The Complete Project Gutenberg Works of Galsworthy

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Gyp smiled. She could see it all so well. The black walls, the silver
statuettes, Rops drawings, scent of dead rose-leaves and pastilles and
cigarettes--and those two by the piano--and her father so cool and dry!

"One can't stand on ceremony with fellows like that. I hadn't forgotten
that Polish chap's behaviour to you, my dear."

Through Gyp passed a quiver of dread, a vague return of the feelings once
inspired by Rosek.

"I'm almost sorry you went, Dad. Did you say anything very--"

"Did I? Let's see! No; I think I was quite polite." He added, with a
grim, little smile: "I won't swear I didn't call one of them a ruffian.
I know they said something about my presuming on being a cripple."

"Oh, darling!"

"Yes; it was that Polish chap--and so he is!"

Gyp murmured:

"I'd almost rather it had been--the other." Rosek's pale, suave face,
with the eyes behind which there were such hidden things, and the lips
sweetish and restrained and sensual--he would never forgive! But Winton
only smiled again, patting her arm. He was pleased with an encounter
which had relieved his feelings.

Gyp spent all that evening writing her first real love-letter. But when,
next afternoon at six, in fulfilment of its wording, she came to
Summerhay's little house, her heart sank; for the blinds were down and it
had a deserted look. If he had been there, he would have been at the
window, waiting. Had he, then, not got her letter, not been home since
yesterday? And that chill fear which besets lovers' hearts at failure of
a tryst smote her for the first time. In the three-cornered garden stood
a decayed statue of a naked boy with a broken bow--a sparrow was perching
on his greenish shoulder; sooty, heart-shaped lilac leaves hung round his
head, and at his legs the old Scotch terrier was sniffing. Gyp called:
"Ossian! Ossy!" and the old dog came, wagging his tail feebly.

"Master! Where is your master, dear?"

Ossian poked his long nose into her calf, and that gave her a little
comfort. She passed, perforce, away from the deserted house and returned
home; but all manner of frightened thoughts beset her. Where had he gone?
Why had he gone? Why had he not let her know? Doubts--those hasty
attendants on passion--came thronging, and scepticism ran riot. What did
she know of his life, of his interests, of him, except that he said he
loved her? Where had he gone? To Widrington, to some smart house-party,
or even back to Scotland? The jealous feelings that had so besieged her
at the bungalow when his letters ceased came again now with redoubled
force. There must be some woman who, before their love began, had claim
on him, or some girl that he admired. He never told her of any such--of
course, he would not! She was amazed and hurt by her capacity for
jealousy. She had always thought she would be too proud to feel
jealousy--a sensation so dark and wretched and undignified,
but--alas!--so horribly real and clinging.

She had said she was not dining at home; so Winton had gone to his club,
and she was obliged to partake of a little trumped-up lonely meal. She
went up to her room after it, but there came on her such restlessness
that presently she put on her things and slipped out. She went past St.
James's Church into Piccadilly, to the further, crowded side, and began
to walk toward the park. This was foolish; but to do a foolish thing was
some relief, and she went along with a faint smile, mocking her own
recklessness. Several women of the town--ships of night with sails
set--came rounding out of side streets or down the main stream, with
their skilled, rapid-seeming slowness. And at the discomfited,
half-hostile stares on their rouged and powdered faces, Gyp felt a wicked
glee. She was disturbing, hurting them--and she wanted to hurt.

Presently, a man, in evening dress, with overcoat thrown open, gazed
pointblank into her face, and, raising his hat, ranged up beside her.
She walked straight on, still with that half-smile, knowing him puzzled
and fearfully attracted. Then an insensate wish to stab him to the heart
made her turn her head and look at him. At the expression on her face,
he wilted away from her, and again she felt that wicked glee at having
hurt him.

She crossed out into the traffic, to the park side, and turned back
toward St. James's; and now she was possessed by profound, black sadness.
If only her lover were beside her that beautiful evening, among the
lights and shadows of the trees, in the warm air! Why was he not among
these passers-by? She who could bring any casual man to her side by a
smile could not conjure up the only one she wanted from this great desert
of a town! She hurried along, to get in and hide her longing. But at
the corner of St. James's Street, she stopped. That was his club, nearly
opposite. Perhaps he was there, playing cards or billiards, a few yards
away, and yet as in another world. Presently he would come out, go to
some music-hall, or stroll home thinking of her--perhaps not even
thinking of her! Another woman passed, giving her a furtive glance. But
Gyp felt no glee now. And, crossing over, close under the windows of the
club, she hurried home. When she reached her room, she broke into a
storm of tears. How could she have liked hurting those poor women,
hurting that man--who was only paying her a man's compliment, after all?
And with these tears, her jealous, wild feelings passed, leaving only her
longing.

