Kitabı oku: «Beyond», sayfa 19

Summerhay had seated himself on the foot-rail of the bed, rounding his arms, sinking his neck, blowing out his cheeks to simulate an egg; then, with an unexpectedness that even little Gyp could always see through, he rolled backward on to the bed.

And she, simulating “all the king’s horses,” tried in vain to put him up again. This immemorial game, watched by Gyp a hundred times, had to-day a special preciousness. If he could be so ridiculously young, what became of her doubts? Looking at his face pulled this way and that, lazily imperturbable under the pommelings of those small fingers, she thought: ‘And that girl dared to say he was WASTING HIMSELF!’ For in the night conviction had come to her that those words were written by the tall girl with the white skin, the girl of the theatre – the Diana of his last night’s dinner. Humpty-Dumpty was up on the bed-rail again for the finale; all the king’s horses were clasped to him, making the egg more round, and over they both went with shrieks and gurgles. What a boy he was! She would not – no, she would not brood and spoil her day with him.

But that afternoon, at the end of a long gallop on the downs, she turned her head away and said suddenly:

“Is she a huntress?”

“Who?”

“Your cousin – Diana.”

In his laziest voice, he answered:

“I suppose you mean – does she hunt me?”

She knew that tone, that expression on his face, knew he was angry; but could not stop herself.

“I did.”

“So you’re going to become jealous, Gyp?”

It was one of those cold, naked sayings that should never be spoken between lovers – one of those sayings at which the heart of the one who speaks sinks with a kind of dismay, and the heart of the one who hears quivers. She cantered on. And he, perforce, after her. When she reined in again, he glanced into her face and was afraid. It was all closed up against him. And he said softly:

“I didn’t mean that, Gyp.”

But she only shook her head. He HAD meant it – had wanted to hurt her! It didn’t matter – she wouldn’t give him the chance again. And she said:

“Look at that long white cloud, and the apple-green in the sky – rain to-morrow. One ought to enjoy any fine day as if it were the last.”

Uneasy, ashamed, yet still a little angry, Summerhay rode on beside her.

That night, she cried in her sleep; and, when he awakened her, clung to him and sobbed out:

“Oh! such a dreadful dream! I thought you’d left off loving me!”

For a long time he held and soothed her. Never, never! He would never leave off loving her!

But a cloud no broader than your hand can spread and cover the whole day.

V

The summer passed, and always there was that little patch of silence in her heart, and in his. The tall, bright days grew taller, slowly passed their zenith, slowly shortened. On Saturdays and Sundays, sometimes with Winton and little Gyp, but more often alone, they went on the river. For Gyp, it had never lost the magic of their first afternoon upon it – never lost its glamour as of an enchanted world. All the week she looked forward to these hours of isolation with him, as if the surrounding water secured her not only against a world that would take him from her, if it could, but against that side of his nature, which, so long ago she had named “old Georgian.” She had once adventured to the law courts by herself, to see him in his wig and gown. Under that stiff grey crescent on his broad forehead, he seemed so hard and clever – so of a world to which she never could belong, so of a piece with the brilliant bullying of the whole proceeding. She had come away feeling that she only possessed and knew one side of him. On the river, she had that side utterly – her lovable, lazy, impudently loving boy, lying with his head in her lap, plunging in for a swim, splashing round her; or with his sleeves rolled up, his neck bare, and a smile on his face, plying his slow sculls down-stream, singing, “Away, my rolling river,” or puffing home like a demon in want of his dinner. It was such a blessing to lose for a few hours each week this growing consciousness that she could never have the whole of him. But all the time the patch of silence grew, for doubt in the heart of one lover reacts on the heart of the other.

When the long vacation came, she made an heroic resolve. He must go to Scotland, must have a month away from her, a good long rest. And while Betty was at the sea with little Gyp, she would take her father to his cure. She held so inflexibly to this resolve, that, after many protests, he said with a shrug:

“Very well, I will then – if you’re so keen to get rid of me.”

“Keen to get rid!” When she could not bear to be away from him! But she forced her feeling back, and said, smiling:

“At last! There’s a good boy!” Anything! If only it would bring him back to her exactly as he had been. She asked no questions as to where, or to whom, he would go.

