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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?"
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 was warm 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.
She's still very pretty " Gyp was trembling but undaunted. The precipice was there she had to make the leap! The undertaker paused in his contemplated flight to stare then he laughed, a loud, hoarse laugh that sent the hot blood tingling to Gyp's face. "Who ever heard the beat of it! A proposal by proxy! Ha! ha! My business is burying and not marrying! Ha! Ha! Pretty good!
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 full-length 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.
A young man in a grey cutaway, buff cords, and jack-boots, on a low chestnut mare, came slipping round the covert. Oh did 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?
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 fiddle, he used the word, "Bigre!" and started for home. Gyp hardly slept at all.
She always liked to do anything anyone wanted her to do and especially Uncle Johnny. "If Gyp would go back with Tibby or " "Mother!" Gyp's distress was sincere the spring before she had acquired this room of her own and she loved it dearly. "And Gyp's things muss my room so," cried Tibby, plaintively. "Then perhaps you'll all help me fix the nursery for her."
When he was really gone, peace fell on Gyp peace such as one feels, having no longer the tight, banded sensations of a fever. To be without that strange, disorderly presence in the house!
"Jem," she said, as she jumped from her saddle, "put Gyp up and then come to my room, I have a message to send by you."
For the second night running, she hardly slept, hearing the clocks of St. James's strike, and Big Ben boom, hour after hour. At breakfast, she told her father of Fiorsen's reappearance. He received the news with a frown and a shrewd glance. "Well, Gyp?" "I told him."
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