her up. Dodobe reasonable! I don't care a

And presently there came another of those lulls that both were beginning to know were mere pauses of

exhaustion. They were priceless all the same, for the heart cannot go on feeling at that rate.

It was Sunday morning, the churchbells ringing, no wind, a lull in the sou'westerly galeone of those

calms that fall in the night and last, as a rule, twelve or fifteen hours, and the garden all strewn with leaves of

Summerhay was afraid; he kept with her all the morning, making all sorts of little things to do in her

company. But he gradually lost his fear, she seemed so calm now, and his was a nature that bore trouble

badly, ever impatient to shake it off. And then, after lunch, the spiritstorm beat up again, with a swiftness

that showed once more how deceptive were those lulls, how fearfully deep and lasting the wound. He had

simply asked her whether he should try to match something for her when he went up, tomorrow. She was

The tone of her voice, the expression on her face showed him, with a fresh force of revelation, what paralysis

had fallen on his life. If he could not reconvince her of his love, he would be in perpetual fearthat he might

come back and find her gone, fear that she might even do something terrible to herself. He looked at her with

a sort of horror, and, without a word, went out of the room. The feeling that he must hit his head against

something was on him once more, and once more he sought to get rid of it by tramping up and down. Great

God! Such a little thing, such fearful consequences! All her balance, her sanity almost, destroyed. Was what

In the night, Gyp had said: "You are cruel. Do you think there is any man in the world that I wouldn't hate the

sight of if I knew that to see him gave you a moment's pain?" It was truehe felt it was true. But one

couldn't hate a girl simply because she loved you; at least he couldn'tnot even to save Gyp pain. That was

not reasonable, not possible. But did that difference between a man and a woman necessarily mean that Gyp

loved him so much more than he loved her? Could she not see things in proportion? See that a man might

want, did want, other friendships, even passing moments of passion, and yet could love her just the same?

She thought him cruel, called him cruelwhat for? Because he had kissed a girl who had kissed him;

because he liked talking to her, andyes, might even lose his head with her. But cruel! He was not! Gyp

would always be first with him. He must MAKE her seebut how? Give up everything? Give upDiana?

(Truth is so funnyit will out even in a man's thoughts!) Well, and he could! His feeling was not deepthat

was God's truth! But it would be difficult, awkward, brutal to give her up completely! It could be done,

though, sooner than that Gyp should think him cruel to her. It could beshould be done!

Only, would it be any use? Would she believe? Would she not always now be suspecting him when he was

away from her, whatever he did? Must he then sit down here in inactivity? And a gust of anger with her

swept him. Why should she treat him as if he were utterly unreliable? Orwas he? He stood still. When

Diana had put her arms round his neck, he could no more have resisted answering her kiss than he could now

fly through the window and over those poplar trees. But he was not a blackguard, not cruel, not a liar! How

could he have helped it all? The only way would have been never to have answered the girl's first letter,

nearly a year ago. How could he foresee? And, since then, all so gradual, and nothing, really, or almost

nothing. Again the surge of anger swelled his heart. She must have read the letter which had been under that

cursed bust of old Voltaire all those months ago. The poison had been working ever since! And in sudden

fury at that miserable mischance, he drove his fist into the bronze face. The bust fell over, and Summerhay

looked stupidly at his bruised hand. A silly thing to do! But it had quenched his anger. He only saw Gyp's

face nowso pitifully unhappy. Poor darling! What could he do? If only she would believe! And again he

had the sickening conviction that whatever he did would be of no avail. He could never get back, was only at

the beginning, of a trouble that had no end. And, like a rat in a cage, his mind tried to rush out of this

entanglement now at one end, now at the other. Ah, well! Why bruise your head against walls? If it was

hopelesslet it go! And, shrugging his shoulders, he went out to the stables, and told old Pettance to saddle

Hotspur. While he stood there waiting, he thought: 'Shall I ask her to come?' But he could not stand another