Tunbridge Wells, that charming purgatory where the retired prepare their souls for a more permanent retirement, was dreaming on its hills in long rows of adequate villas. Its commons and woods had remained unscorched, so that the retired had not to any extent deserted it, that August, for the sea. They still shopped in the Pantiles, strolled the uplands, or flourished their golf-clubs in the grassy parks; they still drank tea in each other’s houses and frequented the many churches. One could see their faces, as it were, goldened by their coming glory, like the chins of children by reflection from buttercups. From every kind of life they had retired, and, waiting now for a more perfect day, were doing their utmost to postpone it. They lived very long.

Gyp and her father had rooms in a hotel where he could bathe and drink the waters without having to climb three hills. This was the first cure she had attended since the long-past time at Wiesbaden. Was it possible that was only six years ago? She felt so utterly, so strangely different! Then life had been sparkling sips of every drink, and of none too much; now it was one long still draft, to quench a thirst that would not be quenched.

During these weeks she held herself absolutely at her father’s disposal, but she lived for the post, and if, by any chance, she did not get her daily letter, her heart sank to the depths. She wrote every day, sometimes twice, then tore up that second letter, remembering for what reason she had set herself to undergo this separation. During the first week, his letters had a certain equanimity; in the second week they became ardent; in the third, they were fitful – now beginning to look forward, now moody and dejected; and they were shorter. During this third week Aunt Rosamund joined them. The good lady had become a staunch supporter of Gyp’s new existence, which, in her view, served Fiorsen right. Why should the poor child’s life be loveless? She had a definitely low opinion of men, and a lower of the state of the marriage-laws; in her view, any woman who struck a blow in that direction was something of a heroine. And she was oblivious of the fact that Gyp was quite guiltless of the desire to strike a blow against the marriage-laws, or anything else. Aunt Rosamund’s aristocratic and rebellious blood boiled with hatred of what she called the “stuffy people” who still held that women were men’s property. It had made her specially careful never to put herself in that position.

She had brought Gyp a piece of news.

“I was walking down Bond Street past that tea-and-tart shop, my dear – you know, where they have those special coffee-creams, and who should come out of it but Miss Daphne Wing and our friend Fiorsen; and pretty hangdog he looked. He came up to me, with his little lady watching him like a lynx. Really, my dear, I was rather sorry for him; he’d got that hungry look of his; she’d been doing all the eating, I’m sure. He asked me how you were. I told him, ‘Very well.’

“‘When you see her,’ he said, ‘tell her I haven’t forgotten her, and never shall. But she was quite right; this is the sort of lady that I’m fit for.’ And the way he looked at that girl made me feel quite uncomfortable. Then he gave me one of his little bows; and off they went, she as pleased as Punch. I really was sorry for him.”

Gyp said quietly:

“Ah! you needn’t have been, Auntie; he’ll always be able to be sorry for himself.”

A little shocked at her niece’s cynicism, Aunt Rosamund was silent. The poor lady had not lived with Fiorsen!

That same afternoon, Gyp was sitting in a shelter on the common, a book on her knee – thinking her one long thought: ‘To-day is Thursday – Monday week! Eleven days – still!’ – when three figures came slowly toward her, a man, a woman, and what should have been a dog. English love of beauty and the rights of man had forced its nose back, deprived it of half its ears, and all but three inches or so of tail. It had asthma – and waddled in disillusionment. A voice said:

“This’ll do, Maria. We can take the sun ‘ere.”

But for that voice, with the permanent cold hoarseness caught beside innumerable graves, Gyp might not have recognized Mr. Wagge, for he had taken off his beard, leaving nothing but side-whiskers, and Mrs. Wagge had filled out wonderfully. They were some time settling down beside her.

“You sit here, Maria; you won’t get the sun in your eyes.”

“No, Robert; I’ll sit here. You sit there.”

“No, YOU sit there.”

“No, I will. Come, Duckie!”

But the dog, standing stockily on the pathway was gazing at Gyp, while what was left of its broad nose moved from side to side. Mr. Wagge followed the direction of its glance.

“Oh!” he said, “oh, this is a surprise!” And fumbling at his straw hat, he passed his other hand over his sleeve and held it out to Gyp. It felt almost dry, and fatter than it had been. While she was shaking it, the dog moved forward and sat down on her feet. Mrs. Wagge also extended her hand, clad in a shiny glove.

“This is a – a – pleasure,” she murmured. “Who WOULD have thought of meeting you! Oh, don’t let Duckie sit against your pretty frock! Come, Duckie!”