Next morning brought a letter. Summerhay wrote from an inn on the river,
asking her to come down by the eleven o'clock train, and he would meet
her at the station. He wanted to show her a house that he had seen; and
they could have the afternoon on the river! Gyp received this letter,
which began: "My darling!" with an ecstasy that she could not quite
conceal. And Winton, who had watched her face, said presently:

"I think I shall go to Newmarket, Gyp. Home to-morrow evening."

In the train on the way down, she sat with closed eyes, in a sort of
trance. If her lover had been there holding her in his arms, he could
not have seemed nearer.

She saw him as the train ran in; but they met without a hand-clasp,
without a word, simply looking at each other and breaking into smiles.

A little victoria "dug up"--as Summerhay said--"horse, driver and all,"
carried them slowly upward. Under cover of the light rugs their hands
were clasped, and they never ceased to look into each other's faces,
except for those formal glances of propriety which deceive no one.

The day was beautiful, as only early September days can be--when the sun
is hot, yet not too hot, and its light falls in a silken radiance on
trees just losing the opulent monotony of summer, on silvery-gold reaped
fields, silvery-green uplands, golden mustard; when shots ring out in the
distance, and, as one gazes, a leaf falls, without reason, as it would
seem. Presently they branched off the main road by a lane past a clump
of beeches and drew up at the gate of a lonely house, built of very old
red brick, and covered by Virginia creeper just turning--a house with an
ingle-nook and low, broad chimneys. Before it was a walled, neglected
lawn, with poplars and one large walnut-tree. The sunlight seemed to
have collected in that garden, and there was a tremendous hum of bees.
Above the trees, the downs could be seen where racehorses, they said,
were trained. Summerhay had the keys of the house, and they went in. To
Gyp, it was like a child's "pretending"--to imagine they were going to
live there together, to sort out the rooms and consecrate each. She
would not spoil this perfect day by argument or admission of the need for
a decision. And when he asked:

"Well, darling, what do you think of it?" she only answered:

"Oh, lovely, in a way; but let's go back to the river and make the most
of it."

They took boat at 'The Bowl of Cream,' the river inn where Summerhay was
staying. To him, who had been a rowing man at Oxford, the river was
known from Lechlade to Richmond; but Gyp had never in her life been on
it, and its placid magic, unlike that of any other river in the world,
almost overwhelmed her. On this glistening, windless day, to drift along
past the bright, flat water-lily leaves over the greenish depths, to
listen to the pigeons, watch the dragon-flies flitting past, and the fish
leaping lazily, not even steering, letting her hand dabble in the water,
then cooling her sun-warmed cheek with it, and all the time gazing at
Summerhay, who, dipping his sculls gently, gazed at her--all this was
like a voyage down some river of dreams, the very fulfilment of felicity.
There is a degree of happiness known to the human heart which seems to
belong to some enchanted world--a bright maze into which, for a moment
now and then, we escape and wander. To-day, he was more than ever like
her Botticelli "Young Man," with his neck bare, and his face so
clear-eyed and broad and brown. Had she really had a life with another
man? And only a year ago? It seemed inconceivable!

But when, in the last backwater, he tied the boat up and came to sit with
her once more, it was already getting late, and the vague melancholy of
the now shadowy river was stealing into her. And, with a sort of sinking
in her heart, she heard him begin:

"Gyp, we MUST go away together. We can never stand it going on apart,
snatching hours here and there."

Pressing his hand to her cheeks, she murmured:

"Why not, darling? Hasn't this been perfect? What could we ever have
more perfect? It's been paradise itself!"

"Yes; but to be thrown out every day! To be whole days and nights
without you! Gyp, you must--you must! What is there against it? Don't
you love me enough?"

She looked at him, and then away into the shadows.

"Too much, I think. It's tempting Providence to change. Let's go on as
we are, Bryan. No; don't look like that--don't be angry!"

"Why are you afraid? Are you sorry for our love?"

"No; but let it be like this. Don't let's risk anything."

"Risk? Is it people--society--you're afraid of? I thought YOU wouldn't
care."

Gyp smiled.

"Society? No; I'm not afraid of that."

"What, then? Of me?"

"I don't know. Men soon get tired. I'm a doubter, Bryan, I can't help
it."

