"If you put it in that way, I don't reelly know 'ow to refuse; but it must be quite between you and me--I can't withdraw my attitude."Gyp murmured:
"No, of course. Thank you so much; and you'll let me know about everything later. I mustn't take up your time now." And she held out her hand.
Mr. Wagge took it in a lingering manner.
"Well, I HAVE an appointment," he said; "a gentleman at Campden Hill. He starts at twelve. I'm never late. GOOD-morning."When she had watched his square, black figure pass through the outer gate, busily rebuttoning those shining black gloves, she went upstairs and washed her face and hands.
For several days, Fiorsen wavered; but his collapse had come just in time, and with every hour the danger lessened. At the end of a fortnight of a perfectly white life, there remained nothing to do in the words of the doctor but "to avoid all recurrence of the predisposing causes, and shove in sea air!" Gyp had locked up all brandy--and violins; she could control him so long as he was tamed by his own weakness. But she passed some very bitter hours before she sent for her baby, Betty, and the dogs, and definitely took up life in her little house again. His debts had been paid, including the thousand pounds to Rosek, and the losses of Daphne Wing. The girl had gone down to that cottage where no one had ever heard of her, to pass her time in lonely grief and terror, with the aid of a black dress and a gold band on her third finger.
August and the first half of September were spent near Bude.
Fiorsen's passion for the sea, a passion Gyp could share, kept him singularly moderate and free from restiveness. He had been thoroughly frightened, and such terror is not easily forgotten.
They stayed in a farmhouse, where he was at his best with the ****** folk, and his best could be charming. He was always trying to get his "mermaid," as he took to calling Gyp, away from the baby, getting her away to himself, along the grassy cliffs and among the rocks and yellow sands of that free coast. His delight was to find every day some new nook where they could bathe, and dry themselves by sitting in the sun. And very like a mermaid she was, on a seaweedy rock, with her feet close together in a little pool, her fingers combing her drowned hair, and the sun silvering her wet body. If she had loved him, it would have been perfect. But though, close to nature like this--there are men to whom towns are poison--he was so much more easy to bear, even to like, her heart never opened to him, never fluttered at his voice, or beat more quickly under his kisses. One cannot regulate these things. The warmth in her eyes when they looked at her baby, and the coolness when they looked at him, was such that not even a man, and he an egoist, could help seeing; and secretly he began to hate that tiny rival, and she began to notice that he did.
As soon as the weather broke, he grew restless, craving his violin, and they went back to town, in robust health--all three. During those weeks, Gyp had never been free of the feeling that it was just a lull, of forces held up in suspense, and the moment they were back in their house, this feeling gathered density and darkness, as rain gathers in the sky after a fine spell. She had often thought of Daphne Wing, and had written twice, getting in return one ***** and pathetic answer:
'DEAR MRS. FIORSEN, 'Oh, it is kind of you to write, because I know what you must be feeling about me; and it was so kind of you to let me come here. Itry not to think about things, but of course I can't help it; and Idon't seem to care what happens now. Mother is coming down here later on. Sometimes I lie awake all night, listening to the wind.
Don't you think the wind is the most melancholy thing in the world?
I wonder if I shall die? I hope I shall. Oh, I do, really! Good-bye, dear Mrs. Fiorsen. I shall never forgive myself about you.
'Your grateful, 'DAPHNE WING.'
The girl had never once been mentioned between her and Fiorsen since the night when he sat by her bed, begging forgiveness; she did not know whether he ever gave the little dancer and her trouble a thought, or even knew what had become of her. But now that the time was getting near, Gyp felt more and more every day as if she must go down and see her. She wrote to her father, who, after a dose of Harrogate with Aunt Rosamund, was back at Mildenham.
Winton answered that the nurse was there, and that there seemed to be a woman, presumably the mother, staying with her, but that he had not of course made direct inquiry. Could not Gyp come down?
He was alone, and cubbing had begun. It was like him to veil his longings under such dry statements. But the thought of giving him pleasure, and of a gallop with hounds fortified intensely her feeling that she ought to go. Now that baby was so well, and Fiorsen still not drinking, she might surely snatch this little holiday and satisfy her conscience about the girl. Since the return from Cornwall, she had played for him in the music-room just as of old, and she chose the finish of a morning practice to say:
"Gustav, I want to go to Mildenham this afternoon for a week.
Father's lonely."
He was putting away his violin, but she saw his neck grow red.
"To him? No. He will steal you as he stole the baby. Let him have the baby if he likes. Not you. No."Gyp, who was standing by the piano, kept silence at this unexpected outburst, but revolt blazed up in her. She never asked him anything; he should not refuse this. He came up behind and put his arms round her.
"My Gyp, I want you here--I am lonely, too. Don't go away."She tried to force his arms apart, but could not, and her anger grew. She said coldly:
"There's another reason why I must go."
"No, no! No good reason--to take you from me.""There is! The girl who is just going to have your child is staying near Mildenham, and I want to see how she is."He let go of her then, and recoiling against the divan, sat down.
And Gyp thought: 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--but it serves him right.'
He muttered, in a dull voice:
"Oh, I hoped she was dead."