Hotspur, the sixteenhand brown horse, with not a speck of white, that Gyp had ridden hunting the day she

first saw Summerhay, was nine years old now. His master's two faults as a horsemana habit of thrusting,

and not too light handshad encouraged his rather hard mouth, and something had happened in the stables

today to put him into a queer temper; or perhaps he feltas horses willthe disturbance raging within his

rider. At any rate, he gave an exhibition of his worst qualities, and Summerhay derived perverse pleasure

from that waywardness. He rode a good hour up there; then, hot, with aching armsfor the brute was pulling

like the devil!he made his way back toward home and entered what little Gyp called "the wild," those two

rough sedgy fields with the linhay in the corner where they joined. There was a gap in the hedge growth of

the bank between them, and at this he put Hotspur at speed. The horse went over like a bird; and for the first

time since Diana's kiss Summerhay felt a moment's joy. He turned him round and sent him at it again, and

again Hotspur cleared it beautifully. But the animal's blood was up now. Summerhay could hardly hold him.

Muttering: "Oh, you BRUTE, don't pull!" he jagged the horse's mouth. There darted into his mind Gyp's

word: "Cruel!" And, viciously, in one of those queer nervecrises that beset us all, he struck the pulling

They were cantering toward the corner where the fields joined, and suddenly he was aware that he could no

more hold the beast than if a steamengine had been under him. Straight at the linhay Hotspur dashed, and

Summerhay thought: "My God! He'll kill himself!" Straight at the old stone linhay, covered by the great ivy

bush. Right at itinto it! Summerhay ducked his head. Not low enough the ivy concealed a beam! A

sickening crash! Torn backward out of the saddle, he fell on his back in a pool of leaves and mud. And the

horse, slithering round the linhay walls, checked in his own length, unhurt, snorting, frightened, came out,

turning his wild eyes on his master, who never stirred, then trotted back into the field, throwing up his head.

When, at her words, Summerhay went out of the room, Gyp's heart sank. All the morning she had tried so

hard to keep back her despairing jealousy, and now at the first reminder had broken down again. It was

beyond her strength! To live day after day knowing that he, up in London, was either seeing that girl or

painfully abstaining from seeing her! And then, when he returned, to be to him just what she had been, to

show nothingwould it ever be possible? Hardest to bear was what seemed to her the falsity of his words,

maintaining that he still really loved her. If he did, how could he hesitate one second? Would not the very

thought of the girl be abhorrent to him? He would have shown that, not merely said it among other wild

things. Words were no use when they contradicted action. She, who loved with every bit of her, could not

grasp that a man can really love and want one woman and yet, at the same time, be attracted by another.

That sudden fearful impulse of the morning to make away with herself and end it for them both recurred so

vaguely that it hardly counted in her struggles; the conflict centred now round the question whether life

would be less utterly miserable if she withdrew from him and went back to Mildenham. Life without him?

That was impossible! Life with him? Just as impossible, it seemed! There comes a point of mental anguish

when the alternatives between which one swings, equally hopeless, become each so monstrous that the mind

does not really work at all, but rushes helplessly from one to the other, no longer trying to decide, waiting on

fate. So in Gyp that Sunday afternoon, doing little things all the timemending a hole in one of his gloves,

At five o'clock, knowing little Gyp must soon be back from her walk, and feeling unable to take part in

gaiety, she went up and put on her hat. She turned from contemplation of her face with disgust. Since it was

no longer the only face for him, what was the use of beauty? She slipped out by the side gate and went down

toward the river. The lull was over; the southwest wind had begun sighing through the trees again, and

gorgeous clouds were piled up from the horizon into the pale blue. She stood by the river watching its grey

stream, edged by a scum of tornoff twigs and floating leaves, watched the wind shivering through the

spoiled plumebranches of the willows. And, standing there, she had a sudden longing for her father; he

alone could help herjust a littleby his quietness, and his love, by his mere presence.

