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Updated: June 23, 2025
She asked desolately: "Does Major Winton know?" "Yes." "What does he say to it?" "Say? What can anyone say? From your point of view, or his, it's rotten, of course. But in her position, anything's rotten." At that encouraging word, the flood-gates gave way in Lady Summerhay, and she poured forth a stream of words. "Oh, my dear, can't you pull up? I've seen so many of these affairs go wrong.
Summerhay did not wear his heart on his sleeve, and when, on the closing-day of term, he left his chambers to walk to that last meeting, his face was much as usual under his grey top hat. But, in truth, he had come to a pretty pass. He had his own code of what was befitting to a gentleman. It was perhaps a trifle "old Georgian," but it included doing nothing to distress a woman.
In the grip of his new emotions, he still retained enough balance to appreciate what an abominably desolate piece of news this must be to her, what a disturbance and disappointment. And, taking her hand, he put it to his lips. "Cheer up, Mother! It's all right. She's happy, and so am I." Lady Summerhay could only press her hand against his kiss, and murmur: "Yes; that's not everything, Bryan.
At that remark, so vehement for the time of night, the old Scotch terrier, Ossian, came from his corner and shoved his long black nose into his master's hand. "Come along up, Ossy! Good dog, Oss!" And, comforted by the warmth of that black body beside him in the chair, Summerhay fell asleep in front of the fire smouldering with blackened fragments of his past.
Summerhay will be at home all to-morrow, and we'll go a long ride: and when you exercise, will you call at the inn, in case I don't go that way, and tell Major Winton I expect him to dinner to-night?" "Yes, ma'am; and I've seen the pony for little Miss Gyp this morning, ma'am. It's a mouse pony, five year old, sound, good temper, pretty little paces.
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.
She bathed, and grew as tanned as her little daughter, a regular Gypsy, in her broad hat and linen frocks; and yet she hardly seemed to be living down here at all, for she was never free of the memory of that last meeting with Summerhay. Why had he spoken and put an end to their quiet friendship, and left her to such heart-searchings all by herself? But she did not want his words unsaid.
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.
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.
You know it can't. You know I worship you! If you can't love me, I've got to break away. All day, all night, I think and dream of nothing but you. Gyp, do you want me to go?" Suppose she said: "Yes, go!" She made a little movement, as if in protest, and without looking at him, answered very low: "Of course I don't want you to go. How could I?" Summerhay gasped. "Then you DO love me?"
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