But Duckie did not move, resting his back against Gyp’s shin-bones. Mr. Wagge, whose tongue had been passing over a mouth which she saw to its full advantage for the first time, said abruptly:

“You ‘aven’t come to live here, ‘ave you?”

“Oh no! I’m only with my father for the baths.”

“Ah, I thought not, never havin’ seen you. We’ve been retired here ourselves a matter of twelve months. A pretty spot.”

“Yes; lovely, isn’t it?”

“We wanted nature. The air suits us, though a bit – er – too irony, as you might say. But it’s a long-lived place. We were quite a time lookin’ round.”

Mrs. Wagge added in her thin voice:

“Yes – we’d thought of Wimbledon, you see, but Mr. Wagge liked this better; he can get his walk, here; and it’s more – select, perhaps. We have several friends. The church is very nice.”

Mr. Wagge’s face assumed an uncertain expression. He said bluffly:

“I was always a chapel man; but – I don’t know how it is – there’s something in a place like this that makes church seem more – more suitable; my wife always had a leaning that way. I never conceal my actions.”

Gyp murmured:

“It’s a question of atmosphere, isn’t it?”

Mr. Wagge shook his head.

“No; I don’t hold with incense – we’re not ‘Igh Church. But how are YOU, ma’am? We often speak of you. You’re looking well.”

His face had become a dusky orange, and Mrs. Wagge’s the colour of a doubtful beetroot. The dog on Gyp’s feet stirred, snuffled, turned round, and fell heavily against her legs again. She said quietly:

“I was hearing of Daisy only to-day. She’s quite a star now, isn’t she?”

Mrs. Wagge sighed. Mr. Wagge looked away and answered:

“It’s a sore subject. There she is, making her forty and fifty pound a week, and run after in all the papers. She’s a success – no doubt about it. And she works. Saving a matter of fifteen ‘undred a year, I shouldn’t be surprised. Why, at my best, the years the influenza was so bad, I never cleared a thousand net. No, she’s a success.”

Mrs. Wagge added:

“Have you seen her last photograph – the one where she’s standing between two hydrangea-tubs? It was her own idea.”

Mr. Wagge mumbled suddenly:

“I’m always glad to see her when she takes a run down in a car. But I’ve come here for quiet after the life I’ve led, and I don’t want to think about it, especially before you, ma’am. I don’t – that’s a fact.”

A silence followed, during which Mr. and Mrs. Wagge looked at their feet, and Gyp looked at the dog.

“Ah! – here you are!” It was Winton, who had come up from behind the shelter, and stood, with eyebrows slightly raised. Gyp could not help a smile. Her father’s weathered, narrow face, half-veiled eyes, thin nose, little crisp, grey moustache that did not hide his firm lips, his lean, erect figure, the very way he stood, his thin, dry, clipped voice were the absolute antithesis of Mr. Wagge’s thickset, stoutly planted form, thick-skinned, thick-featured face, thick, rather hoarse yet oily voice. It was as if Providence had arranged a demonstration of the extremes of social type. And she said:

“Mr. and Mrs. Wagge – my father.”

Winton raised his hat. Gyp remained seated, the dog Duckie being still on her feet.

“‘Appy to meet you, sir. I hope you have benefit from the waters. They’re supposed to be most powerful, I believe.”

“Thank you – not more deadly than most. Are you drinking them?”

Mr. Wagge smiled.

“Nao!” he said, “we live here.”

“Indeed! Do you find anything to do?”

“Well, as a fact, I’ve come here for rest. But I take a Turkish bath once a fortnight – find it refreshing; keeps the pores of the skin acting.”

Mrs. Wagge added gently:

“It seems to suit my husband wonderfully.”

Winton murmured:

“Yes. Is this your dog? Bit of a philosopher, isn’t he?”

Mrs. Wagge answered:

“Oh, he’s a naughty dog, aren’t you, Duckie?”

The dog Duckie, feeling himself the cynosure of every eye, rose and stood panting into Gyp’s face. She took the occasion to get up.

“We must go, I’m afraid. Good-bye. It’s been very nice to meet you again. When you see Daisy, will you please give her my love?”

Mrs. Wagge unexpectedly took a handkerchief from her reticule. Mr. Wagge cleared his throat heavily. Gyp was conscious of the dog Duckie waddling after them, and of Mrs. Wagge calling, “Duckie, Duckie!” from behind her handkerchief.