She turned away and went up the lane again, avoiding the inn and the riverside houses, walking slowly, her

head down. And a thought came, her first hopeful thought. Could they not travelgo round the world?

Would he give up his work for thatthat chance to break the spell? Dared she propose it? But would even

that be anything more than a puttingoff? If she was not enough for him now, would she not be still less, if

his work were cut away? Still, it was a gleam, a gleam in the blackness. She came in at the far end of the

fields they called "the wild." A roseleaf hue tinged the white cloudbanks, which towered away to the east

beyond the river; and peeping over that mountaintop was the moon, fleecy and unsubstantial in the

flaxblue sky. It was one of nature's moments of wild colour. The oaktrees above the hedgerows had not

lost their leaves, and in the darting, rainwashed light from the setting sun, had a sheen of old gold with heart

of ivygreen; the hailstripped beeches flamed with copper; the russet tufts of the ashtrees glowed. And

past Gyp, a single leaf blown off, went soaring, turning over and over, going up on the rising wind, up up,

The rain had drenched the long grass, and she turned back. At the gate beside the linhay, a horse was

standing. It whinnied. Hotspur, saddled, bridled, with no rider! Why? Wherethen? Hastily she undid the

latch, ran through, and saw Summerhay lying in the mudon his back, with eyes wideopen, his forehead

and hair all blood. Some leaves had dropped on him. God! O God! His eyes had no sight, his lips no breath;

his heart did not beat; the leaves had dropped even on his facein the blood on his poor head. Gyp raised

himstiffened, cold as ice! She gave one cry, and fell, embracing his dead, stiffened body with all her

strength, kissing his lips, his eyes, his broken forehead; clasping, warming him, trying to pass life into him;

till, at last, she, too, lay still, her lips on his cold lips, her body on his cold body in the mud and the fallen

leaves, while the wind crept and rustled in the ivy, and went over with the scent of rain. Close by, the horse,

uneasy, put his head down and sniffed at her, then, backing away, neighed, and broke into a wild gallop

Old Pettance, waiting for Summerhay's return to stableup for the night, heard that distant neigh and went to

the garden gate, screwing up his little eyes against the sunset. He could see a loose horse galloping down

there in "the wild," where no horse should be, and thinking: "There now; that artful devil's broke away from

the guv'nor! Now I'll 'ave to ketch 'im!' he went back, got some oats, and set forth at the best gait of his

stiffjointed feet. The old horseman characteristically did not think of accidents. The guv'nor had got off, no

doubt, to unhitch that heavy gatethe one you had to lift. That 'orsehe was a masterpiece of mischief! His

Half an hour later, he entered the lighted kitchen shaking and gasping, tears rolling down his furrowed cheeks

"O, my Gord! Fetch the farmerfetch an 'urdle! O my Gord! Betty, you and cookI can't get 'er off him.

She don't speak. I felt herall cold. Come on, you slutsquick! O my Gord! The poor guv'nor! That 'orse

must 'a' galloped into the linhay and killed him. I've see'd the marks on the devil's shoulder where he rubbed

it scrapin' round the wall. Come oncome on! Fetch an 'urdle or she'll die there on him in the mud. Put the

child to bed and get the doctor, and send a wire to London, to the major, to come sharp. Oh, blarst you

In the whispering corner of those fields, light from a lantern and the moon fell on the old stone linhay, on the

ivy and the broken gate, on the mud, the golden leaves, and the two quiet bodies clasped together. Gyp's

consciousness had flown; there seemed no difference between them. And presently, over the rushy grass, a

procession moved back in the wind and the moonlighttwo hurdles, two men carrying one, two women and

When Gyp recovered a consciousness, whose flight had been mercifully renewed with morphia, she was in

her bed, and her first drowsy movement was toward her mate. With eyes still closed, she turned, as she was

wont, and put out her hand to touch him before she dozed off again. There was no warmth, no substance;

through her mind, still away in the mists of morphia, the thoughts passed vague and lonely: 'Ah, yes, in