"As if anyone could get tired of you! Are you afraid of yourself?"

Again Gyp smiled.

"Not of loving too little, I told you."

"How can one love too much?"

She drew his head down to her. But when that kiss was over, she only
said again:

"No, Bryan; let's go on as we are. I'll make up to you when I'm with
you. If you were to tire of me, I couldn't bear it."

For a long time more he pleaded--now with anger, now with kisses, now
with reasonings; but, to all, she opposed that same tender, half-mournful
"No," and, at last, he gave it up, and, in dogged silence, rowed her to
the village, whence she was to take train back. It was dusk when they
left the boat, and dew was falling. Just before they reached the station,
she caught his hand and pressed it to her breast.

"Darling, don't be angry with me! Perhaps I will--some day."

And, in the train, she tried to think herself once more in the boat,
among the shadows and the whispering reeds and all the quiet wonder of
the river.




XII

On reaching home she let herself in stealthily, and, though she had not
had dinner, went up at once to her room. She was just taking off her
blouse when Betty entered, her round face splotched with red, and tears
rolling down her cheeks.

"Betty! What is it?"

"Oh, my dear, where HAVE you been? Such a dreadful piece of news!
They've stolen her! That wicked man--your husband--he took her right out
of her pram--and went off with her in a great car--he and that other one!
I've been half out of my mind!" Gyp stared aghast. "I hollered to a
policeman. 'He's stolen her--her father! Catch them!' I said. 'However
shall I face my mistress?'" She stopped for breath, then burst out
again. "'He's a bad one,' I said. 'A foreigner! They're both
foreigners!' 'Her father?' he said. 'Well, why shouldn't he? He's only
givin' her a joy ride. He'll bring her back, never you fear.' And I ran
home--I didn't know where you were. Oh dear! The major away and
all--what was I to do? I'd just turned round to shut the gate of the
square gardens, and I never saw him till he'd put his great long arm over
the pram and snatched her out." And, sitting on the bed, she gave way
utterly.

Gyp stood still. Nemesis for her happiness? That vengeful wretch,
Rosek! This was his doing. And she said:

"Oh, Betty, she must be crying!"

A fresh outburst of moans was the only answer. Gyp remembered suddenly
what the lawyer had said over a year ago--it had struck her with terror
at the time. In law, Fiorsen owned and could claim her child. She could
have got her back, then, by bringing a horrible case against him, but
now, perhaps, she had no chance. Was it her return to Fiorsen that they
aimed at--or the giving up of her lover? She went over to her mirror,
saying:

"We'll go at once, Betty, and get her back somehow. Wash your face."

While she made ready, she fought down those two horrible fears--of losing
her child, of losing her lover; the less she feared, the better she could
act, the more subtly, the swifter. She remembered that she had somewhere
a little stiletto, given her a long time ago. She hunted it out, slipped
off its red-leather sheath, and, stabbing the point into a tiny cork,
slipped it beneath her blouse. If they could steal her baby, they were
capable of anything. She wrote a note to her father, telling him what
had happened, and saying where she had gone. Then, in a taxi, they set
forth. Cold water and the calmness of her mistress had removed from
Betty the main traces of emotion; but she clasped Gyp's hand hard and
gave vent to heavy sighs.

Gyp would not think. If she thought of her little one crying, she knew
she would cry, too. But her hatred for those who had dealt this cowardly
blow grew within her. She took a resolution and said quietly:

"Mr. Summerhay, Betty. That's why they've stolen our darling. I suppose
you know he and I care for each other. They've stolen her so as to make
me do anything they like."

A profound sigh answered her.

Behind that moon-face with the troubled eyes, what conflict was in
progress--between unquestioning morality and unquestioning belief in Gyp,
between fears for her and wishes for her happiness, between the loyal
retainer's habit of accepting and the old nurse's feeling of being in
charge? She said faintly:

"Oh dear! He's a nice gentleman, too!" And suddenly, wheezing it out
with unexpected force: "To say truth, I never did hold you was rightly
married to that foreigner in that horrible registry place--no music, no
flowers, no blessin' asked, nor nothing. I cried me eyes out at the
time."

Gyp said quietly:

"No; Betty, I never was. I only thought I was in love." A convulsive
squeeze and creaking, whiffling sounds heralded a fresh outburst. "Don't
cry; we're just there. Think of our darling!"