Winton said softly:

“So those two got that pretty filly! Well, she didn’t show much quality, when you come to think of it. She’s still with our friend, according to your aunt.”

Gyp nodded.

“Yes; and I do hope she’s happy.”

“HE isn’t, apparently. Serves him right.”

Gyp shook her head.

“Oh no, Dad!”

“Well, one oughtn’t to wish any man worse than he’s likely to get. But when I see people daring to look down their noses at you – by Jove! I get – ”

“Darling, what does that matter?”

Winton answered testily:

“It matters very much to me – the impudence of it!” His mouth relaxed in a grim little smile: “Ah, well – there’s not much to choose between us so far as condemning our neighbours goes. ‘Charity Stakes – also ran, Charles Clare Winton, the Church, and Mrs. Grundy.’”

They opened out to each other more in those few days at Tunbridge Wells than they had for years. Whether the process of bathing softened his crust, or the air that Mr. Wagge found “a bit – er – too irony, as you might say,” had upon Winton the opposite effect, he certainly relaxed that first duty of man, the concealment of his spirit, and disclosed his activities as he never had before – how such and such a person had been set on his feet, so and so sent out to Canada, this man’s wife helped over her confinement, that man’s daughter started again after a slip. And Gyp’s child-worship of him bloomed anew.

On the last afternoon of their stay, she strolled out with him through one of the long woods that stretched away behind their hotel. Excited by the coming end of her self-inflicted penance, moved by the beauty among those sunlit trees, she found it difficult to talk. But Winton, about to lose her, was quite loquacious. Starting from the sinister change in the racing-world – so plutocratic now, with the American seat, the increase of bookmaking owners, and other tragic occurrences – he launched forth into a jeremiad on the condition of things in general. Parliament, he thought, especially now that members were paid, had lost its self-respect; the towns had eaten up the country; hunting was threatened; the power and vulgarity of the press were appalling; women had lost their heads; and everybody seemed afraid of having any “breeding.” By the time little Gyp was Gyp’s age, they would all be under the thumb of Watch Committees, live in Garden Cities, and have to account for every half-crown they spent, and every half-hour of their time; the horse, too, would be an extinct animal, brought out once a year at the lord-mayor’s show. He hoped – the deuce – he might not be alive to see it. And suddenly he added: “What do you think happens after death, Gyp?”

They were sitting on one of those benches that crop up suddenly in the heart of nature. All around them briars and bracken were just on the turn; and the hum of flies, the vague stir of leaves and life formed but a single sound. Gyp, gazing into the wood, answered:

“Nothing, Dad. I think we just go back.”

“Ah – My idea, too!”

Neither of them had ever known what the other thought about it before!

Gyp murmured:

 
     “La vie est vaine —
        Un peu d’amour,
      Un peu de haine,
        Et puis bonjour!”
 

Not quite a grunt or quite a laugh emerged from the depths of Winton, and, looking up at the sky, he said:

“And what they call ‘God,’ after all, what is it? Just the very best you can get out of yourself – nothing more, so far as I can see. Dash it, you can’t imagine anything more than you can imagine. One would like to die in the open, though, like Whyte-Melville. But there’s one thing that’s always puzzled me, Gyp. All one’s life one’s tried to have a single heart. Death comes, and out you go! Then why did one love, if there’s to be no meeting after?”

“Yes; except for that, who would care? But does the wanting to meet make it any more likely, Dad? The world couldn’t go on without love; perhaps loving somebody or something with all your heart is all in itself.”

Winton stared; the remark was a little deep.

“Ye-es,” he said at last. “I often think the religious johnnies are saving their money to put on a horse that’ll never run after all. I remember those Yogi chaps in India. There they sat, and this jolly world might rot round them for all they cared – they thought they were going to be all right themselves, in Kingdom Come. But suppose it doesn’t come?”

Gyp murmured with a little smile:

“Perhaps they were trying to love everything at once.”

“Rum way of showing it. And, hang it, there are such a lot of things one can’t love! Look at that!” He pointed upwards. Against the grey bole of a beech-tree hung a board, on which were the freshly painted words:

PRIVATE

TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED

“That board is stuck up all over this life and the next. Well, WE won’t give them the chance to warn us off, Gyp.”