London!' And she turned on her back. London! Somethingsomething up there! She opened her eyes. So

the fire had kept in all night! Someone was in a chair there, orwas she dreaming! And suddenly, without

knowing why, she began breathing hurriedly in little halfsobbing gasps. The figure moved, turned her face

in the firelight. Betty! Gyp closed her eyes. An icy sweat had broken out all over her. A dream! In a whisper,

No answer; then a halfchoked, "Don't 'ee thinkdon't 'ee think! Your Daddy'll be here directly, my

Gyp's eyes, wide open, passed from the firelight and that rocking figure to the little chink of light that was

hardly light as yet, coming in at one corner of the curtain. She was remembering. Her tongue stole out and

passed over her lips; beneath the bedclothes she folded both her hands tight across her heart. Then she was

not dead with himnot dead! Not gone back with him into the ground not And suddenly there

flickered in her a flame of maniacal hatred. They were keeping her alive! A writhing smile forced its way up

The moment the door clicked to, Gyp sprang up. Her veins throbbed; her whole soul was alive with cunning.

She ran to the wardrobe, seized her long fur coat, slipped her bare feet into her slippers, wound a piece of lace

round her head, and opened the door. All dark and quiet! Holding her breath, stifling the sound of her feet,

she glided down the stairs, slipped back the chain of the front door, opened it, and fled. Like a shadow she

passed across the grass, out of the garden gate, down the road under the black dripping trees. The beginning

of light was mixing its grey hue into the darkness; she could just see her feet among the puddles on the road.

She heard the grinding and whirring of a motorcar on its top gear approaching up the hill, and cowered

away against the hedge. Its light came searching along, picking out with a mysterious momentary brightness

the bushes and treetrunks, making the wet road gleam. Gyp saw the chauffeur turn his head back at her, then

the car's body passed up into darkness, and its tail light was all that was left to see. Perhaps that car was

going to the Red House with her father, the doctor, somebody, helping to keep her alive! The maniacal hate

flared up in her again; she flew on. The light grew; a man with a dog came out of a gate she had passed, and

called "Hallo!" She did not turn her head. She had lost her slippers, and ran with bare feet, unconscious of

stones, or the tornoff branches strewing the road, making for the lane that ran right down to the river, a little

She turned into the lane; dimly, a hundred or more yards away, she could see the willows, the width of lighter

grey that was the river. The river"Away, my rolling river!"the riverand the happiest hours of all her

life! If he were anywhere, she would find him there, where he had sung, and lain with his head on her breast,

and swum and splashed about her; where she had dreamed, and seen beauty, and loved him so! She reached

the bank. Cold and grey and silent, swifter than yesterday, the stream was flowing by, its dim far shore

brightening slowly in the first break of dawn. And Gyp stood motionless, drawing her breath in gasps after

her long run; her knees trembled; gave way. She sat down on the wet grass, clasping her arms round her

drawnup legs, rocking herself to and fro, and her loosened hair fell over her face. The blood beat in her ears;

her heart felt suffocated; all her body seemed on fire, yet numb. She sat, moving her head up and downas

the head of one moves that is gasping her lastwaiting for breathbreath and strength to let go life, to slip

down into the grey water. And that queer apartness from self, which is the property of fever, came on her, so

that she seemed to see herself sitting there, waiting, and thought: 'I shall see myself dead, floating among the

reeds. I shall see the birds wondering above me!' And, suddenly, she broke into a storm of dry sobbing, and

all things vanished from her, save just the rocking of her body, the gasping of her breath, and the sound of it

in her ears. Her boyher boyand his poor hair! "Away, my rolling river!" Swaying over, she lay face

The sun rose, laid a pale bright streak along the water, and hid himself again. A robin twittered in the

Winton, who had been hunting on Saturday, had returned to town on Sunday by the evening tram, and gone

straight to his club for some supper. There falling asleep over his cigar, he had to be awakened when they

desired to close the club for the night. It was past two when he reached Bury Street and found a telegram.

