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Updated: June 23, 2025
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.
And, viciously, in one of those queer nerve-crises that beset us all, he struck the pulling horse. 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 steam-engine had been under him. Straight at the linhay Hotspur dashed, and Summerhay thought: "My God! He'll kill himself!"
And, suddenly her heart began beating to suffocation and the colour flooded up in her cheeks. On the edge of the low cliff bank, by the side of the path, Summerhay was sitting! 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 Ossy?"
Put it in a packet, tie it round with string, seal it up, drop it in a drawer, lock the drawer! And to-morrow it will be out and skipping on its wrappings. Ho! Ho!" And Summerhay thought: 'You old goat.
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?
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 helpless only, these were the waters of ecstasy.
Winton did not speak; misgiving had taken possession of him. Gyp went on: "I know now how one would rather die than give someone up." Winton drew his breath in sharply: "Who? Summerhay?" "Yes; I used to think I should never be in love, but you knew better." Better! In disconsolate silence, he thought rapidly: 'What's to be done? What can I do? Get her a divorce?
And then so 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.
All right; I shall try and find YOU now." But Gyp shook her head. "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.
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.
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