The cab stopped. Feeling for her little weapon, she got out, and with
her hand slipped firmly under Betty's arm, led the way upstairs. Chilly
shudders ran down her spine--memories of Daphne Wing and Rosek, of that
large woman--what was her name?--of many other faces, of unholy hours
spent up there, in a queer state, never quite present, never comfortable
in soul; memories of late returnings down these wide stairs out to their
cab, of Fiorsen beside her in the darkness, his dim, broad-cheekboned
face moody in the corner or pressed close to hers. Once they had walked
a long way homeward in the dawn, Rosek with them, Fiorsen playing on his
muted violin, to the scandal of the policemen and the cats. Dim, unreal
memories! Grasping Betty's arm more firmly, she rang the bell. When the
man servant, whom she remembered well, opened the door, her lips were so
dry that they could hardly form the words:

"Is Mr. Fiorsen in, Ford?"

"No, ma'am; Mr. Fiorsen and Count Rosek went into the country this
afternoon. I haven't their address at present." She must have turned
white, for she could hear the man saying: "Anything I can get you,
ma'am?"

"When did they start, please?"

"One o'clock, ma'am--by car. Count Rosek was driving himself. I should
say they won't be away long--they just had their bags with them." Gyp
put out her hand helplessly; she heard the servant say in a concerned
voice: "I could let you know the moment they return, ma'am, if you'd
kindly leave me your address."

Giving her card, and murmuring:

"Thank you, Ford; thank you very much," she grasped Betty's arm again and
leaned heavily on her going down the stairs.

It was real, black fear now. To lose helpless
things--children--dogs--and know for certain that one cannot get to them,
no matter what they may be suffering! To be pinned down to ignorance and
have in her ears the crying of her child--this horror, Gyp suffered now.
And nothing to be done! Nothing but to go to bed and wait--hardest of
all tasks! Mercifully--thanks to her long day in the open--she fell at
last into a dreamless sleep, and when she was called, there was a letter
from Fiorsen on the tray with her tea.

"Gyp:

"I am not a baby-stealer like your father. The law gives me the right to
my own child. But swear to give up your lover, and the baby shall come
back to you at once. If you do not give him up, I will take her away out
of England. Send me an answer to this post-office, and do not let your
father try any tricks upon me.

"GUSTAV FIORSEN."

Beneath was written the address of a West End post-office.

When Gyp had finished reading, she went through some moments of such
mental anguish as she had never known, but--just as when Betty first told
her of the stealing--her wits and wariness came quickly back. Had he
been drinking when he wrote that letter? She could almost fancy that she
smelled brandy, but it was so easy to fancy what one wanted to. She read
it through again--this time, she felt almost sure that it had been
dictated to him. If he had composed the wording himself, he would never
have resisted a gibe at the law, or a gibe at himself for thus
safeguarding her virtue. It was Rosek's doing. Her anger flamed up
anew. Since they used such mean, cruel ways, why need she herself be
scrupulous? She sprang out of bed and wrote:

"How COULD you do such a brutal thing? At all events, let the darling
have her nurse. It's not like you to let a little child suffer. Betty
will be ready to come the minute you send for her. As for myself, you
must give me time to decide. I will let you know within two days.

"GYP."

When she had sent this off, and a telegram to her father at Newmarket,
she read Fiorsen's letter once more, and was more than ever certain that
it was Rosek's wording. And, suddenly, she thought of Daphne Wing, whom
her father had seen coming out of Rosek's house. Through her there might
be a way of getting news. She seemed to see again the girl lying so white
and void of hope when robbed by death of her own just-born babe. Yes;
surely it was worth trying.

An hour later, her cab stopped before the Wagges' door in Frankland
Street. But just as she was about to ring the bell, a voice from behind
her said:

"Allow me; I have a key. What may I--Oh, it's you!" She turned. Mr.
Wagge, in professional habiliments, was standing there. "Come in; come
in," he said. "I was wondering whether perhaps we shouldn't be seeing
you after what's transpired."

Hanging his tall black hat, craped nearly to the crown, on a knob of the
mahogany stand, he said huskily:

"I DID think we'd seen the last of that," and opened the dining-room
door. "Come in, ma'am. We can put our heads together better in here."

In that too well remembered room, the table was laid with a stained white
cloth, a cruet-stand, and bottle of Worcestershire sauce. The little blue
bowl was gone, so that nothing now marred the harmony of red and green.
Gyp said quickly:

"Doesn't Daph--Daisy live at home, then, now?"

The expression on Mr. Wagge's face was singular; suspicion, relief, and a
sort of craftiness were blended with that furtive admiration which Gyp
seemed always to excite in him.

"Do I understand that you--er--"

"I came to ask if Daisy would do something for me."

