eyes, and went on mechanically with a frock of little Gyp's she had begun on the fatal morning Fiorsen had come back. Every other minute she stopped to listen to sounds that never meant anything, went a hundred times to the window to look at nothing. Betty, too, had come upstairs, and was in the nursery opposite; Gyp could hear her moving about restlessly among her household gods. Presently, those sounds ceased, and, peering into the room, she saw the stout woman still in her bonnet, sitting on a trunk, with her back turned, uttering heavy sighs. Gyp stole back into her own room with a sick, trembling sensation. If--if her baby really could not be recovered except by that sacrifice! If that cruel letter were the last word, and she forced to decide between them! Which would she give up? Which follow--her lover or her child?
She went to the window for air--the pain about her heart was dreadful. And, leaning there against the shutter, she felt quite dizzy from the violence of a struggle that refused coherent thought or feeling, and was just a dumb pull of instincts, both so terribly strong--how terribly strong she had not till then perceived.
Her eyes fell on the picture that reminded her of Bryan; it seemed now to have no resemblance--none. He was much too real, and loved, and wanted. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she had turned a deaf ear to his pleading that she should go to him for ever. How funny!
Would she not rush to him now--go when and where he liked? Ah, if only she were back in his arms! Never could she give him up--never! But then in her ears sounded the cooing words, "Dear mum!"Her baby--that tiny thing--how could she give her up, and never again hold close and kiss that round, perfect little body, that grave little dark-eyed face?
The roar of London came in through the open window. So much life, so many people--and not a soul could help! She left the window and went to the cottage-piano she had there, out of Winton's way. But she only sat with arms folded, looking at the keys. The song that girl had sung at Fiorsen's concert--song of the broken heart--came back to her.
No, no; she couldn't--couldn't! It was to her lover she would cling. And tears ran down her cheeks.
A cab had stopped below, but not till Betty came rushing in did she look up.
XIV
When, trembling all over, she entered the dining-room, Fiorsen was standing by the sideboard, holding the child.
He came straight up and put her into Gyp's arms.
"Take her," he said, "and do what you will. Be happy."Hugging her baby, close to the door as she could get, Gyp answered nothing. Her heart was in such a tumult that she could not have spoken a word to save her life; relieved, as one dying of thirst by unexpected water; grateful, bewildered, abashed, yet instinctively aware of something evanescent and unreal in his altruism. Daphne Wing! What bargain did this represent?
Fiorsen must have felt the chill of this instinctive vision, for he cried out:
"Yes! You never believed in me; you never thought me capable of good! Why didn't you?"Gyp bent her face over her baby to hide the quivering of her lips.
"I am sorry--very, very sorry."
Fiorsen came closer and looked into her face.
"By God, I am afraid I shall never forget you--never!"Tears had come into his eyes, and Gyp watched them, moved, troubled, but still deeply mistrusting.
He brushed his hand across his face; and the thought flashed through her: 'He means me to see them! Ah, what a cynical wretch Iam!'
Fiorsen saw that thought pass, and muttering suddenly:
"Good-bye, Gyp! I am not all bad. I AM NOT!" He tore the door open and was gone.
That passionate "I am not!" saved Gyp from a breakdown. No; even at his highest pitch of abnegation, he could not forget himself.
Relief, if overwhelming, is slowly realized; but when, at last, what she had escaped and what lay before her were staring full in each other's face, it seemed to her that she must cry out, and tell the whole world of her intoxicating happiness. And the moment little Gyp was in Betty's arms, she sat down and wrote to Summerhay:
"DARLING, "I've had a fearful time. My baby was stolen by him while I was with you. He wrote me a letter saying that he would give her back to me if I gave you up. But I found I couldn't give you up, not even for my baby. And then, a few minutes ago, he brought her--none the worse. Tomorrow we shall all go down to Mildenham; but very soon, if you still want me, I'll come with you wherever you like. My father and Betty will take care of my treasure till we come back; and then, perhaps, the old red house we saw--after all.
Only--now is the time for you to draw back. Look into the future--look far! Don't let any foolish pity--or honour--weigh with you;be utterly sure, I do beseech you. I can just bear it now if Iknow it's for your good. But afterward it'll be too late. It would be the worst misery of all if I made you unhappy. Oh, make sure--make sure! I shall understand. I mean this with every bit of me. And now, good-night, and perhaps--good-bye.
"Your "GYP."
She read it over and shivered. Did she really mean that she could bear it if he drew back--if he did look far, far into the future, and decided that she was not worth the candle? Ah, but better now--than later.
She closed and sealed the letter, and sat down to wait for her father. And she thought: 'Why does one have a heart? Why is there in one something so much too soft?'
Ten days later, at Mildenham station, holding her father's hand, Gyp could scarcely see him for the mist before her eyes. How good he had been to her all those last days, since she told him that she was going to take the plunge! Not a word of remonstrance or complaint.
"Good-bye, my love! Take care of yourself; wire from London, and again from Paris." And, smiling up at her, he added: "He has luck;I had none."
The mist became tears, rolled down, fell on his glove.
"Not too long out there, Gyp!"
