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Updated: June 23, 2025
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.
His heart gave a jump. No more craning he WOULD speak! She was wearing a maize-coloured muslin to which the sunlight gave a sort of transparency, and sat, leaning back, her knees crossed, one hand resting on the knob of her furled sunshade, her face half hidden by her shady hat. Summerhay clenched his teeth, and went straight up to her. "Gyp! No, I won't call you anything else. This can't go on!
He's looking very well, I think. I'm devoted to him, you know." Gyp answered softly: "Yes, you must be." And her heart felt suddenly as hard as flint. Lady Summerhay gave her a quick look. "I I hope you won't mind my being frank I've been so worried. It's an unhappy position, isn't it?" Gyp did not answer, and she hurried on.
He had no brothers, two sisters, and an income of his own. Such was Bryan Summerhay at the age of twenty-six, his wisdom-teeth to cut, his depths unplumbed.
Yes; only not my face!" A telegraph-boy was coming from the gate. Gyp opened the missive with the faint tremor she always felt when Summerhay was not with her. "Detained; shall be down by last train; need not come up to-morrow. When the boy was gone, she stooped down and stroked the old dog's head. "Master home all day to-morrow, Ossy master home!"
And he went to the door. "Won't you stay to dinner, dear?" But he was gone, and the full of vexation, anxiety, and wretchedness came on Lady Summerhay. It was too hard! She went down to her lonely dinner, desolate and sore. And to the book on dreams, opened beside her plate, she turned eyes that took in nothing. Summerhay went straight home.
Lady Summerhay got up, and the book on dreams slipped off her lap with a thump. She went to the fireplace, and stood there looking at her son. He had altered. His merry look was gone; his face was strange to her.
But, one day, in the first week after their return, while in her room, just back from a long day's shopping, a card was brought up to her: "Lady Summerhay." Her first impulse was to be "not at home"; her second, "I'd better face it. Bryan would wish me to see her!" When the page-boy was gone, she turned to the mirror and looked at herself doubtfully.
Straight at the old stone linhay, covered by the great ivy bush. Right at it into it! Summerhay ducked his head. Not low enough the ivy concealed a beam! A sickening crash! Torn backward out of the saddle, he fell on his back in a pool of leaves and mud.
She stopped at the expression on his face. It was as if he were saying: "I have left your world. Talk to your fellows; all this is nothing to me." "Look here, Mother: you don't seem to understand. I'm devoted devoted so that there's nothing else for me." "How long will that last, Bryan? You mean bewitched." Summerhay said, with passion: "I don't. I mean what I said. Good-night!"
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