Slipping her hand through his arm, she pressed close up to him.

“No, Dad; you and I will go off with the wind and the sun, and the trees and the waters, like Procris in my picture.”

VI

The curious and complicated nature of man in matters of the heart is not sufficiently conceded by women, professors, clergymen, judges, and other critics of his conduct. And naturally so, since they all have vested interests in his simplicity. Even journalists are in the conspiracy to make him out less wayward than he is, and dip their pens in epithets, if his heart diverges inch or ell.

Bryan Summerhay was neither more curious nor more complicated than those of his own sex who would condemn him for getting into the midnight express from Edinburgh with two distinct emotions in his heart – a regretful aching for the girl, his cousin, whom he was leaving behind, and a rapturous anticipation of the woman whom he was going to rejoin. How was it possible that he could feel both at once? “Against all the rules,” women and other moralists would say. Well, the fact is, a man’s heart knows no rules. And he found it perfectly easy, lying in his bunk, to dwell on memories of Diana handing him tea, or glancing up at him, while he turned the leaves of her songs, with that enticing mockery in her eyes and about her lips; and yet the next moment to be swept from head to heel by the longing to feel Gyp’s arms around him, to hear her voice, look in her eyes, and press his lips on hers. If, instead of being on his way to rejoin a mistress, he had been going home to a wife, he would not have felt a particle more of spiritual satisfaction, perhaps not so much. He was returning to the feelings and companionship that he knew were the most deeply satisfying spiritually and bodily he would ever have. And yet he could ache a little for that red-haired girl, and this without any difficulty. How disconcerting! But, then, truth is.

From that queer seesawing of his feelings, he fell asleep, dreamed of all things under the sun as men only can in a train, was awakened by the hollow silence in some station, slept again for hours, it seemed, and woke still at the same station, fell into a sound sleep at last that ended at Willesden in broad daylight. Dressing hurriedly, he found he had but one emotion now, one longing – to get to Gyp. Sitting back in his cab, hands deep-thrust into the pockets of his ulster, he smiled, enjoying even the smell of the misty London morning. Where would she be – in the hall of the hotel waiting, or upstairs still?

Not in the hall! And asking for her room, he made his way to its door.

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 fainting; and he too had no consciousness of anything but that long kiss.

Next day, they went abroad to a little place not far from Fecamp, in that Normandy countryside where all things are large – the 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 too-well-remembered 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 it – in 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 say – if only out of pity – that he never let his thoughts rest on another woman. But, after all, it was only a phantom. There were many hours in those three weeks when she felt he really loved her, and so – was happy.

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 mouse-coloured 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.

VII

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 scent – of 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 that – she 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. Ah – but if there WERE something! She would lose at one stroke her faith in him, and her faith in herself – not only his love but her own self-respect. 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 stair – her favourite seat – looking at a picture-book.

“I’m going up to London, darling. Tell Betty I may be back to-night, or perhaps I may not. Give me a good kiss.”

Little Gyp gave the good kiss, and said:

“Let me see you put your hat on, Mum.”

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 heard – the 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 claim – but that of love. Thank heaven she had not taken him away from any woman – unless – that 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 yet – if one did not? She got up and stood at the window of her empty carriage. There was the river – and there – yes, 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 her mind:

 
     “Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.”
 

Ah, well! Time enough to face things when they came. She would only think of seeing him! And she put the letter back to burn what hole it liked in the pocket of her fur coat.

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 time – not even to know exactly where Harcourt Buildings were. At Temple Lane, she stopped the cab and walked down that narrow, ill-lighted, busy channel into the heart of the Great Law.

“Up those stone steps, miss; along the railin’, second doorway.” Gyp came to the second doorway and in the doubtful light scrutinized the names. “Summerhay – second 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? On the first floor she paused, took out a blank card, and pencilled on it:

 
     “Can I see you a minute? – G.”
 

Then, taking a long breath to quiet her heart, she went on up. There was the name, and there the door. She rang – no one came; listened – could hear no sound. All looked so massive and bleak and dim – the iron railings, stone stairs, bare walls, oak door. She rang again. What should she do? Leave the letter? Not see him after all – her little romance all come to naught – just 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, high-pitched. 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 walk away.

“Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!” So it went in her mind – a 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, “Good-bye, treasure!” A dreadful little laugh got caught in her throat, confused with a sob. Why – why 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 choked.