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The return to Mildenham was made by easy stages nearly two months after Summerhay's death, on New Year's day Mildenham, 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.
Summerhay's mind was trained to quickness, and the full significance of those words came home to him at once. He stared at her fixedly. "I suppose you saw us, then." "Yes." He got up, made a helpless movement, and said: "Oh, Gyp, don't! Don't be so hard! I swear by " Gyp gave a little laugh, turned her back, and went on coiling at her hair.
Was it that letter? But how? It had not been opened. He said: "What on earth has happened, Gyp, since I went up yesterday? Speak out, and don't keep me like this!" She turned and looked at him. "Don't pretend that you're upset because you can't kiss me! Don't be false, Bryan! You know it's been pretence for months." Summerhay's voice grew high. "I think you've gone mad.
Without a quiver, he met those tear-darkened, 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 true he knew from the mutterings of Gyp's fever but no one, not even Summerhay's mother, should hear a whisper if he could help it.
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!
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, you would tell her, wouldn't you? I do think it's cruel. "Very faithfully yours,
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. "Mr. Summerhay's been here, Dad. He was sorry to miss you."
And a sudden wish, almost a longing, not a friendly one, to see this woman seized her. "Will you bring her to see me? I'm alone here till Wednesday." "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. Aphrodite! And afterward?
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.
Close by, the horse, uneasy, put his head down and sniffed at her, then, backing away, neighed, and broke into a wild gallop round the field.... Old Pettance, waiting for Summerhay's return to stable-up for the night, heard that distant neigh and went to the garden gate, screwing up his little eyes against the sunset.
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