Never had he so cursed the loss of his hand as during the time that followed, when Markey had to dress, help

his master, pack bags, and fetch a taxi equipped for so long a journey. At halfpast three they started. The

whole way down, Winton, wrapped in his fur coat, sat a little forward on his seat, ready to put his head

through the window and direct the driver. It was a wild night, and he would not let Markey, whose chest was

not strong, go outside to act as guide. Twice that silent one, impelled by feelings too strong even for his

Dead! Could Fate be cruel enough to deal one so soft and loving such a blow? And he kept saying to himself:

But the figures of Betty and a maid at the open garden gate, in the breaking darkness, standing there wringing

"Oh, sir! My dear's gone. I left her a moment to get her a cup of tea. And she's run out in the cold!"

Winton stood for two seconds as if turned to stone. Then, taking Betty by the shoulder, he asked quietly:

"The horse killed him at that linhay, sir, down in 'the wild.' And the mistress was unconscious till quarter of

"Turn the cab round! Stay in, Markey! Betty and you, girl, go down to 'the wild,' and search there at once.

"As we came up the hill, sir, I see a lady or something in a long dark coat with white on her head, against the

At such moments, thought is impossible, and a feverish use of every sense takes its place. But of thought

there was no need, for the gardens of villas and the inn blocked the river at all but one spot. Winton stopped

the car where the narrow lane branched down to the bank, and jumping out, ran. By instinct he ran silently on

the grass edge, and Markey, imitating, ran behind. When he came in sight of a black shape lying on the bank,

he suffered a moment of intense agony, for he thought it was just a dark garment thrown away. Then he saw

it move, and, holding up his hand for Markey to stand still, walked on alone, tiptoeing in the grass, his heart

swelling with a sort of rapture. Stealthily moving round between that prostrate figure and the water, he knelt

Gyp raised her head and stared at him. Her white face, with eyes unnaturally dark and large, and hair falling

all over it, was strange to himthe face of grief itself, stripped of the wrappings of form. And he knew not

what to do, how to help or comfort, how to save. He could see so clearly in her eyes the look of a wild animal

He saw the words reach her brain, and that wild look waver. Stretching out his arm, he drew her close to him

till her cheek was against his, her shaking body against him, and kept murmuring:

When, with Markey's aid, he had got her to the cab, they took her, not back to the house, but to the inn. She

was in high fever, and soon delirious. By noon, Aunt Rosamund and Mrs. Markey, summoned by telegram,

had arrived; and the whole inn was taken lest there should be any noise to disturb her.

At five o'clock, Winton was summoned downstairs to the little so called readingroom. A tall woman was

standing at the window, shading her eyes with the back of a gloved hand. Though they had lived so long

within ten miles of each other he only knew Lady Summerhay by sight, and he waited for the poor woman to

"My poor boy! Did you see himhis forehead?" Her lips quivered. "I will take him back home." And tears

rolled, one after the other, slowly down her flushed face under her veil. Poor woman! Poor woman! She had

turned to the window, passing her handkerchief up under the veil, staring out at the little strip of darkening

lawn, and Winton, too, stared out into that mournful daylight. At last, he said:

"I will send you all his things, exceptexcept anything that might help my poor girl."

"And so it's ended like this! Major Winton, is there anything behindwere they really happy?"

Without a quiver, he met those teardarkened, dilated eyes straining at his; with a heavy sigh, she once more

turned away, and, brushing her handkerchief across her face, drew down her veil.

It was not truehe knew from the mutterings of Gyp's feverbut no one, not even Summerhay's mother,

"I don't know whether my girl will get through, or what she will do after. When Fate hits, she hits too hard.