Mr. Wagge blew his nose.

"You didn't know--" he began again.

"Yes; I dare say she sees my husband, if that's what you mean; and I
don't mind--he's nothing to me now."

Mr. Wagge's face became further complicated by the sensations of a
husband.

"Well," he said, "it's not to be wondered at, perhaps, in the
circumstances. I'm sure I always thought--"

Gyp interrupted swiftly.

"Please, Mr. Wagge--please! Will you give me Daisy's address?"

Mr. Wagge remained a moment in deep thought; then he said, in a gruff,
jerky voice:

"Seventy-three Comrade Street, So'o. Up to seeing him there on Tuesday,
I must say I cherished every hope. Now I'm sorry I didn't strike him--he
was too quick for me--" He had raised one of his gloved hands and was
sawing it up and down. The sight of that black object cleaving the air
nearly made Gyp scream, her nerves were so on edge. "It's her blasted
independence--I beg pardon--but who wouldn't?" he ended suddenly.

Gyp passed him.

"Who wouldn't?" she heard his voice behind her. "I did think she'd have
run straight this time--" And while she was fumbling at the outer door,
his red, pudgy face, with its round grey beard, protruded almost over her
shoulder. "If you're going to see her, I hope you'll--"

Gyp was gone. In her cab she shivered. Once she had lunched with her
father at a restaurant in the Strand. It had been full of Mr. Wagges.
But, suddenly, she thought: 'It's hard on him, poor man!'




XIII

Seventy-three Comrade Street, Soho, was difficult to find; but, with the
aid of a milk-boy, Gyp discovered the alley at last, and the right door.
There her pride took sudden alarm, and but for the milk-boy's eyes fixed
on her while he let out his professional howl, she might have fled. A
plump white hand and wrist emerging took the can, and Daphne Wing's voice
said:

"Oh, where's the cream?"

"Ain't got none."

"Oh! I told you always--two pennyworth at twelve o'clock."

"Two penn'orth." The boy's eyes goggled.

"Didn't you want to speak to her, miss?" He beat the closing door. "Lidy
wants to speak to you! Good-mornin', miss."

The figure of Daphne Wing in a blue kimono was revealed. Her eyes peered
round at Gyp.

"Oh!" she said.

"May I come in?"

"Oh, yes! Oh, do! I've been practising. Oh, I am glad to see you!"

In the middle of the studio, a little table was laid for two. Daphne Wing
went up to it, holding in one hand the milk-can and in the other a short
knife, with which she had evidently been opening oysters. Placing the
knife on the table, she turned round to Gyp. Her face was deep pink, and
so was her neck, which ran V-shaped down into the folds of her kimono.
Her eyes, round as saucers, met Gyp's, fell, met them again. She said:

"Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I am glad! I really am. I wanted you so much to see
my room--do you like it? How DID you know where I was?" She looked down
and added: "I think I'd better tell you. Mr. Fiorsen came here, and,
since then, I've seen him at Count Rosek's--and--and--"

"Yes; but don't trouble to tell me, please."

Daphne Wing hurried on.

"Of course, I'm quite mistress of myself now." Then, all at once, the
uneasy woman-of-the-world mask dropped from her face and she seized Gyp's
hand. "Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I shall never be like you!"

With a little shiver, Gyp said:

"I hope not." Her pride rushed up in her. How could she ask this girl
anything? She choked back that feeling, and said stonily: "Do you
remember my baby? No, of course; you never saw her. HE and Count Rosek
have just taken her away from me."

Daphne Wing convulsively squeezed the hand of which she had possessed
herself.

"Oh, what a wicked thing! When?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"Oh, I AM glad I haven't seen him since! Oh, I DO think that was wicked!
Aren't you dreadfully distressed?" The least of smiles played on Gyp's
mouth. Daphne Wing burst forth: "D'you know--I think--I think your
self-control is something awful. It frightens me. If my baby had lived
and been stolen like that, I should have been half dead by now."

Gyp answered stonily as ever:

"Yes; I want her back, and I wondered--"

Daphne Wing clasped her hands.

"Oh, I expect I can make him--" She stopped, confused, then added
hastily: "Are you sure you don't mind?"

"I shouldn't mind if he had fifty loves. Perhaps he has."

Daphne Wing uttered a little gasp; then her teeth came down rather
viciously on her lower lip.

"I mean him to do what I want now, not what he wants me. That's the only
way when you love. Oh, don't smile like that, please; you do make me
feel so--uncertain."

"When are you going to see him next?"