Gyp went along till she could see no outer world for the grey-brown tree-stems streaked with gum-resin; and, throwing herself down on her face, dug her elbows deep into the pine dust. Tears, so rare with her, forced their way up, and trickled slowly to the hands whereon her chin rested. No good--crying! Crying only made her ill; crying was no relief. She turned over on her back and lay motionless, the sunbeams warm on her cheeks. Silent here, even at noon! The sough of the calm sea could not reach so far; the flies were few; no bird sang. The tall bare pine stems rose up all round like columns in a temple roofed with the dark boughs and sky.
Cloud-fleeces drifted slowly over the blue. There should be peace--but in her heart there was none!
A dusky shape came padding through the trees a little way off, another--two donkeys loose from somewhere, who stood licking each other's necks and noses. Those two humble beasts, so friendly, made her feel ashamed. Why should she be sorry for herself, she who had everything in life she wanted--except love--the love she had thought she would never want? Ah, but she wanted it now, wanted it at last with all her being!
With a shudder, she sprang up; the ants had got to her, and she had to pick them off her neck and dress. She wandered back towards the beach. If he had truly found someone to fill his thoughts, and drive her out, all the better for him; she would never, by word or sign, show him that she missed, and wanted him--never! She would sooner die!
She came out into the sunshine. The tide was low; and the wet foreshore gleamed with opal tints; there were wandering tracks on the sea, as of great serpents winding their way beneath the surface; and away to the west the archwayed, tawny rock that cut off the line of coast was like a dream-shape. All was dreamy.
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? Ithought you were still in Scotland. How's dear Ossy?" Then her self-possession failed, and she looked down.
"It's no good, Gyp. I must know."
It seemed to Gyp that her heart had given up beating; she said quietly: "Let's sit down a minute"; and moved under the cliff bank where they could not be seen from the house. There, drawing the coarse grass blades through her fingers, she said, with a shiver:
"I didn't try to make you, did I? I never tried.""No; never."
"It's wrong."
"Who cares? No one could care who loves as I do. Oh, Gyp, can't you love me? I know I'm nothing much." How quaint and boyish!
"But it's eleven weeks to-day since we met in the train. I don't think I've had one minute's let-up since.""Have you tried?"
"Why should I, when I love you?"
Gyp sighed; relief, delight, pain--she did not know.
"Then what is to be done? Look over there--that bit of blue in the grass is my baby daughter. There's her--and my father--and--""And what?"
"I'm afraid--afraid of love, Bryan!"
At that first use of his name, Summerhay turned pale and seized her hand.
"Afraid--how--afraid?"
Gyp said very low:
"I might love too much. Don't say any more now. No; don't! Let's go in and have lunch." And she got up.
He stayed till tea-time, and not a word more of love did he speak.
But when he was gone, she sat under the pine-tree with little Gyp on her lap. Love! If her mother had checked love, she herself would never have been born. The midges were biting before she went in. After watching Betty give little Gyp her bath, she crossed the passage to her bedroom and leaned out of the window. Could it have been to-day she had lain on the ground with tears of despair running down on to her hands? Away to the left of the pine-tree, the moon had floated up, soft, barely visible in the paling sky. Anew world, an enchanted garden! And between her and it--what was there?
That evening she sat with a book on her lap, not reading; and in her went on the strange revolution which comes in the souls of all women who are not half-men when first they love--the sinking of 'I'
into 'Thou,' the passionate, spiritual subjection, the intense, unconscious giving-up of will, in preparation for completer union.
She slept without dreaming, awoke heavy and oppressed. Too languid to bathe, she sat listless on the beach with little Gyp all the morning. Had she energy or spirit to meet him in the afternoon by the rock archway, as she had promised? For the first time since she was a small and naughty child, she avoided the eyes of Betty.
One could not be afraid of that stout, devoted soul, but one could feel that she knew too much. When the time came, after early tea, she started out; for if she did not go, he would come, and she did not want the servants to see him two days running.
This last day of August was warm and still, and had a kind of beneficence--the corn all gathered in, the apples mellowing, robins singing already, a few slumberous, soft clouds, a pale blue sky, a smiling sea. She went inland, across the stream, and took a footpath back to the shore. No pines grew on that side, where the soil was richer--of a ruddy brown. The second crops of clover were already high; in them humblebees were hard at work; and, above, the white-throated swallows dipped and soared. Gyp gathered a bunch of chicory flowers. She was close above the shore before she saw him standing in the rock archway, looking for her across the beach.
After the hum of the bees and flies, it was very quiet here--only the faintest hiss of tiny waves. He had not yet heard her coming, and the thought flashed through her: 'If I take another step, it is for ever! She stood there scarcely breathing, the chicory flowers held before her lips. Then she heard him sigh, and, moving quickly forward, said:
"Here I am."
He turned round, seized her hand, and, without a word, they passed through the archway. They walked on the hard sand, side by side, till he said:
"Let's go up into the fields."