"Goodbye," she said, in a strangled voice. "I wish yougood bye." Then, turning abruptly, she hastened

In the days that followed, when Gyp, robbed of memory, hung between life and death, Winton hardly left her

room, that low room with creepered windows whence the river could be seen, gliding down under the pale

November sunshine or black beneath the stars. He would watch it, fascinated, as one sometimes watches the

He had refused to have a nurse. Aunt Rosamund and Mrs. Markey were skilled in sickness, and he could not

bear that a strange person should listen to those delirious mutterings. His own part of the nursing was just to

sit there and keep her secrets from the others if he could. And he grudged every minute away from his

post. He would stay for hours, with eyes fixed on her face. No one could supply so well as he just that

coherent thread of the familiar, by which the fevered, without knowing it, perhaps find their way a little in the

dark mazes where they wander. And he would think of her as she used to bewell and happyadopting

unconsciously the methods of those mental and other scientists whom he looked upon as quacks.

He was astonished by the number of inquiries, even people whom he had considered enemies left cards or

sent their servants, forcing him to the conclusion that people of position are obliged to reserve their human

kindness for those as good as dead. But the small folk touched him daily by their genuine concern for her

whose grace and softness had won their hearts. One morning he received a letter forwarded from Bury Street.

"I have read a paragraph in the paper about poor Mr. Summerhay's death. And, oh, I feel so sorry for her! She

was so good to me; I do feel it most dreadfully. If you think she would like to know how we all feel for her,

So they knew Summerhay's namehe had not somehow expected that. He did not answer, not knowing what

During those days of fever, the hardest thing to bear was the sound of her rapid whisperings and

mutteringsincoherent phrases that said so little and told so much. Sometimes he would cover his ears, to

avoid hearing of that long stress of mind at which he had now and then glimpsed. Of the actual tragedy, her

wandering spirit did not seem conscious; her lips were always telling the depth of her love, always repeating

the dread of losing his; except when they would give a whispering laugh, uncanny and enchanting, as at some

gleam of perfect happiness. Those little laughs were worst of all to hear; they never failed to bring tears into

his eyes. But he drew a certain gruesome comfort from the conclusion slowly forced on him, that

Summerhay's tragic death had cut short a situation which might have had an even more tragic issue. One

night in the big chair at the side of her bed, he woke from a doze to see her eyes fixed on him. They were

At that dreadful little saying, Winton leaned forward and put his lips to her hand, that lay outside the clothes.

It was rather a sigh than a word and, raising his head, Winton saw her eyes closed again. Now that the fever

had gone, the white transparency of her cheeks and forehead against the dark lashes and hair was too

The return to Mildenham was made by easy stages nearly two months after Summerhay's death, on New

Year's dayMildenham, dark, smelling the same, full of ghosts of the days before love began. For little Gyp,

more than five years old now, and beginning to understand life, this was the pleasantest home yet. In

watching her becoming the spirit of the place, as she herself had been when a child, Gyp found rest at times, a

little rest. She had not picked up much strength, was shadowy as yet, and if her face was taken unawares, it

was the saddest face one could see. Her chief preoccupation was not being taken unawares. Alas! To Winton,

her smile was even sadder. He was at his wits' end about her that winter and spring. She obviously made the

utmost effort to keep up, and there was nothing to do but watch and wait. No use to force the pace. Time

alone could healperhaps. Meanwhile, he turned to little Gyp, so that they became more or less inseparable.

Spring came and passed. Physically, Gyp grew strong again, but since their return to Mildenham, she had

never once gone outside the garden, never once spoken of The Red House, never once of Summerhay.

Winton had hoped that warmth and sunlight would bring some life to her spirit, but it did not seem to. Not

that she cherished her grief, appeared, rather, to do all in her power to forget and mask it. She only had what

used to be called a broken heart. Nothing to be done. Little Gyp, who had been told that "Baryn" had gone

away for ever, and that she must "never speak of him for fear of making Mum sad," would sometimes stand

and watch her mother with puzzled gravity. She once remarked uncannily to Winton:

"Mum doesn't live with us, Grandy; she lives away somewhere, I think. Is it with Baryn?"

"Perhaps it is, sweetheart; but don't say that to anybody but me. Don't ever talk of Baryn to anyone else."

What could Winton answer? Some imbecility with the words "very far" in it; for he had not courage to broach

the question of death, that mystery so hopelessly beyond the grasp of children, and of himselfand others.

He rode a great deal with the child, who, like her mother before her, was never so happy as in the saddle; but

to Gyp he did not dare suggest it. She never spoke of horses, never went to the stables, passed all the days

doing little things about the house, gardening, and sitting at her piano, sometimes playing a little, sometimes

merely looking at the keys, her hands clasped in her lap. This was early in the fateful summer, before any as

yet felt the worldtremors, or saw the Veil of the Temple rending and the darkness beginning to gather.

Winton had no vision of the coif above the dark eyes of his loved one, nor of himself in a strange brown garb,

calling out old familiar words over barracksquares. He often thought: 'If only she had something to take her

In June he took his courage in both hands and proposed a visit to London. To his surprise, she acquiesced

without hesitation. They went up in Whitweek. While they were passing Widrington, he forced himself to

an unnatural spurt of talk; and it was not till fully quarter of an hour later that, glancing stealthily round his

paper, he saw her sitting motionless, her face turned to the fields and tears rolling down it. And he dared not

speak, dared not try to comfort her. She made no sound, the muscles of her face no movement; only, those

tears kept rolling down. And, behind his paper, Winton's eyes narrowed and retreated; his face hardened till

The usual route from the station to Bury Street was "up," and the cab went by narrow bystreets, town lanes

where the misery of the world is on show, where illlooking men, draggled and overdriven women, and the

jaunty ghosts of little children in gutters and on doorsteps proclaim, by every feature of their claycoloured

faces and every movement of their unfed bodies, the postdatement of the millennium; where the lean and

smutted houses have a look of dissolution indefinitely put off, and there is no more trace of beauty than in a

sewer. Gyp, leaning forward, looked out, as one does after a long sea voyage; Winton felt her hand slip into

That evening after dinnerin the room he had furnished for her mother, where the satinwood chairs, the

little Jacobean bureau, the old brass candelabra were still much as they had been just on thirty years

"Dad, I've been thinking. Would you mind if I could make a sort of home at Mildenham where poor children

could come to stay and get good air and food? There are such thousands of them."

Strangely moved by this, the first wish he had heard her express since the tragedy, Winton took her hand,

"Quite. There's nothing wrong with me now except here." She drew his hand to her and pressed it against her

heart. "What's given, one can't get back. I can't help it; I would if I could. It's been so dreadful for you. I'm so

sorry." Winton made an unintelligible sound, and she went on: "If I had them to see after, I shouldn't be able

to think so much; the more I had to do the better. Good for our gipsybird, too, to have them there. I should

"Yes, yes," he said; "I quite seeyou could use the two old cottages to start with, and we can easily run up

At that touch of her old self, Winton smiled. She should do everything, pay for everything, bring a whole

"Rosamund'll help you find 'em," he muttered. "She's firstrate at all that sort of thing." Then, looking at her

Gyp forced herself to smile. Watching her, he understood only too well the child's saying: "Mum lives away

She was sitting, her hands clasped in her lap, two red spots high in her cheeks, her eyes shining strangely, the

faint smile still on her lips. And Winton, staring with narrowed eyes, thought: 'Love! Beyond

measurebeyond deathit nearly kills. But one wouldn't have been without it. Why?'

Three days later, leaving Gyp with his sister, he went back to Mildenham to start the necessary alterations in

the cottages. He had told no one he was coming, and walked up from the station on a perfect June day, bright

and hot. When he turned through the drive gate, into the beechtree avenue, the leafshadows were thick on

the ground, with golden gleams of the invincible sunlight thrusting their way through. The grey boles, the

vivid green leaves, those glistening sunshafts through the shade entranced him, coming from the dusty road.

Down in the very middle of the avenue, a small, white figure was standing, as if looking out for him. He

Little Gyp looked at him with flying eyes, and, hugging his legs, answered furiously: