Beyond

Beyond

'By the Same Author

PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM HEINEMANN
THE ISLAND PHARISEES
THE MAN OF PROPERTY
THE COUNTRY HOUSE
FRATERNITY
THE PATRICIAN
THE DARK FLOWER
THE FREELANDS

A MOTLEY

THE INN OF TRANQUILLITY

THE LITTLE MAN, AND OTHER SATIRES

A SHEAF

MOODS, SONGS, AND DOGGERELS

MEMORIES, ILLUSTRATED BY MaUD EaRL

ISSUED BY OTHER PUBLISHERS

VILLA RUBEIN, AND OTHER STORIES

A COMMENTARY
PLAYS : THREE VOLS.

Beyond

By

John Galsworthy

' Che -aro senza Euriiice !'

London
William Heinemann

LONDON : WILLIAM HEINEMANN. I917

THOMAS HARDY

o^.;i>^^-

13

PART I

At the door of St. George's registry office, Charles
Clare Winton strolled forward in the wake of the
taxi-cab that was bearing his daughter away with
" the fiddler fellow " she had married. ^ His sense of
decorum forbade his walking with Nurse Betty — the
only other witness of the wedding. A stout woman
in a highly emotional condition would have been an
incongruous companion to his slim, upright figure,
moving with just that unexaggerated swing and
balance becoming to a lancer of the old school, even
if he has been on the retired list for sixteen years.

Poor Betty ! He thought of her with irritated
sympathy — she need not have given way to tears on
the door-step. She might well feel lost now Gyp was
gone, but not so lost as himself ! His pale-gloved
hand — the one real hand he had, for his right hand had
been amputated at the wrist — twisted vexedly at the
small, grizzling moustache lifting itself from the
corners of his firm lips. On this grey February day
he wore no overcoat; faithful to the absolute, almost
shamefaced quietness of that wedding, he had not
even donned black coat and silk hat, but wore a blue
suit and a hard black felt. The instinct of a soldier
and hunting man to exhibit no sign whatever of
emotion did not desert him this dark day of his life;

2 BEYOND

but his grey-hazel eyes kept contracting, staring
fiercely, contracting again; and, at moments, as if
overpowered by some deep feeling, they darkened
and seemed to draw back in his head. His face was
narrow and weathered and thin-cheeked, with a clean-
cut jaw, small ears, hair darker than the moustache,
but touched at the side wings with grey — the face of
a man of action, self-reliant, resourceful. And his
bearing was that of one who has always been a bit of
a dandy, and paid attention to " form," yet been
conscious sometimes that there were things beyond.
A man, who, preserving all the precision of a type,
yet had in him a streak of something that was
not typical. Such often have tragedy in their
pasts.

Making his way towards the park, he turned into
Mount Street. There was the house still, though the
street had been very different then — the house he had
passed, up and down, up and down in the fog, like a
ghost, that November afternoon, like a cast-out dog,
in such awful, unutterable agony of mind, twenty-
three years ago, when Gyp was born. And then to
be told at the door — he, with no right to enter, he,
lovirg as he believed man never loved woman — to be
told at the door that she was dead — dead in bearing
what he and she alone knew was their child ! Up and
down in the fog, hour after hour, knowing her time
was upon her; and at last to be told that ! Of all fates
that befall man, surely the most awful is to love too
much.

Queer that his route should take him past the very
house to-day, after this new bereavement ! Accursed
luck — that gout which had sent him to Wiesbaden,
last September ! Accursed luck that Gyp had ever

BEYOND 3

set eyes on this fellow Fiorsen, with his fatal fiddle !
Certainly not since Gyp had come to live with him,
fifteen years ago, had he felt so forlorn and fit for
nothing. To-morrow he would get back to Mildenham
and see what hard riding would do. Without Gyp —
to be without Gyp ! A fiddler ! A chap who had
never been on a horse in his life ! And with his crutch-
handled cane he switched viciously at the air, as though
carving a man in two.

His club, near Hyde Park Corner, had never seemed
to him so desolate. From sheer force of habit he went
into the card-room. The afternoon had so darkened
that electric light already burned, and there were the
usual dozen of players seated among the shaded
gleams falling decorously on dark-wood tables, on
the backs of chairs, on cards and tumblers, the little
gilded coffee-cups, the polished nails of fingers holding
cigars. A crony challenged him to piquet. He sat
down listless. That three-legged whist — bridge — had
always offended his fastidiousness — a mangled short cut
of a game ! Poker had something blatant in it.
Piquet, though out of fashion, remained for him the
only game worth playing — the only game which still
had style. He held good cards, and rose the winner
of five pounds that he would willingly have paid to
escape the boredom of the bout. Where would they
be by now ? Past Newbury ; Gyp sitting opposite
that Swedish fellow with his greenish wildcat's eyes.
Something furtive, and so foreign, about him ! A
mess — if he were any judge of horse or man ! Thank
God he had tied Gyp's money up — every farthing !
And an emotion that was almost jealousy swept him
at the thought of the fellow's arms round his soft-
haired, dark-eyed daughter — that pretty, willowy

4 BEYOND

creature, so like in face and limb to her whom he had
loved so desperately.

Eyes followed him when he left the card-room, for
he was one who inspired in other men a kind of admira-
tion— none could say exactly why. Many quite as
noted for general good sportsmanship attracted no
such attention. Was it " style," or was it the streak
of something not quite typical — the brand left on him
by the past ?

Abandoning the club, he walked slowly along the
railings of Piccadilly towards home, that house in
Bury Street, St. James's, which had been his London
abode since he was quite young — one of the few in
the street that had been left untouched by the general
passion for pulling down and building up, which had
spoiled half London in his opinion.

A man, more silent than anything on earth, with
the soft, quick, dark eyes of a woodcock and a long,
greenish, knitted waistcoat, black cutaway, and tight
trousers strapped over his boots, opened the door.

" I shan't go out again, Markey. Mrs. Markey
must give me some dinner. Anything'll do."

Markey signalled that he had heard, and those
brown eyes under eyebrows meeting and forming one
long, dark line, took his master in from head to heel.
He had aheady nodded last night, when his wife had
said the gov'nor would take it hard. Retiring to the
back premises, he jerked his head toward the street
and made a motion upward with his hand, by which
Mrs. Markey, an astute woman, understood that she
had to go out and shop because the gov'nor was dining
in. When she had gone, Markey sat down opposite
Betty, Gyp's old nurse. The stout woman was still
crying in a quiet way. It gave him the fair hump.

BEYOND 5

for he felt inclined to howl like a dog himself. After
watching her broad, rosy, tearful face in silence for
some minutes, he shook his head, and, with a gulp
and a tremor of her comfortable body, Betty desisted.
One paid attention to Markey.

Winton went first into his daughter's bedroom, and
gazed at its emptied silken order, its deserted silver
mirror, twisting viciously at his little moustache.
Then, in his sanctum, he sat down before the fire,
without turning up the light. Anyone looking in,
would have thought he was asleep; but the drowsy
influence of that deep chair and cosy fire had drawn
him back into the long-ago. What unhapp}^ chance
had made him pass her house to-day !

Some say there is no such thing as an affinity, no case
— of a man, at least — made bankrupt of passion by
a single love. In theory, it may be so; in fact, there
are such men — neck-or-nothing men, quiet and self-
contained, the last to expect that nature will play
them such a trick, the last to desire such surrender of
themselves, the last to know when their fate is on them.
Who could have seemed to himself, and, indeed, to
others, less likely than Charles Clare Winton to fall
over head and ears in love when he stepped into the
Belvoir Hunt ballroom at Grantham that Decembei
evening, twenty-four years ago ? A keen soldier, a
dandy, a first-rate man to hounds, already almost a
proverb in his regiment for coolness and for a sort of
courteous disregard of women as among the minor
things of life- — he had stood there by the door, in no
hurry to dance, making survey with an air that just
did not give an impression of " side " because it was
not at all put on. And — behold ! — she had walked

6 BEYOND

past him, and his world was changed for ever. Was
it an illusion of light that made her whole spirit seem
to shine through a half-startled glance ? Or a little
trick of gait, a swaying, seductive balance of body;
was it the way her hair waved back, or a subtle scent,
as of a flower ? What was it ? The wife of a squire
of those parts, with a house in London. Her name ?
It doesn't matter — she has been long enough dead.
There was no excuse — not an ill-treated woman; an
ordinary, humdrum marriage, of three years' standing;
no children. An amiable good fellow of a husband,
fifteen years older than herself, inclined already to be
an invalid. No excuse ! Yet, in one month from that
night, Winton and she were lovers, not only in thought
but in deed. A thing so utterly beyond " good form "
and his sense of what was honourable and becoming
in an officer and gentleman that it was simply never
a question of weighing pro and con, the cons had it so
completely. And yet from that first evening, he was
hers, she his. For each of them the one thought was
how to be with the other. If so — why did they not
at least go off together ? Not for want of his beseech-
ing. And no doubt, if she had survived Gyp's birth,
they would have gone. But to face the prospect of
ruining two men, as it looked to her, had till then been
too much for that soft-hearted creature. Death
stilled her struggle before it was decided. There are
women in whom utter devotion can still go hand in
hand with a doubting soul. Such are generally the
most fascinating; for the power of hard and prompt
decision robs women of mystery, of the subtle atmo-
sphere of change and chance. Though she had but
one part in four of foreign blood, she was not at all
English. But Winton was English to his back-bone.

BEYOND 7

English in his sense of form, and in that curious streak
of whole-hearted desperation that will break form to
smithereens in one department and leave it untouched
in every other of its owner's life. To have called
Winton a " crank " would never have occurred to
anyone — his hair was always perfectly parted; his
boots glowed; he was hard and reticent, accepting and
observing every canon of well-bred existence. Yet,
in that, his one infatuation, he was as lost to the world
and its opinion as the longest-haired lentil-eater of us
all. Though at any moment during that one year of
their love he would have risked his life and sacrificed
his career for a whole day in her company, he never,
by word or look, compromised her. He had carried
his punctilious observance of her " honour " to a point
more bitter than death, consenting, even, to her cover-
ing up the tracks of their child's coming. Paying that
gambler's debt was by far the bravest deed of his life,
and even now its memory festered.

To this very room he had come back after hearing
she was dead ; this very room which he had refurnished
to her taste, so that even now, with its satinwood
chairs, little dainty Jacobean bureau, shaded old
brass candelabra, divan, it still had an air exotic to
bachelordom. There, on the table, had been a letter
recalling him to his regiment, ordered on active service.
If he had realized what he would go through before
he had the chance of trying to lose his life out there,
he would undoubtedly have taken that life, sitting
in this very chair before the fire — the chair sacred to
her and memory. He had not the luck he wished for
in that little war — men who don't care whether they
live or die seldom have. He secured nothing but
distinction. When it was over, he went on, with a

8 BEYOND

few more lines in his face, a few more wrinkles in his
heart, soldiering, shooting tigers, pig-sticking, playing
polo, riding to hounds harder than ever ; giving nothing
away to the world; winning steadily the curious, un-
easy admiration that men feel for those who combine
reckless daring with an ice-cool manner. Since he
was less of a talker even than most of his kind, and had
never in his life talked of women, he did not gain
the reputation of a woman-hater, though he so mani-
festly avoided them. After six years' service in India
and Egypt, he lost his right hand in a charge against
dervishes, and had, perforce, to retire, with the rank
of major, aged thirty-four. For a long time he had
hated the very thought of the child — his child, in
giving birth to whom the woman he loved had died.
Then came a curious change of feeling ; and for three
years before his return to England, he had been in the
habit of sending home odds and ends picked up in the
bazaars, to serve as toys. In return, he had received,
twice annually at least, a letter from the man who
thought himself Gyp's father. These letters he read
and answered. The squire was likable, and had been
fond of her ; and though never once had it seemed
possible to Winton to have acted otherwise than he
did, he had all the time preserved a just and formal
sense of the wrong he had done this man. He did not
experience remorse, but he had always an irksome
feeling as of a debt unpaid, mitigated by knowledge
that no one had ever suspected, and discounted by
memory of the awful torture he had endured to make
sure against suspicion.

When, plus distinction and minus his hand, he was
at last back in England, the squire had come to see
him. The poor man was failing fast from Bright's

BEYOND 9

disease. Winton entered again that house in Mount
Street with an emotion, to stifle which required more
courage than any cavalry charge. But one whose
heart, as he would have put it, is "in the right place "
does not indulge the quaverings of his nerves, and he
faced those rooms where he had last seen her, faced
that lonely little dinner with her husband, without
sign of feeling. He did not see little Ghita, or Gyp,
as she had nicknamed herself, for she was already in
her bed; and it was a whole month before he brought
himself to go there at an hour when he could see the
child if he would. The fact is, he was afraid. W'Tiat
would the sight of this little creature stir in him ?
When Betty, the nurse, brought her in to see the
soldier gentleman with " the leather hand," who had
sent her those funny toys, she stood calmly staring
with her large, deep-brown eyes. Being seven, her
little brown-velvet frock barely reached the knees of
her thin, brown-stockinged legs planted one just in
front of the other, as might be the legs of a small
brown bird; the oval of her gravely wondering face
was warm cream colour without red in it, except that
of the lips, which were neither full nor thin, and had
a little tuck, the tiniest possible dimple at one corner.
Her hair of warm dark brown had been specially
brushed and tied with a narrow red ribbon back from
her forehead, which was broad and rather low, and
this added to her gravity. Her eyebrows were thin
and dark and perfectly arched; her little nose was
perfectly straight, her little chin in perfect balance
between round and point. She stood and stared till
Winton smiled. Then the gravity of her face broke,
her lips parted, her eyes seemed to fly a little. And
Winton's heart turned over within him — she was the

10 BEYOND

very child of her that he had lost ! And he said, in
a voice that seemed to him to tremble:

" WeU, Gyp ?"

" Thank you for my toys; I like them."

He held out his hand, and she gravely put her small
hand into it. A sense of solace, as if someone had
slipped a finger in and smoothed his heart, came over
Winton. Gently, so as not to startle her, he raised
her hand a little, bent, and kissed it. It may have
been from his instant recognition that here was one
as sensitive as child could be, or the way many soldiers
acquire from dealing with their men, those simple,
shrewd children — or some deeper instinctive sense of
ownership between them; whatever it was, from that
moment. Gyp conceived for him a rushing admiration,
one of those headlong affections children will sometimes
take for the most unlikely persons.

He used to go there at an hour when he knew the
squire would be asleep, between two and five. After
he had been with Gyp, walking in the park, riding with
her in the Row, or on wet days sitting in her lonely
nursery telling stories, while stout Betty looked on
half hypnotized, a rather queer and doubting look on
her comfortable face — after such hours, he found it
difficult to go to the squire's study and sit opposite
him, smoking. Those interviews reminded him too
much of past days, when he had kept such desperate
check on himself — too much of the old inward chafing
against the other man's legal ownership — too much
of the debt owing. But Winton was triple-proofed
against betrayal of feeling. The squire welcomed him
eagerly, saw nothing, felt nothing, was grateful for
his goodness to the child. Well, well ! He had died
in the following spring. And Winton found that he

BEYOND II

had been made Gyp's guardian and trustee. Since
his wife's death, the squire had muddled his affairs,
his estate was heavily mortgaged ; but Winton accepted
the position with an almost savage satisfaction, and,
from that moment, schemed deeply to get Gyp all to
himself. The Mount Street house was sold; the
Lincolnshire place let. She and Nurse Betty were
installed at his own hunting-box, Mildenham. In
this effort to get her away from all the squire's relations,
he did not scruple to employ to the utmost the power
he undoubtedly had of making people feel him un-
approachable. He was never impolite to any of them;
he simply froze them out. Having plenty of money
himself, his motives could not be called in question.
In one year he had isolated her from all except stout
Betty. He had no qualms, for Gyp was no more
happy away from him than he from her. He had but
one bad half-hour. It came when he had at last
decided that she should be called by his name, if not
legally at least by custom, round Mildenham. It was
to Markey he had given the order that Gyp was to
be little Miss Winton for the future. When he came
in from hunting that day, Betty was waiting in his
study. She stood in the centre of the emptiest part
of that rather dingy room, as far as possible away
from any good or chattel. How long she had been
standing there, heaven only knew; but her round,
rosy face was confused between awe and resolution,
and she had made a sad mess of her white apron.
Her blue eyes met Winton's with a sort of desperation.

" About what Markey told me, sir. My old master
wouldn't have liked it, sir."

Touched on the raw by this reminder that before
the world he had been nothing to the loved one, that

12 BEYOND

before the world the squire, who had been nothing
to her, had been everything, Winton said icily :

" Indeed ! You will be good enough to comply
with my wish, all the same."

The stout woman's face grew very red. She burst
out, breathless:

" Yes, sir; but I've seen what I've seen. I never
said anything, but I've got eyes. If Miss Gyp's to
take your name, sir, then tongues'll wag, and my dear,
dead mistress "

But at the look on his face she stopped, with her
mouth open.

" You will be kind enough to keep your thoughts to
yourself. If any word or deed of yours gives the
slightest excuse for talk — you go. Understand me,
you go, and you never see Gyp again ! In the mean-
time you will do what I ask. Gyp is my adopted
daughter."

She had always been a little afraid of him, but she
had never seen that look in his eyes or heard him speak
in that voice. And she bent her full moon of a face
and went, with her apron crumpled as apron had never
been, and tears in her eyes. And Winton, at the
window, watching the darkness gather, the leaves
flying by on a sou '-westerly wind, drank to the dregs
a cup of bitter triumph. He had never had the right
to that dead, forever-loved mother of his child. He
meant to have the child. If tongues must wag, let
them ! This was a defeat of all his previous precaution,
a deep victory of natural instinct. And his eyes
narrowed and stared into the darkness.

II

In spite of his victory over all human rivals in the
heart of Gyp, Winton had a rival whose strength he
fully realized perhaps for the first time now that she
was gone, and he, before the fire, was brooding over
her departure and the past. Not likely that one of
his decisive type, whose life had so long been bound
up with swords and horses, would grasp what music
might mean to a little girl. Such ones, he knew,
required to be taught scales, and " In a Cottage near
a Wood " with other melodies. He took care not to
go within sound of them, so that he had no conception
of the avidity with which Gyp had mopped up all, and
more than all, her governess could teach her. He was
blind to the rapture with which she listened to any
stray music that came its way to Mildenham — to
carols in the Christmas dark, to certain hymns, and
one special " Nunc Dimittis " in the village church,
attended with a hopeless regularity; to the horn of
the hunter far out in the quivering, dripping coverts;
even to Markey's whistling, which was full and strangely
sweet.

He could share her love of dogs and horses, take an
anxious interest in her way of catching bumblebees in
the hollow of her hand and putting them to her small,
dehcate ears to hear them buzz, sympathize with her
continual ravages among the flower-beds, in the old-
fashioned garden, full of lilacs and laburnums in spring,
pinks, roses, cornflowers in summer, dahlias and sun-

13

14 BEYOND

flowers in autumn, and always a little neglected and
overgrown, a little squeezed in, and elbowed by the
more important surrounding paddocks. He could
sympathize with her attempts to draw his attention
to the song of birds; but it was simply not in him to
understand how she loved and craved for music. She
was a cloudy little creature, up and down in mood —
rather like a brown lady spaniel that she had, now gay
as a butterfly, now brooding as night. Any touch of
harshness she took to heart fearfully. She was the
strangest compound of pride and self-disparagement;
the qualities seemed mixed in her so deeply that
neither she nor anyone knew of which her cloudy fits
were the result. Being so sensitive, she " fancied "
things terribly. Things that others did to her, and
thought nothing of, often seemed to her conclusive
evidence that she was not loved by anybody, which
was dreadfully unjust, because she wanted to love
everyone — nearly. Then suddenly she would feel:
" If they don't love me, I don't care. I don't want
anything of anybody !" Presently, all would blow
away just like a cloud, and she would love and be
gay, until something fresh, perhaps not at all meant
to hurt her, would again hurt her horribly. In reality,
the whole household loved and admired her. But she
was one of those delicate-treading beings, born with
a skin too few, who — and especially in childhood —
suffer from themselves in a world born with a skin
too many.

To Winton's extreme delight, she took to riding as
a duck to water, and knew no fear on horseback.
She had the best governess he could get her, the
daughter of an admiral, and, therefore, in distressed
orcumstances ; and later on, a tutor for her music,

BEYOND 15

who came twice a week all the way from London —
a sardonic man who cherished for her even more
secret admiration than she for him. In fact, every
male thing fell in love with her at least a little. Unlike
most girls, she never had an epoch of awkward plain-
ness, but grew like a flower, evenly, steadily. Winton
often gazed at her with a sort of intoxication ; the turn
of her head, the way those perfectly shaped, wonder-
fully clear brown eyes would " fly," the set of her
straight, round neck, the very shaping of her limbs
were all such poignant reminders of what he had so
loved. And yet, for all that likeness to her mother,
there was a difference, both in form and character.
Gyp had, as it were, an extra touch of " breeding,"
more chiselling in body, more fastidiousness in soul,
a little more poise, a little more sheer grace ; in mood,
more variance, in mind, more clarity and, mixed with
her sweetness, a distinct spice of scepticism which her
mother had lacked.

In modern times there are no longer " toasts," or
she would have been one with both the hunts. Though
delicate in build, she was not frail, and when her blood
was up would " go " all day, and come in so bone-
tired that she would drop on to the tiger skin before
the fire, rather than face the stairs. Life at Mildenham
was lonely, save for Winton's hunting cronies, and they
but few, for his spiritual dandyism did not gladly
suffer the average country gentleman and his frigid
courtesy frightened women.

Besides, as Betty had foreseen, tongues did wag —
those tongues of the countryside, avid of anything
that might spice the tedium of dull lives and brains.
And, though no breath of gossip came to Winton's
ears, no women visited at Mildenham. Save for the

i6 BEYOND

friendly casual acquaintanceships of churchyard, hunt-
ing-field, and local race-meetings, Gyp grew up know-
ing hardly any of her own sex. This dearth developed
her reserve, kept her backward in sex-perception,
gave her a faint, unconscious contempt for men —
creatures always at the beck and call of her smile, and
so easily disquieted by a little frown — gave her also
a secret yearning for companions of her own gender.
Any girl or woman that she did chance to meet always
took a fancy to her, because she was so nice to them,
which made the transitory nature of these friendships
tantalizing. She was incapable of jealousies or back-
biting. Let men beware of such — there is coiled in
their fibre a secret fascination !

Gyp's moral and spiritual growth was not the sort
of subject that Winton could pay much attention to.
It was pre-eminently a matter one did not talk about.
Outward forms, such as going to church, should be
preserved; manners should be taught her by his own
example as much as possible; beyond this, nature
must look after things. His view had much real
wisdom. She was a quick and voracious reader, bad
at remembering what she read; and though she had
soon devoured all the books in Winton's meagre
library, including Byron, Whyte-Melville, and Hum-
boldt's " Cosmos," they had not left too much on her
mind. The attempts of her little governess to impart
religion were somewhat arid of result, and the interest
of the vicar, Gyp, with her instinctive spice of scepticism,
soon put into the same category as the interest of all
the other males she knew. She felt that he enjoyed
calling her " my dear " and patting her shoulder, and
that this enjoyment was enough reward for his
exertions.

BEYOND 17

Tucked away in that little old dark manor house,
whose stables alone were up to date — three hours from
London, and some thirty miles from The Wash, it
must be confessed that herupbringing lacked modernity.
About twice a year, Winton took her up to town to
stay with his unmarried sister Rosamund in Curzon
Street. Those weeks, if they did nothing else, in-
creased her natural taste for charming clothes, fortified
her teeth, and fostered her passion for music and the
theatre. But the two main nourishments of the
modern girl — discussion and games — she lacked utterly.
Moreover, those years of her life from fifteen to nineteen
were before the social resurrection of 1906, and the
world still crawled like a winter fly on a window-pane
Winton was a Tory, Aunt Rosamund a Tory, every-
body round her a Tory. The only spiritual develop-
ment she underwent all those years of her girlhood
was through her headlong love for her father. After
all, was there any other way in which she could really
have developed ? Only love makes fruitful the soul.
The sense of form that both had in such high degree
prevented much demonstration; but to be with him,
do things for him, to admire, and credit him with
perfection; and, since she could not exactly wear the
same clothes or speak in the same clipped, quiet,
decisive voice, to dislike the clothes and voices of
other men — all this was precious to her beyond every-
thing. If she inherited from him that fastidious
sense of form, she also inherited his capacity for
putting all her eggs in one basket. And since her
company alone gave him real happiness, the current
of love flowed over her heart all the time. Though
she never realized it, abundant love for somebody
was as necessary to her as water running up the stems

i8 BEYOND

of flowers, abundant love from somebody as needful
as sunshine on their petals. And Winton's somewhat
frequent little runs to town, to Newmarket, or where
not, were always marked in her by a fall of the
barometer, which recovered as his return grew near.

One part of her education, at all events, was not
neglected — cultivation of an habitual sympathy with
her poorer neighbours. Without concerning himself
in the least with problems or sociology, Winton had
by nature an open hand and heart for cottagers, and
abominated interference with their lives. And so it
came about that Gyp, who, by nature also never set
foot anywhere without invitation, was always hearing
the words: "Step in, Miss Gyp"; "Step in, and sit
down, lovey," and a good many words besides from
even the boldest and baddest characters. There is
nothing like a soft and pretty face and sympathetic
listening for seducing the hearts of " the people."

So passed the eleven years till she was nineteen and
Winton forty-six. Then, under the wing of her little
governess, she went to the hunt-ball. She had re-
volted against appearing a " fluffy miss," wanting to
be considered at once full-fledged; so that her dress,
perfect in fit, was not white but palest maize-colour,
as if she had already been to dances. She had all
Winton's dandyism, and just so much more as was
appropriate to her sex. With her dark hair, wonder-
fully fluffed and coiled, waving across her forehead,
her neck bare for the first time, her eyes really " flying,"
and a demeanour perfectly cool — as though she knew
that light and movement, covetous looks, soft speeches,
and admiration were her birthright — she was more
beautiful than even Winton had thought her. At her
breast she wore some sprigs of yellow jasmine procured

BEYOND 19

by him from town — a flower of whose scent she was
very fond, and that he had never seen worn in ball-
rooms. That swaying, delicate creature, warmed by
excitement, reminded him, in every movement and
by every glance of her eyes, of her whom he had first
met at just such a ball as this. And by the carriage
of his head, the twist of his little moustache, he con-
veyed to the world the pride he was feeling.

That evening held many sensations for Gyp — some
delightful, one confused, one unpleasant. She revelled
in her success. Admiration was very dear to her.
She passionately enjoyed dancing, loved feeling that
she was dancing well and giving pleasure. But, twice
over, she sent away her partners, smitten with com-
passion for her little governess sitting there against
the wall — all alone, with no one to take notice of her,
because she was elderly, and roundabout, poor darling !
And, to that loyal person's horror, she insisted on sitting
beside her all through two dances. Nor would she go
into supper with anyone but Winton. Returning to
the ballroom on his arm, she overheard an elderly
woman say: "Oh, don't you know? Of course he
really is her father!" and an elderly man answer:
" Ah, that accounts for it — quite so !" With those
eyes at the back of the head which the very sensitive
possess, she could see their inquisitive, cold, slightly
malicious glances, and knew they were speaking of her.
And just then her partner came for her.

" Really is her father !" The words meant too
much to be grasped this evening of full sensations.
They left a little bruise somewhere, but softened
and anointed, just a sense of confusion at the back
of her mind. And very soon came that other sensation,
so disillusioning, that all else was crowded out. It was

20 BEYOND

after a dance — a splendid dance with a good-looking
man quite twice her age. They were sitting behind
some palms, he murmuring in his mellow, flown voice
admiration for her dress, when suddenly he bent his
flushed face and kissed her bare arm above the elbow.
If he had hit her he could not have astonished or hurt
her more. It seemed to her innocence that he would
never have done such a thing if she had not said some-
thing dreadful to encourage him. Without a word
she got up, gazed at him a moment with eyes dark
from pain, shivered, and slipped away. She went
straight to Winton. From her face, all closed up,
tightened lips, and the familiar little droop at their
corners, he knew something dire had happened, and
his eyes boded ill for the person who had hurt her ; but
she would say nothing except that she was tired and
wanted to go home. And so, with the little faithful
governess, who, having been silent perforce nearly
all the evening, was now full of conversation, they
drove out into the frosty night. Winton sat beside
the chauffeur, smoking viciously, his fur collar turned
up over his ears, his eyes stabbing the darkness,
under his round, low-drawn fur cap. Who had dared
upset his darling ? And, within the car, the little
governess chattered softly, and Gyp, shrouded in lace,
in her dark corner sat silent, seeing nothing but the
vision of that insult. Sad end to a lovely night !

She lay awake long hours in the darkness, while a
sort of coherence was forming in her mind. Those
words: " Really is her father !" and that man's kissing
of her bare arm were a sort of revelation of sex-mystery,
hardening the consciousness that there was something
at the back of her life. A child so sensitive had not
of course, quite failed to feel the spiritual draughts

BEYOND 21

around her; but instinctively she had recoiled from
more definite perceptions. The time before Winton
came was all so faint — Betty, toys, short glimpses
of a kind, invalidish man called "Papa." As in that
word there was no depth compared with the word
"Dad" bestowed on Winton, so there had been no
depth in her feelings towards the squire. When a
girl has no memory of her mother, how dark are many
things ! None, except Betty, had ever talked of her
mother. There was nothing sacred in Gyp's associa-
tions, no faiths to be broken by any knowledge that
might come to her; isolated from other girls, she had
little realization even of the conventions. Still, she
suffered horribly, lying there in the dark — from
bewilderment, from thorns dragged over her skin,
rather than from a stab in the heart. The knowledge
of something about her conspicuous, doubtful, provo-
cative of insult, as she thought, grievously hurt her
delicacy. Those few wakeful hours made a heavy
mark. She fell asleep at last, still all in confusion,
and woke up with a passionate desire to know. All
that morning she sat at her piano, playing, refusing
to go out, frigid to Betty and the little governess, till
the former was reduced to tears and the latter to
Wordsworth. After tea she went to Winton's study,
that dingy little room where he never studied any-
thing, with leather chairs and books which — except
" Mr. Jorrocks," Byron, those on the care of horses,
and the novels of Whyte-Melville — were never read;
with prints of superequine celebrities, his sword, and
photographs of Gyp and of brother officers on the walls.
Two bright spots there were indeed — the fire, and the
little bowl that Gyp always kept filled with flowers.
When she came gliding in like that, a slender,

22 BEYOND

rounded figure, her creamy, dark-eyed, oval face all
cloudy, she seemed to Winton to have grown up of a
sudden. He had known all day that something was
coming, and had been cudgelling his brains finely.
From the fervour of his love for her, he felt an anxiety
that was almost fear. What could have happened
last night — that first night of her entrance into society
— meddlesome, gossiping society ! She slid down to
the floor against his knee. He could not see her face,
could not even touch her; for she had settled down on
his right side. He mastered his tremors and said:

" Well, Gyp— tired ?"

" No."

" A little bit ?"

"No."

" Was it up to what you thought, last night ?"

" Yes."

The logs hissed and crackled ; the long flames ruffled
in the chimney-draft; the wind roared outside — then,
so suddenly that it took his breath away:

" Dad, are you really and truly my father ?"

When that which one has always known might
happen at last does happen, how little one is prepared !
In the few seconds before an answer that could in no
way be evaded, Winton had time for a tumult of
reflection. A less resolute character would have been
caught by utter mental blankness, then flung itself
in panic on " Yes " or " No." But Winton was in-
capable of losing his head; he would not answer with-
out having faced the consequences of his reply. To
be her father was the most warming thing in his life;
but if he avowed it, how far would he injure her love
for him ? What did a girl know ? How make her
understand ? What would her feeling be about her

BEYOND 23

dead mother ? How would that dead loved one feel ?
What would she have wished ?

It was a cruel moment. And the girl, pressed against
his knee, with face hidden, gave him no help. Im-
possible to keep it from her, now that her instinct was
roused ! Silence, too, would answer for him. And
clenching his hand on the arm of his chair, he said :

" Yes, Gyp; your mother and I loved each other."

He felt a quiver go through her, would have given
much to see her face. What, even now, did she under-
stand ? Well, it must be gone through with, and he
said:

" What made you ask ?"

She shook her head and murmured :

" I'm glad."

Grief, shock, even surprise would have roused all
his loyalty to the dead, all the old stubborn bitterness,
and he would have frozen up against her. But this
acquiescent murmur made him long to smooth it
down.

" Nobody has ever known. She died when you
were born. It v/as a fearful grief to me. If you've
heard anything, it's just gossip, because you go by
my name. Your mother was never talked about.
But it's best you should know, now you're grown up.
People don't often love as she and I loved. You
needn't be ashamed."

She had not moved, and her face was still turned
from him. She said quietly:

" I'm not ashamed. Am I very like her ?"

" Yes; more than I could ever have hoped."

Very low she said:

" Then you don't love me for myself ?"

Winton was but dimly conscious of how that question

24 BEYOND

revealed her nature, its power of piercing instinctively
to the heart of things, its sensitive pride, and demand
for utter and exclusive love. To things that go too
deep, one opposes the bulwark of obtuseness. And,
smiling, he simply said:
" What do you think ?"

Then, to his dismay, he perceived that she was
crying — struggling against it so that her shoulder
shook against his knee. He had hardly ever known
her cry, not in all the disasters of unstable youth, and
she had received her full meed of knocks and tumbles.
He could only stroke that shoulder, and say:
" Don't cry. Gyp; don't cry !"
She ceased as suddenly as she had begun, got up,
and, before he too could rise, was gone.

That evening, at dinner, she was just as usual.
He could not detect the slightest difference in her voice
or manner, or in her good-night kiss. And so a moment
that he had dreaded for years was over, leaving only
the faint shame which follows a breach of reticence on
the spirits of those who worship it. While the old
secret had been quite undisclosed, it had not troubled
him. Disclosed, it hurt him. But Gyp, in those
twenty-four hours, had left childhood behind for good ;
her feeling toward men had hardened. If she did not
hurt them a little, they would hurt her ! The sex-
instinct had come to life. To Winton she gave as
much love as ever, even more, perhaps; but the dew
was off.

Ill

The next two years were much less solitary, passed
in more or less constant gaiety. His confession
spurred Winton on to the fortification of his daughter's
position. He would stand no nonsense, would not
have her looked on askance. There is nothing like
" style " for carrying the defences of society — only, it
must be the genuine thing. Whether at Mildenham,
or in London under the wing of his sister, there was no
difficulty. Gyp was too pretty, Winton too cool, his
quietness too formidable. She had every advantage.
Society only troubles itself to make front against the
visibly weak.

The happiest time of a girl's life is that when all
appreciate and covet her, and she herself is free as
air — a queen of hearts, for none of which she hankers;
or, if not the happiest, at all events it is the gayest
time. What did Gyp care whether hearts ached for
her — she knew not love as yet, perhaps would never
know the pains of unrequited love. Intoxicated with
life, she led her many admirers a pretty dance, treating
them with a sort of bravura. She did not want them
to be unhappy, but she simply could not take them
seriously. Never was any girl so heart-free. She was
a queer mixture in those days, would give up any
pleasure for Winton, and most for Betty or her aunt —
her little governess was gone — but of nobody else did
she seem to take account, accepting all that was laid
at her feet as the due of her looks, her dainty frocks,

25

JJJJ^ 1 KJl^LJ

her music, her good riding and dancing, her talent
for amateur theatricals and mimicry. Winton, whom
at least she never failed, watched that glorious flutter-
ing with quiet pride and satisfaction. He was getting
to those years when a man of action dislikes interruption
of the grooves into which his activity has fallen.
He pursued his hunting, racing, card-playing, and his
very stealthy alms and services to lame ducks of his
old regiment, their families, and other unfortunates —
happy in knowing that Gyp was always as glad to be
with him as he to be with her. Hereditary gout, too,
had begun to bother him.

The day that she came of age they were up in town,
and he summoned her to the room, in which he now
sat by the fire recalling all these things, to receive an
account of his stewardship. He had nursed her
greatly embarrassed inheritance very carefully till
it amounted to some twenty thousand pounds. He
had never told her of it — the subject was dangerous,
and, since his own means were ample, she had not
wanted for anything. When he had explained exactly
what she owned, shown her how it was invested, and
told her that she must now open her own banking
account, she stood gazing at the sheets of paper,
whose items she had been supposed to understand,
and her face gathered the look which meant that she
was troubled. Without lifting her eyes she asked:

" Does it all come from — him ?"

He had not expected that, and flushed under his tan.

" No; eight thousand of it was your mother's."

Gyp looked at him, and said:

" Then I won't take the rest — please. Dad."

Winton felt a sort of crabbed pleasure. What should
be done with that money if she did not take it, he did

BEYOND 27

not in the least know. But not to take it was like
her, made her more than ever his daughter — a kind
of final victory. He turned away to the window
from which he had so often watched for her mother.
There was the comer she used to turn ! In one minute,
surely she would be standing there, colour glowing in
her cheeks, her eyes soft behind her veil, her breast
heaving a little with her haste, waiting for his embrace.
There she would stand, drawing up her veil. He turned
round. Difficult to believe it was not she ! And
he said:

" Very well, my love. But you will take the
equivalent from me instead. The other can be put
by; someone will benefit some day !"

At those unaccustomed words, " My love " from his
undemonstrative lips, the colour mounted in her cheeks
and her eyes shone. She threw her arms round his
neck.

She had her fill of music in those days, taking piano
lessons from a Monsieur Harmost, a grey-haired native
of Liege, with mahogany cheeks and the touch of an
angel, who kept her hard at it and called her his " little
friend." There was scarcely a concert of merit that
she did not attend or a musician of mark whose playing
she did not know, and, though fastidiousness saved
her from squirming in adoration round the feet of
those prodigious performers, she perched them all
on pedestals, men and women alike, and now and then
met them at her aunt's house in Curzon Street.

Aunt Rosamund, also musical, so far as breeding
would allow, stood for a good deal to Gyp, who had
built up about her a romantic story of love wrecked
by pride from a few words she had once let drop.
She was a tall and handsome woman, a vear older

28 BEYOND

than Winton, with a long, aristocratic face, deep-blue,
rather shining eyes, a gentlemanly manner, warm heart,
and one of those indescribable, not unmelodious drawls
that one connects with an unshakable sense of
privilege. She, in turn, was very fond of Gyp; and
what passed within her mind, by no means devoid of
shrewdness, as to their real relationship, remained
ever discreetly hidden. She was, so far again as
breeding would allow, something of a humanitarian
and rebel, loving horses and dogs, and hating cats,
except when they had four legs. The girl had just
that softness which fascinates women who perhaps
might have been happier if they had been born men.
Not that Rosamund Winton was of an aggressive type
— she merely had the resolute " catch hold of your tail,
old fellow " spirit so often found in Englishwomen of
the upper classes. A cheery soul, given to long coats
and waistcoats, stocks, and a crutch-handled stick,
she — like her brother — had " style," but more sense
of humour — valuable in musical circles ! At her
house, the girl was practically compelled to see fun
as well as merit in all those prodigies, haloed with hair
and filled to overflowing with music and themselves.
And, since Gyp's natural sense of the ludicrous was
extreme, she and her aunt could rarely talk about
anything without going into fits of laughter.

Winton had his first really bad attack of gout when
Gyp was twenty-two and, terrified lest he might not
be able to sit a horse in time for the opening meets,
he went off with her and Markey to Wiesbaden.
They had rooms in the Wilhelmstrasse, overlooking
the gardens, where leaves were already turning, that
gorgeous September. The cure was long and obstinate,
and Winton badly bored. Gyp fared much better.

BEYOND 29

Attended by the silent Markey, she rode daily on the
Neroberg, chafing at regulations which reduced her
to specified tracks in that majestic wood where the
beeches glowed. Once or even twice a day she went
to the concerts in the Kurhaus, either with her father
or alone.

The first time she heard Fiorsen play she was alone.
Unlike most violinists, he was tall and thin, with great
pliancy of body and swift sway of movement. His
face was pale, and went strangely with hair and mous-
tache of a sort of dirt-gold colour, and his thin cheeks
with very broad high cheek-bones had little narrow
scraps of whisker. Those little whiskers seemed to
Gyp awful — indeed, he seemed rather awful altogether
— but his playing stirred and swept her in the most
uncanny way. He had evidently remarkable
technique; and the emotion, the intense wayward
feeling of his playing was chiselled by that technique,
as if a flame were being frozen in its swaying. When
he stopped, she did not join in the tornado of applause,
but sat motionless, looking up at him. Quite uncon-
strained by all those people, he passed the back of
his hand across his hot brow, shoving up a wave or
two of that queer-coloured hair; then, with a rather
disagreeable smile, he made a short supple bow or
two. And she thought, ' What strange eyes he has
— like a great cat's !' Surely they were green; fierce,
yet shy, almost furtive — mesmeric ! Certainly the
strangest man she had ever seen, and the most frighten-
ing. He seemed looking straight at her; and, dropping
her gaze, she clapped. When she looked again, his
face had lost that smile for a kind of wistfulness. He
made another of those little supple bows straight at
her — it seemed to Gyp — and jerked his violin up

30 BEYOND

to his shoulder. ' He's going to play to me,' she
thought absurdly. He played without accompani-
ment a little tune that seemed to twitch the heart.
When he finished, this time she did not look up, but
was conscious that he gave one impatient bow and
walked off.

That evening at dinner she said to Winton :

" I heard a violinist to-day, Dad, the most wonderful
playing — Gustav Fiorsen. Is that Swedish, do you
think — or what ?"

Winton answered:

" Very likely. What sort of a bounder was he to
look at ? I used to know a Swede in the Turkish
army — nice fellow, too."

" Tall and thin and white-faced, with bumpy
cheek-bones, and hollows under them, and queer green
eyes. Oh, and little goldy side- whiskers."

" By Jove ! It sounds the limit."

Gyp murmured, with a smile:

" Yes; I think perhaps he is."

She saw him next day in the gardens. They were
sitting close to the Schiller statue, Winton reading
The Times, to whose advent he looked forward more
than he admitted, for he was loath by confessions of
boredom to disturb Gyp's manifest enjoyment of her
stay. While perusing the customary comforting anima-
di versions on the conduct of those " rascally Radicals "
who had just come into power, and the account of a
Newmarket meeting, he kept stealing sidelong glances
at his daughter.

Certainly she had never looked prettier, daintier,
shown more breeding than she did out here among
these Germans with their thick pasterns, and all the
cosmopolitan hairy-heeled crowd in this God-forsaken

BEYOND 31

place ! The girl, unconscious of his stealthy regale-
ment, was letting her clear eyes rest, in turn, on each
figure that passed, on the movements of birds and
dogs, watching the sunlight glisten on the grass,
burnish the copper beeches, the lime-trees, and those
tall poplars down there by the water. The doctor
at Mildenham, once consulted on a bout of headache,
had called her eyes " perfect organs," and certainly
no eyes could take things in more swiftly or completely.
She was attractive to dogs, and every now and then
one would stop, in two minds whether or no to put
his nose into this foreign girl's hand. From a flirtation
of eyes with a great Dane, she looked up and saw
Fiorsen passing, in company with a shorter, square
man, having very fashionable trousers and a corseted
waist. The violinist's tall, thin, loping figure was
tightly buttoned into a brownish-grey frock-coat suit;
he wore a rather broad-brimmed, grey, velvety hat;
in his buttonhole was a white flower; his cloth-topped
boots were of patent leather; his tie was bunched out
at the ends over a soft white-linen shirt — altogether
quite a dandy ! His most strange eyes suddenly
swept down on hers, and he made a movement as if
to put his hand to his hat.

' Why, he remembers me,' thought Gyp. That
thin-waisted figure with head set just a little forward
between rather high shoulders, and its long stride,
curiously suggested a leopard or some lithe creature.
He touched his short companion's arm, muttered
something, turned round, and came back. She could
see him staring her way, and knew he was coming
simply to look at her. She knew, too, that her father
was watching. And she felt that those greenish eyes
would wayer before his stare — that stare of the

32 BEYOND

Englishman of a certain class, which never condescends
to be inquisitive. They passed; Gyp saw Fiorsen turn
to his companion, slightly tossing back his head in
their direction, and heard the companion laugh. A
little flame shot up in her.

Winton said:

" Rum-looking Johnnies one sees here !"

" That was the violinist I told you of — Fiorsen."

" Oh ! Ah !" But he had evidently forgotten.

The thought that Fiorsen should have picked her
out of all that audience for remembrance subtly
flattered her vanity. She lost her ruffled feeling.
Though her father thought his dress awful, it was
really rather becoming. He would not have looked
as well in proper English clothes. Once, at least,
during the next two days, she noticed the short, square
young man who had been walking with him, and was
conscious that he followed her with his eyes.

And then a certain Baroness von Maisen, a cosmo-
politan friend of Aunt Rosamund's, German by
marriage, half-Dutch, half-French by birth, asked her
if she had heard the Swedish viohnist, Fiorsen. He
would be, she said, the best violinist of the day, if —
and she shook her head. Finding that expressive
shake unquestioned, the baroness pursued her thoughts :

" Ah, these musicians ! He wants saving from him-
self. If he does not halt soon, he will be lost. Pity !
A great talent !"

Gyp looked at her steadily and asked:

" Does he drink, then ?"

" Pas mal I But there are things besides drink,
ma chere."

Instinct and so much life with Winton made the
girl regard it as beneath her to be shocked. She did

BEYOND 33

not seek knowledge of life, but refused to shy away
from it or be discomfited; and the baroness, to whom
innocence was piquant, went on:

" Des femmes — ton jours des femmes ! C'est grand
dommage. It will spoil his spirit. His sole chance is
to find one woman, but I pity her; sapristi, quelle vie
pour elle !"

Gyp said calmly:

" Would a man like that ever love ?"

The baroness goggled her eyes.

" I have known such a man become a slave. I have
known him running after a woman like a lamb while
she was deceiving him here and there. On ne pent
jamais dire. Ma helle, il y a des choses que vous ne
savez pas encore." She took Gyp's hand. " And
yet, one thing is certain. With those eyes and those
lips and that figure, you have a time before you !"

Gyp withdrew her hand, smiled, and shook her
head; she did not believe in love.

" Ah, but you will turn some heads ! No fear ! as
you English say. There is fatality in those pretty
brown eyes !"

A girl may be pardoned who takes as a compliment
the saying that her eyes are fatal. The words warmed
Gyp, uncontrollably light-hearted in these days, just
as she was warmed when people turned to stare at
her. The soft air, the mellowness of this gay place,
much music, a sense of being a rara avis among people
who, by their heavier type, enhanced her own, had
produced in her a kind of intoxication, making her
what the baroness called " un peu folle." She was
always breaking into laughter, having that precious
feeling of twisting the world round her thumb, which
does not come too often in the life of one who is sensi-

3

34 BEYOND

tive. Everything to her just then was either " funny "
or " lovely." And the baroness, conscious of the
girl's chic, genuinely attracted by one so pretty, took
care that she saw all the people, perhaps more than all,
that were desirable.

To women and artists, between whom there is ever
a certain kinship, curiosity is a vivid emotiop. Be-
sides, the more a man has conquered, the more precious
field he is for a woman's conquest. To attract a man
who has attracted many, what is it but a proof that
one's charm is superior to that of all those others ?
The words of the baroness deepened in Gyp the im-
pression that Fiorsen was " impossible," but secretly
fortified the faint excitement she felt that he should
have remembered her out of all that audience. Later
on, they bore more fruit than that. But first came
that queer incident of the flowers.

Coming in from a ride, a week after she had sat with
Winton under the Schiller statue. Gyp found on her
dressing-table a bunch of Gloire de Dijon and La
France roses. Plunging her nose into them, she
thought: 'How lovely! Who sent me these?'
There was no card. All that the German maid could
say was that a boy had brought them from a flower
shop "fur Fraulein Vinton"; it was surmised that
they came from the baroness. In her bodice at dinner,
and to the concert after, Gyp wore one La France and
one Gloire de Dijon — a daring mixture of pink and
orange against her oyster-coloured frock, which de-
lighted her, who had a passion for experiments in
colour. They had bought no programme, all music
being the same to Winton, and Gyp not needing any.
When she saw Fiorsen come forward, her cheeks began
to colour from sheer anticipation.

BEYOND 35

He played first a minuet by Mozart; then the
Cesar Franck sonata; and when he came back to make
his bow, he was holding in his hand a Gloire de Dijon
and a La France rose. Involuntarily, Gyp raised her
hand to her own roses. His eyes met hers; he bowed
just a little lower. Then, quite naturally, put the
roses to his lips as he was walking off the platform.
Gyp dropped her hand, as if it had been stung. Then,
with the swift thought: 'Oh! that's schoolgirlish !'
she contrived a little smile. But her cheeks were flush -
ing. Should she take out those roses and let them
fall ? Her father might see, might notice Fiorsen s —
put two and two together ! He would consider she
had been insulted. Had she ? She could not bring
herself to think so. It was too pretty a compliment,
as if he wished to tell her that he was playing to her
alone. The baroness's words flashed through her
mind: " He wants saving from himself. Pity ! A
great talent !" It li'as a great talent. There must
be something worth saving in one who could play like
that ! They left after his last solo. Gyp put the
two roses carefuUy back among the others.

Three days later, she went to an afternoon " at-
home " at the Baroness von Maisen's. She saw him
at once, over by the piano, with his short, square
companion, listening to a voluble lady, and looking
very bored and restless. All that overcast afternoon,
still and with queer lights in the sky, as if rain were
coming, Gyp had been feeling out of mood, a little
homesick. Now she felt excited. She saw the short
companion detach himself and go up to the baroness;
a minute later, he was brought up to her and introduced
— Count Rosek. Gyp did not like his face; there were
dark rings under the eyes, and he was too perfectly

36 BEYOND

self-possessed, with a kind of cold sweetness; but he
was very agreeable and polite, and spoke English well.
He was — it seemed — a Pole, who lived in London,
and seemed to know all that was to be known about
music. Miss Winton — he believed — had heard his
friend Fiorsen play; but not in London ? No ? That
was odd; he had been there some months last season.
Faintly annoyed at her ignorance, Gyp answered :

"Yes; but I was in the country nearly all last
summer."

" He had a great success. I shall take him back;
it i's best for his future. What do you think of his
playing ?"

In spite of herself, for she did not like expanding
to this sphinxlike little man, Gyp murmured :

" Oh, simply wonderful, of course !"

He nodded, and then rather suddenly said, with
a peculiar little smile :

" May I introduce him ? Gustav — Miss Winton !"

Gyp turned. There he was, just behind her, bow-
ing ; and his eyes had a look of humble adoration which
he made no attempt whatever to conceal. Gyp saw
another smile slide over the Pole's lips; and she was
alone in the bay window with Fiorsen. The moment
might well have fluttered a girl's nerves after his
recognition of her by the Schiller statue, after that
episode of the flowers, and what she had heard of
him. But life had not yet touched either her nerves
or spirit; she only felt amused and a little excited.
Close to, he had not so much that look of an animal
behind bars, and he certainly was in his way a dandy,
beautifully washed — always an important thing —
and having some pleasant essence on his handkerchief
or hair, of which Gyp would have disapproved if he

BEYOND 37

had been English. He wore a diamond ring also,
which did not somehow seem bad form on that par-
ticular little finger. His height, his broad cheek-
bones, thick but not long hair, the hungry vitality of
his face, figure, movements, annulled those evidences
of femininity. He was male enough, rather too male.
Speaking with a queer, crisp accent, he said:

" Miss Winton, you are my audience here. I play
to you — only to you."

Gyp laughed.

" You laugh at me; but you need not. I play for
you because I admire you. I admire you terribly.
If I sent you those flowers, it was not to be rude.
It was my gratitude for the pleasure of your face."
His voice actually trembled. And, looking down,
Gyp answered:

" Thank you. It was very kind of you. I want to
thank you for your playing. It is beautiful — really
beautiful !"

He made her another little bow.

" When I go back to London, wiU you come and
hear me ?"

" I should think anyone would go to hear you, if
they had the chance."

He gave a short laugh.

" Bah ! Here, I do it for money; I hate this place.
It bores me — bores me ! Was that your father sitting
with you under the statue ?"

Gyp nodded, suddenly grave. She had not for-
gotten the slighting turn of his head.

He passed his hand over his face, as if to wipe off
its expression.

" He is very English. But you — of no country —
you belong to all !"

38 BEYOND

Gyp made him an ironical little bow.

"No; I should not know your country — you are
neither of the North nor of the South. You are just
Woman, made to be adored. I came here hoping to
meet you; I am extremely happy. Miss Winton, I
am your very devoted servant."

He was speaking very fast, very low, with an agitated
earnestness that surely could not be put on. But
suddenly muttering: "These people!" he made her
another of his little bows and abruptly slipped away.
The baroness was bringing up another man. The
chief thought left by that meeting was: " Is that how
he begins to everyone ?" She could not quite believe
it. The stammering earnestness of his voice, those
humbly adoring looks ! Then she remembered the
smile on the lips of the little Pole, and thought : ' But
he must know I'm not silly enough just to be taken
in by vulgar flattery !'

Too sensitive to confide in anyone, she had no chance
to ventilate the curious sensations of attraction and
repulsion that began fermenting in her, feelings defy-
ing analysis, mingling and quarrelling deep down in
her heart. It was certainly not love, not even the
beginning of that; but it was the kind of dangerous
interest children feel in things mysterious, out of reach,
yet within reach, if only they dared ! And the tug
of music was there, and the tug of those words of the
baroness about salvation — the thought of achieving
the impossible, reserved only for the woman of supreme
charm, for the true victress. But all these thoughts
and feelings were as yet in embryo. She might never
see him again ! And she certainly did not know
whether she even wanted to.

IV

Gyp was in the habit of walking with Winton to the
Kochbrunnen, where, with other patient-folk, he was
required to drink slowly for twenty minutes every
morning. While he was imbibing she would sit in a
remote corner of the garden, and read a novel in the
Reclam edition, as a daily German lesson.

She was sitting there, the morning after the " at-
home " at the Baroness von Maisen's, reading Tur-
genev's " Torrents of Spring," when she saw Count
Rosek sauntering down the path with a glass of the
waters in his hand. Instant memory of the smile
mth which he had introduced Fiorsen made her take
cover beneath her sunshade. She could see his patent-
leathered feet, and well-turned, peg-top-trousered legs
go by with the gait of a man whose waist is corseted.
The certainty that he wore those prerogatives of wom.an-
hood increased her dislike. How dare men be so
effeminate ? Yet someone had told her that he was
a good rider, a good fencer, and very strong. She
drew a breath of relief when he was past, and, for fear
he might turn and come back, closed her little book
and slipped away. But her figure and her springing
step were more unmistakable than she knew.

Next morning on the same bench, she was reading
breathlessly the scene between Gemma and Sanin at
the window, when she heard Fiorsen's voice, behind
her, say:

" Miss Winton !"

39

40 BEYOND

He, too, held a glass of the waters in one hand, and
his hat in the other.

" I have just made your father's acquaintance.
May I sit down a minute ?"

Gyp drew to one side on the bench, and he sat
down.

" What are you reading ?"

" A story called ' Torrents of Spring.' "

" Ah, the finest ever written ! Where are you ?"

" Gemma and Sanin in the thunderstorm."

" Wait ! You have Madame Polozov to come !
What a creation ! How old are you. Miss Winton ?"

" Twenty-two."

" You would be too young to appreciate that story
if you were not you. But you know much — by
instinct. What is your Christian name — forgive me !"

" Ghita."

" Ghita ? Not soft enough."

" I am always called Gyp."

" Gyp— ah. Gyp ! Yes; Gyp !"

He repeated her name so impersonally that she
could not be angry.

" I told your father I have had the pleasure of
meeting you. He was very polite."

Gyp said coldly:

" My father is always polite."

" Like the ice in which they put champagne."

Gyp smiled; she could not help it.

And suddenly he said:

" I suppose they have told you that I am a mauvais
sujet." Gyp inclined her head. He looked at her
steadily, and said: " It is true. But I could be better
— much."

She wanted to look at him, but could not. A queer

BEYOND 41

sort of exultation had seized on her. This man had
power; yet she had power over him. If she wished
she could make him her slave, her dog, chain him to
her. She had but to hold out her hand, and he would
go on his knees to kiss it. She had but to say, " Come,"
and he would come from wherever he might be. She
had but to say " Be good," and he would be good.
It was her first experience of power ; and it was intoxi-
cating. But — but ! Gyp could never be self-confident
for long; over her most victorious moments brooded
the shadow of distrust. As if he read her thought,
Fiorsen said:

" Tell me to do something — anything; I will do it.
Miss Winton."

" Then — go back to London at once. You are wast-
ing yourself here, you know. You said so !"

He looked at her, bewildered and upset, and
muttered :

" You have asked me the one thing I can't do.
Miss — Miss Gyp !"

" Please — not that; it's like a servant !"

" I am your servant !"

" Is that why you won't do what I ask you ?"

" You are cruel."

Gyp laughed.

He got up and said, with sudden fierceness:

" I am not going away from you; do not think it."
Bending with the utmost swiftness, he took her hand,
put his lips to it, and turned on his heel.

Gyp, uneasy and astonished, stared at her hand,
still tingling from the pressure of his bristly moustache.
Then she laughed again — it was just " foreign " to have
your hand kissed — and went back to her book, without
taking in the words.

42 BEYOND

Was ever courtship more strange than that which
followed ? It is said that the cat fascinates the bird it
desires to eat; here the bird fascinated the cat, but the
bird too was fascinated. Gyp never lost the sense of
having the whip-hand, always felt like one giving alms,
or extending favour, yet had a feeling of being unable
to get away, which seemed to come from the very
strength of the spell she laid on him. The magnet-
ism with which she held him reacted on herself.
Thoroughly sceptical at first, she could not remain so.
He was too utterly morose and unhappy if she did
not smile on him, too alive and excited and grateful
if she did. The change in his eyes from their ordinary
restless, fierce, and furtive expression to humble
adoration or wistful hunger when they looked at her
could never have been simulated. And she had no
lack of chance to see that metamorphosis. Wherever
she went, there he was. If to a concert, he would be
a few paces from the door, waiting for her entrance.
If to a confectioner's for tea, as likely as not he would
come in. Every afternoon he walked where she must
pass, riding to the Neroberg.

Except in the gardens of the Kochbrunnen, when
he would come up humbly and ask to sit with her five
minutes, he never forced his company, or tried in any
way to compromise her. Experience, no doubt,
served him there; but he must have had an instinct
that it was dangerous with one so sensitive. There
were other moths, too, round that bright candle, and
they served to keep his attentions from being too
conspicuous. Did she comprehend what was going
on, understand how her defences were being sapped,
grasp the danger to retreat that lay in permitting him
to hover round her ? Not really. It all served to

BEYOND 43

swell the triumphant intoxication of days when she
was ever more and more in love with living, more and
more conscious that the world appreciated and admired
her, that she had power to do what others couldn't.

Was not Fiorsen, with his great talent, and his
dubious reputation, proof of that ? And he excited
her. Whatever else one might be in his moody, vivid
company, one would not be dull. One morning, he
told her something of his life. His father had been a
small Swedish landowner, a very strong man and a very
hard drinker; his mother, the daughter of a painter.
She had taught him the violin, but died while he was
still a boy. When he was seventeen he had quarrelled
with his father, and had to play his violin for a Hving
in the streets of Stockholm. A well-known violinist,
hearing him one day, took him in hand. Then his
father had drunk himself to death, and he had in-
herited the little estate. He had sold it at once —
" for follies," as he put it crudely. " Yes, Miss
Winton; I have committed many follies, but they are
nothing to those I shall commit the day I do not see
you any more !" And, with that disturbing remark,
he got up and left her. She had smiled at his words,
but within herself, she felt excitement, scepticism,
compassion, and something she did not understand at
all. In those days, she understood herself very little.

But how far did Winton understand, how far see
what was going on ? He was a stoic; but that did
not prevent jealousy from taking alarm, and causing
him twinges more acute than those he still felt ip. his
left foot. He was afraid of showing disquiet by any
dramatic change, or he would have carried her off a
fortnight at least before his cure was over. He knew
too well the signs of passion. That long, loping.

44 BEYOND

wolfish fiddling fellow with the broad cheek-bones and
little side-whiskers (Good God !) and greenish eyes
whose looks at Gyp he secretly marked down, roused
his complete distrust. Perhaps his inbred English
contempt for foreigners and artists kept him from
direct action. He could not take it quite seriously.
Gyp, his fastidious perfect Gyp, succumbing, even a
little to a fellow like that ! Never ! His jealous
affection, too, could not admit that she would neglect
to consult him in any doubt or difficulty. He forgot
the sensitive secrecy of girls, forgot that his love for
her had ever shunned words, her love for him never
indulged in confidences. Nor did he see more than a
little of what there was to see, and that little was
doctored by Fiorsen for his eyes, shrewd though they
were. Nor was there in all so very much, except one
episode the day before they left, and of that he knew
nothing.

That last afternoon was very still, a little mournful.
It had rained the night before, and the soaked tree-
trunks, the soaked fallen leaves gave off a faint
liquorice-like perfume. In Gyp there was a feeling,
as if her spirit had been suddenly emptied of excite-
ment and delight. Was it the day, or the thought
of leaving this place where she had so enjoyed herself ?
After lunch, when Winton was settling his accounts, she
wandered out through the long park stretching up the
valley. The sky was brooding-grey, the trees were still
and melancholy. It was all a little melancholy, and she
went on and on, across the stream, round into a muddy
lane that led up through the outskirts of a village, on
to the higher ground whence she could return by the
main road. Why must things come to an end ? For
the first time in her life, she thought of Mildenham

BEYOND 45

and hunting without enthusiasm. She would rather
stay in London. There she would not be cut off from
music, from dancing, from people, and all the exhilara-
tion of being appreciated. On the air came the
shrilly, hollow droning of a thresher, and the sound
seemed exactly to express her feelings. A pigeon flew
over, white against the leaden sky; some birch-trees
that had gone golden shivered and let fall a shower of
drops. It was lonely here ! And, suddenly, two little
boys bolted out of the hedge, nearly upsetting her,
and scurried down the road. Something had startled
them. Gyp, putting up her face to see, felt on it soft
pin-points of rain. Her frock would be spoiled, and
it was one she was fond of — dove-coloured, velvety,
not meant for weather. She turned for refuge to the
birch-trees. It would be over directly, perhaps.
Muffled in distance, the whining drone of that thresher
still came travelling, deepening her discomfort. Then
in the hedge, whence the boys had bolted down, a
man reared himself above the lane, and came striding
along toward her. He jumped down the bank, among
the birch-trees. And she saw it was Fiorsen — panting,
dishevelled, pale with heat. He must have followed
her, and climbed straight up the hillside from the
path she had come along in the bottom, before crossing
the stream. His artistic dandyism had been harshly
treated by that scramble. She might have laughed;
but, instead, she felt excited, a little scared by the look
on his hot, pale face. He said, breathlessly:

" I have caught you. So you are going to-morrow,
and never told me ! You thought you would slip
away — not a word for me ! Are you always so cruel ?
Well, I will not spare you, either !"

Crouching suddenly, he took hold of her broad

46 BEYOND

ribbon sash, and buried his face in it. Gyp stood
trembling — the action had not stirred her sense of
the ridiculous. He circled her knees with his arms.

"Oh, Gyp, I love you — I love you — don't send me
away — let me be with you ! I am your dog — your
slave. Oh, Gyp, I love you !"

His voice moved and terrified her. Men had said
" I love you," several times during those last two
years, but never with that lost-soul ring of passion,
never with that look in the eyes at once fiercely hungry
and so supplicating, never with that restless, eager,
timid touch of hands. She could only murmur :

" Please get up !"

But he went on:

" Love me a little, only a little — love me ! Oh,
Gyp !"

The thought flashed through Gyp : ' To how many
has he knelt, I wonder ? ' His face had a kind of
beauty in its abandonment — the beauty that comes
from yearning — and she lost her frightened feeling.
He went on, with his stammering murmur: " I am a
prodigal, I know; but if you love me, I will no longer
be. I will do great things for you. Oh, Gyp, if you
will some day marry me ! Not now. When I have
proved. Oh, Gyp, you are so sweet — so wonderful !"

His arms crept up till he had buried his face against
her waist. Without quite knowing what she did.
Gyp touched his hair, and said again:

" No; please get up."

He got up then, and standing near, with his hands
hard clenched at his sides, whispered:

" Have mercy ! Speak to me !"

She could not. All was strange and mazed and
quivering in her, her spirit straining away, drawn to

BEYOND 47

him, fantastically confused. She could only look into
his face with her troubled, dark eyes. And suddenly
she was seized and crushed to him. She shrank away,
pushing him back with all her strength. He hung his
head, abashed, suffering, with eyes shut, lips trembling ;
and her heart felt again that quiver of compassion.
She murmured:

" I don't know. I will tell you later — later — in
England."

He bowed, folding his arms, as if to make her feel
safe from him. And when, regardless of the rain,
she began to move on, he walked beside her, a yard or
so away, humbly, as though he had never poured out
those words or hurt her lips with the violence of his
kiss.

Back in her room, taking off her wet dress, Gyp tried
to remember what he had said and what she had
answered. She had not promised anything. But she
had given him her address, both in London and the
country. Unless she resolutely thought of other
things, she still felt the restless touch of his hands,
the grip of his arms, and saw his eyes as they were
when he was kissing her; and once more she felt
frightened and excited.

He was playing at the concert that evening — her
last concert. And surely he had never played like
that — with a despairing beauty, a sort of frenzied
rapture. Listening, there came to her a feeling — a
feeling of fatality — that, whether she would or no,
she could not free herself from him.

Once back in England, Gyp lost that feeling, or very
nearly. Her scepticism told her that Fiorsen would
soon see someone else who seemed all he had said she
was ! How ridiculous to suppose that he would stop
his follies for her, that she had any real power over
him ! But, deep down, she did not quite believe this.
It would have wounded her belief in herself too much —
a belief so subtle and intimate that she was not conscious
of it; belief in that something about her which had
inspired the baroness to use the word " fatality."

Winton, who breathed again, hurried her off to
Mildenham. He had bought her a new horse. They
were in time for the last of the cubbing. And, for a
week at least, the passion for riding and the sight
of hounds carried all before it. Then, just as the real
business of the season was beginning, she began to feel
dull and restless. Mildenham was dark; the autumn
winds made dreary noises. Her little brown spaniel,
very old, who seemed only to have held on to life
just for her return, died. She accused herself terribly
for having left it so long when it was failing. Think-
ing of all the days Lass had been watching for her to
come home — as Betty, with that love of woeful recital
so dear to simple hearts, took good care to make plain
— she felt as if she had been cruel. For events such
as these. Gyp was both too tender-hearted and too
hard on herself. She was quite ill for several days.
The moment she was better, Winton, in dismay,

^8

BEYOND 49

whisked her back to Aunt Rosamund, in town. He
would lose her company, but if it did her good, took
her out of herself, he would be content. Running up
for the week-end, three days later, he was relieved to
find her decidedly perked-up, and left her again with
the easier heart.

It was on the day after he went back to Mildenham
that she received a letter from Fiorsen, forwarded from
Bury Street. He was — it said — just returning to
London; he had not forgotten any look she had ever
given him, or any word she had spoken. He should
not rest till he could see her again. " For a long
time," the letter ended, " before I first saw you, I
was like the dead — lost. All was bitter apples to me.
Now I am a ship that comes from the whirlpools to
a warm blue sea; now I see again the evening star.
I kiss your hands, and am your faithful slave, — Gustav
Fiorsen." These words, which from any other man
would have excited her derision, renewed in Gyp that
fluttered feeling, the pleasurable, frightened sense
that she could not get away from his pursuit.

She wrote in answer to the address he gave her
in London, to say that she was staying for a few days
in Curzon Street with her aunt, who would be glad
to see him if he cared to come in any afternoon between
five and six, and signed herself " Ghita Winton."
She was long over that little note. Its curt formality
gave her satisfaction. Was she really mistress of
herself — and him ; able to dispose as she wished ?
Yes; and surely the note showed it.

It was never easy to tell Gyp's feelings from her
face ; even Winton was often baffled. Her preparation
of Aunt Rosamund for the reception of Fiorsen was
a masterpiece of casualness. When he duly came.

4

50 BEYOND

he, too, seemed doubly alive to the need for caution,
only gazing at Gyp when he could not be seen doing
so. But, going out, he whispered: " Not like this —
not like this; I must see you alone — I must !" She
smiled and shook her head. But bubbles had come
back to the wine in her cup.

That evening she said quietly to Aunt Rosamund:

" Dad doesn't like Mr, Fiorsen — can't appreciate
his playing, of course."

And this most discreet remark caused Aunt Rosa-
mund, avid— in a well-bred way — of music, to omit
mention of the intruder when writing to her brother.
The next two weeks he came almost every day, always
bringing his violin. Gyp playing his accompaniments,
and though his hungry stare sometimes made her feel
hot, she would have missed it.

But when Winton next came up to Bury Street, she
was in a quandary. To confess that Fiorsen was here,
having omitted to speak of him in her letters ? Not
to confess, and leave him to find it out from Aunt
Rosamund ? Which was worse ? Seized with panic,
she did neither, but told her father she was dying for
a gallop. Hailing that as the best of signs, he took
her forthwith back to Mildenham. And curious were
her feelings — light-hearted, compunctious, as of one
who escapes yet knows she will soon be seeking to
return. The meet was rather far next day, but she
insisted on riding to it, since old Pettance, the super-
annuated jockey, charitably employed as extra stable
help at Mildenham, was to bring on her second horse.
There was a good scenting- wind, with rain in the offing,
and outside the covert they had a corner to themselves
— Winton knowing a trick worth two of the field's
at-large. They had slipped there, luckily unseen.

BEYOND 51

for the knowing were given to following the one-handed
horseman in faded pink, who, on his bang-tailed
black mare, had a knack of getting so well away. One
of the whips, a little dark fellow with smouldery eyes
and sucked-in weathered cheeks, dashed out of covert,
rode past, saluting, and dashed in again. A jay came
out with a screech, dived, and doubled back; a hare
made off across the fallow— the light-brown lopping
creature was barely visible against the brownish soil.
Pigeons, very high up, flew over and away to the next
wood. The shrilling voices of the whips rose from the
covert-depths, and just a whimper now and then
from the hounds, swiftly wheeling their noses among
the fern and briers.

Gyp, crisping her fingers on the reins, drew-in deep
breaths. It smelled so sweet and soft and fresh under
that sky, pied of blue, and of white and light-grey
swift-moving clouds — not half the wind down here
that there was up there, just enough to be carrying
off the beech and oak leaves, loosened by frost two days
before. If only a fox would break this side, and they
could have the first fields to themselves ! It was so
lovely to be alone with hounds ! One of these came
trotting out, a pretty young creature, busy and un-
concerned, raising its tan-and-white head, its mild
reproachful deep-brown eyes, at Winton's, " Loo-in
Trix !" What a darling ! A burst of music from the
covert, and the darling vanished among the briers.

Gyp's new brown horse pricked its ears. A young
man in a grey cutaway, buff cords, and jack-boots,
on a low chestnut mare, came slipping round the covert.
Oh — did that mean they were all coming ? Im-
patiently she glanced at this intruder, who raised his
hat a little and smiled. That smile, faintly impudent,

52 BEYOND

was so infectious, that Gyp was melted to a slight
response. Then she frowned. He had spoiled their
lovely loneliness. Who was he ? He looked un-
pardonably serene and happy sitting there. She did
not remember his face at all, yet there was something
familiar about it. He had taken his hat off — a broad
face, very well cut, and clean-shaved, with dark curly
hair, extraordinary clear eyes, a bold, cool, merry
look. Where had she seen somebody like him ?

A tiny sound from Winton made her turn her head.
The fox — steaUng out beyond those further bushes !
Breathless, she fixed her eyes on her father's face. It
was hard as steel, watching. Not a sound, not a
quiver, as if horse and man had turned to metal.
Was he never going to give the view-halloo ? Then
his lips writhed, and out it came. Gyp cast a swift
smile of gratitude at the young man for having had
taste and sense to leave that to her father, and again
he smiled at her. There were the first hounds stream-
ing out — one on the other — music and feather ! Why
didn't Dad go ? They would all be round this way
in a minute !

Then the black mare slid past her, and, with a
bound, her horse followed. The young man on the
chestnut was away on the left. Only the huntsman
and one whip — beside their three selves ! Glorious !
The brown horse went too fast at that first fence and
Winton called back: " Stead}^ Gyp! Steady him!"
But she couldn't; and it didn't matter. Grass, three
fields of grass ! Oh, what a lovely fox — going so
straight ! And each time the brown horse rose, she
thought: ' Perfect ! I can ride ! Oh, I am happy !'
And she hoped her father and the young man were
looking. There was no feeling in the world like this.

BEYOND 53

with a leader like Dad, hounds moving free, good going,
and the field distanced. Better than dancing; better
— yes, better than listening to music. If one could
spend one's life galloping, sailing over fences; if it
would never stop ! The new horse was a darling,
though he did pull.

She crossed the next fence level with the young
man, whose low chestnut mare moved with a stealthy
action. His hat was crammed down now, and his
face very determined, but his lips still had something
of that smile. Gyp thought: ' He's got a good seat —
very strong, only he looks like " thrusting." Nobody
rides like Dad — so beautifully quiet !' Indeed,
Winton's seat on a horse was perfection, all done
with such a minimum expenditure. The hounds
swung round in a curve. Now she was with them,
reaUy with them ! What a pace — cracking ! No
fox could stand this long !

And suddenly she caught sight of him, barely a field
ahead, scurrying desperately, brush down; and the
thought flashed through her: ' Oh ! don't let's catch
you. Go on, fox; go on ! Get away !' Were they
really all after that little hunted red thing — a hundred
great creatures, horses and men and women and dogs,
and only that one little fox ! But then came another
fence, and quickly another, and she lost feelings of
shame and pity in the exultation of flying over them.
A minute later the fox went to earth within a few
hundred yards of the leading hound, and she was
glad. She had been in at deaths before — horrid ! But
it had been a lovely gallop. And, breathless, smiling
rapturously, she wondered whether she could mop
her face before the field came up, without that young
man noticing.

54 BEYOND

She could see him talking to her father, and taking
out a wisp of a handkerchief that smelled of cyclamen,
she had a good scrub round. When she rode up, the
young man raised his hat, and looking full at her said :
" You did go !" His voice, rather high-pitched, had
in it a spice of pleasant laziness. Gyp made him an
ironical little bow, and murmured: "My new horse,
you mean." He broke again into that irrepressible
smile, but, all the same, she knew that he admired her.
And she kept thinking: ' Where have I seen someone
like him ? '

They had two more runs, but nothing like that first
gallop. Nor did she again see the young man, whose
name — it seemed — was Summerhay, son of a certain
Lady Summerhay at Widrington, ten miles from
Mildenham.

All that long, silent jog home with Winton in fading
daylight, she felt very happy — saturated with air and
elation. The trees and fields, the hay-stacks, gates,
and ponds beside the lanes grew dim; lights came up
in the cottage windows; the air smelled sweet of
wood smoke. And, for the first time all day, she
thought of Fiorsen, thought of him almost longingly.
n he could be there in the cosy old drawing-room, to
play to her while she lay back — drowsing, dreaming
by the fire in the scent of burning cedar logs — the
Mozart minuet, or that little heart-catching tune of
Poise, played the first time she heard him, or a dozen
other of the things he played unaccompanied ! That
would be the most lovely ending to this lovely day.
Just the glow and warmth wanting, to make all
perfect — the glow and warmth of music and adoration !
And touching the mare with her heel, she sighed.
To indulge fancies about music and Fiorsen was safe

BEYOND 55

here, far away from him; she even thought she would
not mind if he were to behave again as he had under
the birch-trees in the rain at Wiesbaden. It was so
good to be adored. Her old mare, ridden now six
years, began the series of contented snuffles that
signified she smelt home. Here was the last turn,
and the loom of the short beech-tree avenue to the
house — the old mancrr-house, comfortable, roomy,
rather dark, with wide shallow stairs. Ah, she was
tired; and it was drizzling now. She would be nicely
stiff to-morrow. In the light coming from the open
door she saw Markey standing; and while fishing from
her pocket the usual lumps of sugar, heard him say :
"Mr. Fiorsen, sir — gentleman from Wiesbaden — to
see you."

Her heart thumped. What did this mean ? Why
had he come ? How had he dared ? How could he
have been so treacherous to her ? Ah, but he was
ignorant, of course, that she had not told her father.
A veritable judgment on her ! She ran straight in
and up the stairs. The voice of Betty: " Your bath's
ready, Miss Gyp," roused her. And crying, " Oh,
Betty darling, bring me up my tea !" she ran into the
bathroom. She was safe there; and in the delicious
heat of the bath faced the situation better.

There could be only one meaning. He had come to
ask for her. And, suddenly, she took comfort. Better
so ; there would be no more secrecy from Dad ! And he
would stand between her and Fiorsen if — if she decided
not to marry him. The thought staggered her. Had
she, without knowing it, got so far as this ? Yes,
and further. It was all no good; Fiorsen would never
accept refusal, even if she gave it ! But, did she want
to refuse ?

56 BEYOND

She loved hot baths, but had never stayed in one
so long. Life was so easy there, and so difficult out-
side. Betty's knock forced her to get out at last,
and let her in with tea and the message. Would Miss
Gyp please to go down when she was ready ?

VI

WiNTON was staggered. With a glance at Gyp's
vanishing figure, he said curtly to Markey, " Where
have you put this gentleman ?" But the use of the
word " this " was the only trace he showed of his
emotions. In that little journey across the hall he
entertained many extravagant thoughts. Arrived at
the study, he inclined his head courteously enough,
waiting for Fiorsen to speak. The " fiddler," still
in his fur-lined coat, was twisting a squash hat in his
hands. In his own peculiar style he was impressive.
But why couldn't he look you in the face ; or, if he did,
why did he seem about to eat you ?

" You knew I was returned to London, Major
Winton ?"

Then Gyp had been seeing the fellow without letting
him know ! The thought was chill and bitter to
Winton. He must not give her away, however, and
he simply bowed. He felt that his visitor was afraid
of his frigid courtesy ; and he did not mean to help him
over that fear. He could not, of course, realize that
this ascendancy would not prevent Fiorsen from laugh-
ing at him behind his back and acting as if he did not
exist. No real contest, in fact, was possible between
men moving on such different planes, neither having
the slightest respect for the other's standards or
beliefs.

Fiorsen, who had begun to pace the room, stopped,
and said with agitation:

57

58 BEYOND

" Major Winton, your daughter is the most beautiful
thing on earth. I love her desperately. I am a man
with a future, though you may not think it. I have
what future I like in my art if only I can marry her.
I have a little money, too — not much ; but in my violin
there is all the fortune she can want."

Winton's face expressed nothing but cold contempt.
That this fellow should take him for one who would
consider money in connection with his daughter
simply affronted him.

Fiorsen went on:

" You do not like me — that is clear. I saw it the
first moment. You are an English gentleman " — he
pronounced the words with a sort of irony — " I am
nothing to you. Yet, in my world, I am something.
I am not an adventurer. Will you permit me to beg
your daughter to be my wife ?" He raised his hands
that still held the hat; involuntaril}-" they had assumed
the attitude of prayer.

For a second, Winton realized that he was suffering.
That weakness went in a flash, and he said frigidly :

" I am obliged to you, sir, for coming to me first.
You are in my house, and I don't want to be dis-
courteous, but I should be glad if 3^ou would be good
enough to withdraw and take it that I shall certainly
oppose your wish as best I can."

The almost childish disappointment and trouble in
Fiorsen's face changed quickly to an expression fierce,
furtive, mocking; and then shifted to despair.

" Major Winton, you have loved; you must have
loved her mother. I suffer !"

Winton, who had turned abruptly to the fire, faced
round again.

" I don't control my daughter's affections, sir; she

BEYOND 59

will do as she wishes. I merely say it will be against
my hopes and judgment if she marries you. I imagine
you've not altogether waited for my leave. I was not
blind to the way you hung about her at Wiesbaden,
Mr. Fiorsen."

Fiorsen answered with a twisted, miserable smile :
" Poor wretches do what they can. May I see her ?
Let me just see her."

Was it any good to refuse ? She had been seeing
the fellow already without his knowledge, keeping
from him — him — -all her feelings, whatever they were.
And he said:

" I'll send for her. In the meantime, perhaps you'll
have some refreshment ?"

Fiorsen shook his head, and there followed half an
hour of acute discomfort. Winton, in his mud-
stained clothes before the fire, supported it better than
his visitor. That child of nature, after endeavouring
to emulate his host's quietude, renounced all such
efforts with an expressive gesture, fidgeted here,
fidgeted there, tramped the room, went to the window,
drew aside the curtains and stared out into the dark;
came back as if resolved again to confront Winton;
then, baffled by that figure so motionless before the
fire, flung himself down in an armchair, and turned
his face to the wall. Winton was not cruel by nature,
but he enjoyed the writhings of this fellow who was
endangering Gyp's happiness. Endangering ? Surely
not possible that she would accept him ! Yet, if
not, why had she not told him ? And he, too,
suffered.

Then she came. He had expected her to be pale
and nervous; but Gyp never admitted being naughty
till she had been forgiven. Her smiling face had in

6o BEYOND

it a kind of warning closeness. She went up to Fiorsen,
and holding out her hand, said calmly :

" How nice of you to come !"

Winton had the bitter feeling that he — he — was the
outsider. Well, he would speak plainly; there had
been too much underhand doing.

" Mr. Fiorsen has done us the honour to wish to
marry you. Fve told him that you decide such things
for yourself. If you accept him, it will be against my
wish, naturally."

While he was speaking, the glow in her cheeks
deepened; she looked neither at him nor at Fiorsen.
Winton noted the rise and fall of the lace on her
breast. She was smiling, and gave the tiniest shrug
of her shoulders. And, suddenly smitten to the heart,
he walked stiffly to the door. It was evident that she
had no use for his guidance. If Ker love for him was
not worth to her more than this fellow ! But there his
resentment stopped. He knew that he could not
afford wounded feelings; could not get on without
her. Married to the greatest rascal on earth, he would
still be standing by her, wanting her companionship
and love. She represented too much in the present
and — the past. With sore heart, indeed, he went down
to dinner.

Fiorsen was gone when he came down again. What
the fellow had said, or she had answered, he would
not for the world have asked. Gulfs between the
proud are not lightly bridged. And when she came
up to say good-night, both their faces were as though
coated with wax.

In the days that followed, she gave no sign, uttered
no word in any way suggesting that she meant to go
against his wishes. Fiorsen might not have existed,

BEYOND 6i

for any mention made of him. But Winton knew well
that she was moping, and cherishing some feeling
against himself. And this he could not bear. So,
one evening, after dinner, he said quietly:

" Tell me frankly. Gyp; do you care for that chap ?"

She answered as quietly:

" In a way — yes."

" Is that enough ?"

" I don't know, Dad."

Her lips had quivered; and Winton 's heart softened,
as it always did when he saw her moved. He put
his hand out, covered one of hers, and said:

" I shall never stand in the way of your happiness,
Gyp. But it must be happiness. Can it possibly be
that ? I don't think so. You know what they said
of him out there ?"

" Yes."

He had not thought she knew. And his heart sank.

" That's pretty bad, you know. And is he of our
world at all ?"

Gyp looked up.

" Do you think / belong to ' our world,' Dad ?"

Winton turned away. She followed, slipping her
hand under his arm.

" I didn't mean to hurt. But it's true, isn't it ?
I don't belong among society people. They wouldn't
have me, you know — if they knew about what you told
me. Ever since that I've felt I don't belong to them.
I'm nearer him. Music means more to me than
anything !"

Winton gave her hand a convulsive grip. A sense
of coming defeat and bereavement was on him.

" If your happiness went wrong. Gyp, I should be
most awfully cut up."

62 BEYOND

" But why shouldn't I be happy, Dad ?"

" If you were, I could put up with anyone. But,
I tell you, I can't believe you would be. I beg you,
my dear — for God's sake, make sure. I'll put a buUet
into the man who treats you badly."

Gyp laughed, then kissed him. But they were
silent. At bedtime he said:

" We'll go up to town to-morrow."

Whether from a feeling of the inevitable, or from
the forlorn hope that seeing more of the fellow might
be the only chance of curing her — he put no more
obstacles in the way.

And the queer courtship began again. By Christmas
she had consented, still under the impression that she
was the mistress, not the slave — the cat, not the bird.
Once or twice, when Fiorsen let passion out of hand
and his overbold caresses affronted her, she recoiled
almost with dread from what she was going toward.
But, in general, she lived elated, intoxicated by music
and his adoration, withal remorseful that she was
making her father sad. She was but little at Milden-
ham, and he, in his unhappiness, was there nearly all the
time, riding extra hard, and leaving Gyp with his sister.
Aunt Rosamund, though under the spell of Fiorsen 's
music, had agreed with her brother that Fiorsen was
" impossible." But nothing she said made any effect
on Gyp. It was new and startling to discover in this
soft, sensitive girl such a vein of stubbornness. Op-
position seemed to harden her resolution. And the
good lady's natural optimism began to persuade her
that Gyp would make a silk purse out of that sow's
ear yet. After all, the man was a celebrity in his way !
It was settled for February. A house with a garden
was taken in St. John's Wood. The last month went, as

BEYOND 63

all such last months go, in those intoxicating pastimes,
the buying of furniture and clothes. If it were not
for that, who knows how many engagement knots
would slip !

And to-day they had been married. To the last,
Winton had hardly believed it would come to that.
He had shaken the hand of her husband and kept
pain and disappointment out of his face, knowing well
that he deceived no one. Thank heaven, there had
been no church, no wedding-cake, invitations, con-
gratulations, fal-lals of any kind — he could never have
stood them. Not even Rosamund— who had influenza
— to put up with !

Lying back in the recesses of that old chair, he
stared into the fire.

They would be just about at Torquay by now — just
about. Music ! Who would have thought noises
made out of string and wood could have stolen her
away from him ? Yes, they would be at Torquay
by now, at their hotel. And the first prayer Winton
had uttered for years escaped his lips:

" Let her be happy ! Let her be happy !"

Then, hearing Markey open the door, he closed his
eyes and feigned sleep.

PART II

When a girl first sits opposite the man she has married,
of what does she think ? Not of the issues and
emotions that he in wait. They are too overwhelming;
she would avoid them while she can. Gyp thought
of her frock, a mushroom-coloured velvet cord. Few
girls of her class are married without " fal-lals,"
as Winton had called them. Few girls sit in
the corner of their reserved first-class compartments
without the excitement of having been supreme
centre of the world for some flattering hours to buoy
them up on that train journey, with no memories of
friends' behaviour, speech, appearance, to chat of
with her husband, so as to keep thought away. For
Gyp, her dress, first worn that day, Betty's breakdown,
the faces, blank as hats, of the registrar and clerk,
were about all she had to distract her. She stole a
look at her husband, clothed in blue serge, just opposite.
Her husband ! Mrs. Gustav Fiorsen ! No ! People
might call her that ; to herself, she was Ghita Winton.
Ghita Fiorsen would never seem right. And, not
confessing that she was afraid to meet his eyes, but
afraid all the same, she looked out of the window.
A dull, bleak, dismal day; no warmth, no sun, no music
in it — the Thames as grey as lead, the willows on its
banks forlorn.

&5 5

66 BEYOND

Suddenly she felt his hand on hers. She had not
seen his face like that before — yes; once or twice when
he was playing — a spirit shining through. She felt
suddenly secure. If it stayed like that, then ! — His
hand rested on her knee; his face changed just a little;
the spirit seemed to waver, to be fading; his lips grew
fuller. He crossed over and sat beside her. Instantly
she began to talk about their house, where they were
going to put certain things — presents and all that.
He, too, talked of the house; but every now and then
he glanced at the corridor, and muttered. It was
pleasant to feel that the thought of her possessed him
through and through, but she was tremulously glad
of that corridor. Life is mercifully made up of little
things ! And Gyp was always able to live in the
moment. In the hours they had spent together, up
to now, he had been like a starved man snatching
hasty meals; now that he had her to himself for good,
he was another creature altogether — like a boy out
of school, and kept her laughing nearly all the time.

Presently he got down his practice violin, and putting
on the mute, played, looking at her over his shoulder
with a droll smile. She felt happy, much warmer at
heart, now. And when his face was turned away,
she looked at him. He was so much better looking
now than when he had those little whiskers. One
day she had touched one of them and said: "Ah!
if only these wings could fly !" Next morning they
had flown. His face was not one to be easily got used
to; she was not used to it yet, any more than she was
used to his touch. When it grew dark, and he wanted
to draw down the blinds, she caught him by the sleeve,
and said:

" No, no; they'll know we're honeymooners !"

BEYOND 67

" Well, my Gyp, and are we not ?"

But he obeyed; only, as the hours went on, his
eyes seemed never to let her alone.

At Torquay, the sky was clear and starry; the wind
brought whiffs of sea-scent into their cab; lights
winked far out on a headland ; and in the little harbour,
all bluish dark, many little boats floated like tame
birds. He had put his arm round her, and she could
feel his hand resting on her heart. She was grateful
that he kept so still. When the cab stopped and they
entered the hall of the hotel, she whispered :

" Don't let's let them see !"

Still, mercifully, little things ! Inspecting the three
rooms, getting the luggage divided between dressing-
room and bedroom, unpacking, wondering which dress
to put on for dinner, stopping to look out over the dark
rocks and the sea, where the moon was coming up,
wondering if she dared lock the door while she was
dressing, deciding' that it would be silly; dressing so
quickly, fluttering when she found him suddenly there
close behind her, beginning to do up her hooks. Those
fingers were too skilful ! It was the first time she had
thought of his past with a sort of hurt pride and
fastidiousness. When he had finished, he twisted her
round, held her away, looked at her from head to foot,
and said below his breath:

" Mine !"

Her heart beat fast then; but suddenly he laughed,
slipped his arm about her, and danced her twice round
the room. He let her go demurely down the stairs
in front of him, saying:

" They shan't see — my Gyp. Oh, they shan't see !
We are old married people, tired of each other —
very !"

68 BEYOND

At dinner it amused him at first — her too, a little —
to keep up this farce of indifference. But every now
and then he turned and stared at some inoffensive
visitor who was taking interest in them, with such
fierce and genuine contempt that Gyp took alarm;
whereon he laughed. When she had drunk a little
wine and he had drunk a good deal, the farce of in-
difference came to its end. He talked at a great rate
now, slyly nicknaming the waiters and mimicking
the people around — happy thrusts that made her
smile but shiver a little, lest they should be heard or
seen. Their heads were close together across the little
table. They went out into the lounge. Coffee came,
and he wanted her to smoke with him. She had never
smoked in a public room. But it seemed stiff and
" missish " to refuse — she must do now as his world
did. And it was another little thing; she wanted
little things, all the time wanted them. She drew back
a window-curtain, and they stood there side by side.
The sea was deep blue beneath bright stars, and the
moon shone through a ragged pine-tree on a little
headland. Though she stood five feet six in her
shoes, she was only up to his mouth. He sighed and
said: "Beautiful night, my Gyp!" And suddenly
it struck her that she knew nothing of what was in
him, and yet he was her husband ! " Husband " —
funny word, not pretty ! She felt as a child opening
the door of a dark room, and, clutching his arm, said:

" Look ! There's a sailing-boat. What's it doing
out there at night ?" Another littte thing ! Any
little thing !

Presently he said:

" Come up-stairs ! I'll play to you."

Up in their sitting-room was a piano, but — not
possible; to-morrow they would have to get another.

BEYOND 69

To-morrow ! The fire was hot, and he took off his
coat to play. In one of his shirt-sleeves there was a
rent. She thought, with a sort of triumph: * I shall
mend that !' It was something definite, actual — a
little thing. There were lilies in the room that gave
a strong, sweet scent. He brought them up to her
to sniff, and, while she was sniffing, stooped suddenly
and kissed her neck. She shut her eyes with a shiver.
He took the flowers away at once, and when she opened
her eyes again, his violin was at his shoulder. For
a whole hour he played, and Gyp, in her cream-coloured
frock, lay back, listening. She was tired, not sleepy.
It would have been nice to have been sleepy. Her
mouth had its little sad tuck or dimple at the corner;
her eyes were deep and dark — a cloudy child. His
gaze never left her face ; he played and played, and his
own fitful face grew clouded. At last he put away the
violin, and said:

" Go to bed. Gyp; you're tired."

Obediently she got up and went into the bedroom.
With a sick feeling in her heart, and as near the fire
as she could get, she undressed with desperate haste,
and got to bed. An age — it seemed — she lay there
shivering in her flimsy lawn against the cold sheets,
her eyes not quite closed, watching the flicker of the
firelight. She did not think — could not — just lay
stiller than the dead. The door creaked. She shut
her eyes. Had she a heart at all ? It did not seem
to beat. She lay thus, with eyes shut, till she could
bear it no longer. By the firelight she saw him crouch-
ing at the foot of the bed; could just see his face — like
a face — a face — where seen ? Ah yes ! — a picture —
of a wild man crouching at the feet of Iphigenia — so
humble, so hungry — so lost in gazing. She gave a
little smothered sob and held out her hand.

II

Gyp was too proud to give by halves. And in those
early days she gave Fiorsen everything except — her
heart. She earnestly desired to give that too; but
hearts only give themselves. Perhaps if the wild man
in him, maddened by beauty in its power, had not so
ousted the spirit man, her heart might have gone with
her lips and the rest of her. He knew he was not
getting her heart, and it made him, in the wildness of
his nature and the perversity of a man, go just the
wrong way to work, trying to conquer her by the
senses, not the soul.

Yet she was not unhappy — it cannot be said she was
unhappy, except for a sort of lost feeling sometimes,
as if she were trying to grasp something that kept
slipping, slipping away. She was glad to give him
pleasure. She felt no repulsion — this was man's
nature. Only there was always that feeling that she
was not close. When he was playing to her, with the
spirit-look on his face, she would feel: ' Now, surely
I shall get close to him!' But the look would go;
how to keep it there she did not know, and when it
went, her hope went too.

Their little suite of rooms was at the very end of
the hotel, so that he might play as much as he wished.
While he practised in the mornings she would go into
the garden, which sloped in rock-terraces down to
the sea. Wrapped in fur, she would sit there with a
book. She soon knew each evergreen, or flower that

70

BEYOND 71

was coming out — aubretia, and laurustinus, a little
white flower whoge name was uncertain, and one star-
periwinkle. The air was often soft; the birds sang
already and were busy with their weddings, and twice,
at least, spring came in her heart — that wonderful
feeling when first the whole being scents new life
preparing in the earth and the wind — the feeling that
only comes when spring is not yet, and one aches and
rejoices all at once. Seagulls often came over her,
craning down their greedy bills and uttering cries like
a kitten's mewing.

Out here she had feelings, that she did not get with
him, of being at one with everything. She did not
realize how tremendously she had grown up in these
few days, how the ground bass had already come into
the light music of her life. Living with Fiorsen was
opening her eyes to much beside mere knowledge of
" man's nature "; with her perhaps fatal receptivity,
she was already soaking up the atmosphere of his
philosophy. He was always in revolt against accepting
things because he was expected to; but, like most
executant artists, he was no reasoner, just a mere
instinctive kicker against the pricks. He would lose
himself in delight with a sunset, a scent, a tune, a
new caress, in a rush of pity for a beggar or a blind
man, a rush of aversion from a man with large feet or
a long nose, of hatred for a woman with a flat chest or
an expression of sanctimony. He would swing along
when he was walking, or dawdle, dawdle; he would
sing and laugh, and make her laugh too till she ached,
and half an hour later would sit staring into some pit
of darkness in a sort of powerful brooding of his whole
being. Insensibly she shared in this deep drinking
of sensation, but always gracefully, fastidiously, never
losing sense of other people's feelings.

72 BEYOND

In his love-raptures, he just avoided setting her
nerves on edge, because he never failed to make her
feel his enjoyment of her beauty; that perpetual
consciousness, too, of not belonging to the proper and
respectable, which she had tried to explain to her
father, made her set her teeth against feeling shocked.
But in other ways he did shock her. She could not get
used to his utter oblivion of people's feelings, to the
ferocious contempt with which he would look at those
who got on his nerves, and make half-audible com-
ments, just as he had commented on her own father
when he and Count Rosek passed them, by the Schiller
statue. She would visibly shrink at those remarks,
though they were sometimes so excruciatingly funny
that she had to laugh, and feel dreadful immediately
after. She saw that he resented her shrinking; it
seemed to excite him to run amuck the more. But
she could not help it. Once she got up and walked
away. He followed her, sat on the floor beside her
knees, and thrust his head, like a great cat, under
her hand.

" Forgive me, my Gyp; but they are such brutes.
Who could help it ? Now tell me — who could, except
my Gyp?" And she had to forgive him. But, one
evening, when he had been really outrageous during
dinner, she answered:

" No; I can't. It's you that are the brute. You
were a brute to them !"

He leaped up with a face of furious gloom and went
out of the room. It was the first time he had given
way to anger with her. Gyp sat by the fire, very
disturbed; chiefly because she was not really upset at
having hurt him. Surely she ought to be feeling
miserable at that !

BEYOND 73

But when, at ten o'clock, he had not come back,
she began to flutter in earnest. She had said a dreadful
thing ! And yet, in her heart, she did not take back
her judgment. He really had been a brute. She
would have liked to soothe herself by playing, but it
was too late to disturb people, and going to the window,
she looked out over the sea, feeling beaten and con-
fused. This was the first time she had given free
rein to her feeling against what Winton would have
called his " bounderism." If he had been English,
she would never have been attracted by one who
could trample so on other people's feelings. What,
then, had attracted her ? His strangeness, wildness,
the mesmeric pull of his passion for her, his music !
Nothing could spoil that in him. The sweep, the
surge, and sigh in his playing was like the sea out there,
dark, and surf-edged, beating on the rocks; or the sea
deep-coloured in daylight, with white gulls over it; or
the sea with those sinuous paths made by the wandering
currents, the subtle, smiling, silent sea, holding in
suspense its unfathomable restlessness, waiting to
surge and spring again. That was what she wanted
from him — not his embraces, not even his adoration,
his wit, or his queer, lithe comeliness touched with
felinity ; no, only that in his soul which escaped through
his fingers into the air and dragged at her soul. If,
when he came in, she were to run to him, throw her
arms round his neck, make herself feel close, lose
herself in him ! Why not ? It was her duty; why
not her delight, too ? But she shivered. Some
instinct too deep for anal3^sis, something in the very
heart of her nerves made her recoil, as if she were
afraid, literally scared of letting herself sink into love —
the subtlest instinct of self-preservation against some-

74 BEYOND

thing fatal; against being led on beyond — yes, it was
like that curious, instinctive shrinking which some feel
at the mere sight of a precipice, a dread of going
near, lest they should be drawn on and over by
resistless attraction.

She passed into their bedroom and began slowly to
undress. To go to bed without knowing where he was,
what doing, thinking, seemed already a little odd; and
she sat brushing her hair slowly with the silver-backed
brushes, staring at her own pale face, whose eyes
looked so very large and dark. At last there came to
her the feeling : ' I can't help it ! I don't care ! '
And, getting into bed, she turned out the light. It
seemed queer and lonely; there was no fire. And then,
without more ado, she slept.

She had a dream of being between Fiorsen and her
father in a railway-carriage out at sea, with the water
rising higher and higher, swishing and sighing.
Awakening always, like a dog, to perfect presence of
mind, she knew that he was playing in the sitting-room,
playing — at that time of night ? She lay listening
to a quivering, gibbering tune that she did not know.
Should she be first to make it up, or should she wait
for him ? Twice she half slipped out of bed, but both
times, as if fate meant her not to move, he chose that
moment to swell out the sound, and each time she
thought: 'No, I can't. It's just the same now; he
doesn't care how many people he wakes up. He does
just what he likes, and cares nothing for anyone.'
And covering her ears with her hands, she continued
to lie motionless.

When she withdrew her hands at last, he had stopped.
Then she heard him coming, and feigned sleep. But
he did not spare even sleep. She submitted to his

BEYOND 75

kisses without a word, her heart hardening within
her — surely he smelled of brandy ! Next morning
he seemed to have forgotten it all. But Gyp had not.
She wanted badly to know what he had felt, where he
had gone, but was too proud to ask.

She wrote twice to her father in the first week, but
afterwards, except for a postcard now and then, she
never could. Why tell him what she was doing, in
company of one whom he could not bear to think of ?
Had he been right ? To confess that would hurt her
pride too much. But she began to long for London.
The thought of her little house was a green spot to
dwell on. When they were settled in, and could do
what they liked without anxiety about people's feelings,
it would be all right perhaps. When he could start
again really working, and she helping him, all would
be different. Her new house, and so much to do; her
new garden, and fruit-trees coming into blossom !
She would have dogs and cats, would ride when Dad
was in town. Aunt Rosamund would come, friends,
evenings of music, dances still, perhaps — he danced
beautifully, and loved it, as she did. And his concerts
— the elation of being identified with his success !
But, above all, the excitement of making her home as
dainty as she could, with daring experiments in form
and colour. And yet, at heart she knew that to be
already looking forward, banning the present, was a
bad sign.

One thing, at all events, she enjoyed — sailing.
They had blue days when even the March sun was
warm, and there was just breeze enough. He got on
excellently with the old salt whose boat they used,
for he was at his best with simple folk, whose lingo
he could understand about as much as they could
understand his.

76 BEYOND

In those hours, Gyp had some real sensations of
romance. The sea was so blue, the rocks and wooded
spurs of that Southern coast so dreamy in the bright
land-haze. Oblivious of " the old salt," he would
put his arm round her; out there, she could swallow
down her sense of form, and be grateful for feeling
nearer to him in spirit. She made loyal efforts to
understand him in these weeks that were bringing a
certain disillusionment. The elemental part of mar-
riage was not the trouble; if she did not herself feel
passion, she did not resent his. When, after one of
those embraces, his mouth curled with a little bitter
smile, as if to say, " Yes, much you care for me,"
she would feel compunctious and yet aggrieved. But
the trouble lay deeper — the sense of an insuperable
barrier; and always that deep, instinctive recoil from
letting herself go. She could not let herself be known,
and she could not know him. Why did his eyes often
fix her with a stare that did not seem to see her ?
What made him, in the midst of serious playing, break
into some furious or desolate little tune, or drop his
violin ? What gave him those long hours of dejec-
tion, following the maddest gaiety ? Above all, what
dreams had he in those rare moments when music
transformed his strange pale face ? Or was it a mere
physical illusion — had he any dreams ? " The heart
of another is a dark forest " — to all but the one who
loves.

One morning, he held up a letter.

" Ah ! ha ! Paul Rosek went to see our house. ' A
pretty dove's nest !' he calls it."

The memor}^ of the Pole's sphinxlike, sweetish face,
and eyes that seemed to know so many secrets, always
affected Gyp unpleasantly. She said quietly:

BEYOND 77

" Why do you like him, Gustav ?"

" Like him ? Oh, he is useful. A good judge of
music, and — many things."

" I think he is hateful."

Fiorsen laughed.

" Hateful ? Why hateful, my Gyp ? He is a good
friend. And he admires you — oh, he admires you very
much ! He has success with women. He always
says, ' J'ai une technique merveilleuse pour seduire une
femme.' "

Gyp laughed.

" Ugh ! He's Hke a toad, I think."

" Ah, I shall tell him that ! He will be flattered."

" If you do; if you give me away — I "

He jumped up and caught her in his arms; his face
was so comically compunctious that she calmed down
at once. She thought over her words afterwards and
regretted them. All the same, Rosek was a sneak
and a cold sensualist, she was sure. And the thought
that he had been spying at their little house tarnished
her anticipations of home-coming.

They went to Town three days later. While the
taxi was skirting Lord's Cricket-ground, Gyp slipped
her hand into Fiorsen's. She was brimful of excite-
ment. The trees were budding in the gardens that
they passed; the almond-blossom coming — yes, really
comingf ! They were in the road now. Five, seven,
nine — thirteen ! Two more ! There it was, nineteen,
in white figures on the leaf-green railings, under the
small green lilac buds; yes, and their almond-blossom
was out, too ! She could just catch a glimpse over
those tall railings of the low white house with its
green outside shutters. She jumped out almost into
the arms of Betty, who stood smiling all over her

78 BEYOND

broad, flushed face, while from under each arm peered
forth the head of a black devil, with pricked ears and
eyes as bright as diamonds.
" Betty ! What darlings !"
" Major Winton's present, my dear — ma'am !"
Giving the stout shoulders a hug, Gyp seized the
black devils, and ran up the path under the trellis,
while the Scotch-terrier pups, squeezed against her
breast, made confused small noises and licked her nose
and ears. Through the square hall she ran into the
drawing-room, which opened out on to the lawn; and
there, in the French window, stood spying back at the
spick-and-span room, where everything was, of course,
placed just wrong. The colouring, white, ebony, and
satinwood, looked nicer even than she had hoped.
Out in the garden — her own garden — the pear trees
were thickening, but not in blossom yet ; a few daffodils
were in bloom along the walls, and a magnolia had
one bud opened. And all the time she kept squeezing
the puppies to her, enjoying their young, warm, fluffy
savour, and letting them kiss her. She ran out of the
drawing-room, up the stairs. Her bedroom, the
dressing-room, the spare room, the bathroom — she
dashed into them all. Oh, it was nice to be in your

own place, to be Suddenly she felt herself lifted

off the ground from behind, and in that undignified
position, her eyes flying, she turned her face till he could
reach her lips.

Ill

To wake, and hear the birds at early practice, and
feel that winter is over — is there any pleasanter
moment ?

That first morning in her new house, Gyp woke with
the sparrow, or whatever the bird which utters the
first cheeps and twitters, soon eclipsed by so much
that is more important in bird-song. It seemed as if
all the feathered creatures in London must be assembled
in her garden ; and the old verse came into her head :

" All dear Nature's children sweet
Lie at bride and bridegroom's feet,
Blessing their sense.
Not a creature of the air,
Bird melodious or bird fair
Be absent hence !"

She turned and looked at her husband. He lay
with his head snoozled down into the pillow, so that
she could only see his thick, rumpled hair. And a
shiver went through her, exactly as if a strange man
were lying there. Did he really belong to her, and
she to him — for good ? And was this their house —
together ? It all seemed somehow different, more
serious and troubling, in this strange bed, of this
strange room, that was to be so permanent. Careful
not to wake him, she slipped out and stood between
the curtains and the window. Light was all in con-
fusion yet; away low down behind the trees, the rose
of dawn still clung. One might almost have been in
the country, but for the faint, rumorous noises of the

79

8o BEYOND

town beginning to wake, and that film of ground-mist
which veils the feet of London mornings. She thought :
" I am mistress in this house, have to direct it all —
see to everything ! And my pups ! Oh, what do
they eat ?"

That was the first of many hours of anxiety, for she
was very conscientious. Her fastidiousness desired
perfection, but her sensitiveness refused to demand
it of others — especially servants. Why should she
harry them ?

Fiorsen had not the faintest notion of regularity.
She found that he could not even begin to appreciate
her struggles in housekeeping. And she was much
too proud to ask his help, or perhaps too wise, since
he was obviously unfit to give it. To live like the
birds of the air was his motto. Gyp would have liked
nothing better; but, for that, one must not have a
house with three servants, several meals, two puppy-
dogs, and no great experience of how to deal with any
of them.

She spoke of her difficulties to no one and suffered
the more. With Betty — who, bone-conservative, ad-
mitted Fiorsen as hardly as she had once admitted
Winton — she had to be very careful. But her great
trouble was with her father. Though she longed to
see him, she literally dreaded their meeting. He first
came — as he had been wont to come when she was a
tiny girl — at the hour when he thought the fellow to
whom she now belonged would most likely be out.
Her heart beat, when she saw him under the trellis.
She opened the door herself, and hung about him so
that his shrewd eyes should not see her face. And
she began at once to talk of the puppies, whom she
had named Don and Doff. They were perfect darlings;

BEYOND 8i

nothing was safe from them; her sHppers were com-
pletely done for; they had already got into her china-
cabinet and gone to sleep there ! He must come and
see all over.

Hooking her arm into his, and talking all the time,
she took him up-stairs and down, and out into the
garden, to the studio, or music-room, at the end,
which had an entrance to itself on to a back lane.
This room had been the great attraction. Fiorsen
could practise there in peace. Winton went along
with her very quietly, making a shrewd comment now
and then. At the far end of the garden, looking over
the wall, down into that narrow passage which lay
between it and the back of another garden, he squeezed
her arm suddenly and said :

" Well, Gyp, what sort of a time ?"
The question had come at last.
" Oh, rather lovely — in some ways." But she did
not look at him, nor he at her. " See, Dad ! The
cats have made quite a path there !"

Winton bit his lips and turned from the wall. The
thought of that fellow was bitter within him. She
meant to tell him nothing, meant to keep up that
lighthearted look — which didn't deceive him a bit !

" Look at my crocuses ! It's really spring to-
day !'

It was. Even a bee or two had come. The tiny
leaves had a transparent look, too thin as yet to keep
the sunlight from passing through them. The purple,
delicate- veined crocuses, with little flames of orange
blowing from their centres, seemed to hold the light
as in cups. A wind, without harshness, swung the
boughs; a dry leaf or two still rustled round here and
there. And on the grass, and in the blue sky, and on

6

82 BEYOND

the almond-blossom was the first spring brilliance.
Gyp clasped her hands behind her head.

" Lovely — to feel the spring !"

And Winton thought: ' She's changed !' . She had
softened, quickened — more depth of colour in her,
more gravity, more sway in her body, more sweetness
in her smile. But — was she happy ?

A voice said:

" Ah, what a pleasure !"

The fellow had slunk up like the great cat he was.
And it seemed to Winton that Gyp had winced.

" Dad thinks we ought to have dark curtains in th3
music-room, Gustav."

Fiorsen made a bow.

" Yes, yes — like a London club."

Winton, watching, was sure of supplication in her
face. And, forcing a smile, he said:

" You seem very snug here. Glad to see you again.
Gyp looks splendid."

Another of those bows he so detested ! Mounte-
bank ! Never, never would he be able to stand the
fellow ! But he must not, would not, show it. And,
as soon as he decently could, he went, taking his
lonely way back through this region, of which his
knowledge was almost limited to Lord's Cricket-ground,
with a sense of doubt and desolation, an irritation
more than ever mixed with the resolve to be always at
hand if the child wanted him.

He had not been gone ten minutes before Aunt
Rosamund appeared, with a crutch-handled stick and
a gentlemanly limp, for she, too, indulged her ancestors
in gout. A desire for exclusive possession of their
friends is natural to some people, and the good lady
had not known how fond she was of her niece till the

BEYOND 83

girl had slipped off into this marriage. She wanted
her back, to go about with and make much of, as
before. And her well-bred drawl did not quite disguise
this feeling.

Gyp could detect Fiorsen subtly mimicking that
drawl; and her ears began to burn. The puppies
afforded a diversion — their points, noses, boldness, and
food, held the danger in abeyance for some minutes.
Then the mimicry began again. When Aunt Rosa-
mund had taken a somewhat sudden leave. Gyp stood
at the window of her drawing-room with the mask off
her face. Fiorsen came up, put his arm round her
from behind, and said with a fierce sigh :

" Are they coming oflen — these excellent people ?"

Gyp drew back from him against the wall.

" If you love me, why do you try to hurt the people
who love me too ?"

" Because I am jealous. I am jealous even of those
puppies."

" And shall you try to hurt them ?"

"If I see them too much near you, perhaps I
shall."

" Do you think I can be happy if you hurt things
because they love me ?"

He sat down and drew her on to his knee. She did
not resist, but made not the faintest return to his
caresses. The first time — the very first friend to come
into her own new home ! It was too much !

Fiorsen said hoarsely :

" You do not love me. If you loved me, I should
feel it through your lips. I should see it in your eyes.
Oh, love me, Gyp ! You shall !"

But to say to Love: " Stand and dehver !" was not
the way to touch Gyp. It seemed to her mere ill-bred

84 BEYOND

stupidity. She froze against him in soul, all the more
that she yielded her body. When a woman refuses
nothing to one whom she does not really love, shadows
are already falling on the bride-house. And Fiorsen
knew it; but his self-control about equalled that of
the two puppies.

Yet, on the whole, these first weeks in her new
home were happy, too busy to allow much room for
doubting or regret. Several important concerts were
fixed for May. She looked forward to these with
intense eagerness, and pushed everything that inter-
fered with preparation into the background. As
though to make up for that instinctive recoil from
giving her heart, of which she was always subconscious,
she gave him all her activities, without calculation or
reserve. She was ready to play for him all day and
every day, just as from the first she had held herself
at the disposal of his passion. To fail him in these
ways would have tarnished her opinion of herself.
But she had some free hours in the morning, for he
had the habit of lying in bed till eleven, and was
never ready for practice before twelve. In those early
hours she got through her orders and her shopping —
that pursuit which to so many women is the only real
"sport" — a chase of the ideal; a pitting of one's
taste and knowledge against that of the world at
large; a secret passion, even in the beautiful, for
making oneself and one's house more beautiful. Gyp
never went shopping without that faint thrill running
up and down her nerves. She hated to be touched
by strange fingers, but not even that stopped her
pleasure in turning and turning before long mirrors,
while the saleswoman or man, with admiration at
first crocodilic and then genuine, ran the tips of fingers

BEYOND • 85

over those curves, smoothing and pinning, and uttering
the word, " moddam."

On other mornings, she would ride with Winton,
who would come for her, leaving her again at her door
after their outings. One day, after a ride in Rich-
mond Park, where the horse-chestnuts were just coming
into flower, they had late breakfast on the verandah of
a hotel before starting for home. Some fruit-trees
were still in blossom just below them, and the sunlight
showering down from a blue sky brightened to silver
the windings of the river, and to gold the budding
leaves of the oak trees. Winton, smoking his after-
breakfast cigar, stared down across the tops of those
trees toward the river and the wooded fields beyond.
Stealing a glance at him, Gyp said very softly:

" Did you ever ride with my mother. Dad ?"

" Only once — the very ride we've been to-day.

She was on a black mare; I had a chestnut " Yes,

in that grove on the little hill, which they had ridden
through that morning, he had dismounted and stood
beside her.

Gyp stretched her hand across the table and laid
it on his.

" Tell me about her, dear. Was she beautiful ?"

"Yes."

"Dark? Tall?"

" Very like you, Gyp. A little — a little " — he did
not know how to describe that difference — " a little
more foreign-looking perhaps. One of her grand-
mothers was Italian, you know."

" How did you come to love her ? Suddenly ?"

" As suddenly as " — he drew his hand away and
laid it on the verandah rail — " as that sun came on my
hand."

86 BEYOND

Gyp said quietly, as if to herself:

" Yes; I don't think I understand that — yet."

Winton drew breath through his teeth with a subdued
hiss. Whether to be glad or sorry, he by no means
knew. *

" Did she love you at first sight, too ?"

" One easily believes what one wants to — but I
think she did. She used to say so."

" And how long ?"

" Only a year."

Gyp said very softly:

" Poor darling Dad." And suddenly she added:
" I can't bear to think I killed her — I can't bear it !"

Winton got up in the discomfort of these sudden
confidences; a blackbird, startled by the movement,
ceased his song. Gyp said in a hard voice:

" No; I don't want to have any children."

" Without that, I shouldn't have had you, Gyp."

" No; but I don't want to have them. And I don't
— I don't want to love like that. I should be afraid."

Winton looked at her for a long time without speak-
ing, his brows drawn down, frowning, puzzled, as
though over his own past.

" Love," he said, " it catches you, and you're gone.
When it comes, you welcome it, whether it's to kill
you or not. Shall we start back, my child ?"

When she got home, it was not quite noon. She
hurried over her bath and dressing, and ran out to the
music-room. Its walls had been hung with Willesden
scrim gilded over; the curtains were silver-grey; there
was a divan covered with silver-and-gold stuff, and a
beaten brass fireplace. It was a study in silver, and
gold, save for two touches of fantas}' — a screen round
the piano-head, covered with brilliantly painted

BEYOND 87

peacocks' tails, and a blue Persian vase, in which
were flowers of various hues of red.

Fiorsen was standing at the window in a fume of
cigarette smoke. He did not turn round. Gyp put
her hand within his arm, and said :

" So sorry, dear. But it's only just half -past
twelve."

His face was as if the whole world had injured him.

" Pity you came back ! Very nice, riding, I'm
sure !"

Could she not go riding with her own father ? What
insensate jealousy and egomania ! She turned away,
without a word, and sat down at the piano. She was
not good at standing injustice — not good at all ! The
scent of brandy, too, was mixed with the fumes of his
cigarette. Drink in the morning was so ugly — really
horrid ! She sat at the piano, waiting. He would
be like this till he had played away the fumes of his
ill mood, and then he would come and paw her shoulders
and put his lips to her neck. Yes; but it was not the
way to behave, not the way to make her love him.
And she said suddenly:

" Gustav; what exactly have I done that you
dislike ?"

" You have had a father."

Gyp sat quite still for a few seconds, and then began
to laugh. He looked so like a sulky child, standing
there. He turned swiftly on her and put his hand
over her mouth. She looked up over that hand which
smelled of tobacco. Her heart was doing the grand
ecart within her, this way in compunction, that way
in resentment. His eyes fell before hers; he dropped
his hand-

" Well, shall we begin ?" she said.

88 BEYOND

He answered roughly: " No," and went out into the
garden.

Gyp was left dismayed, disgusted. Was it possible
that she could have taken part in such a horrid little
scene ? She remained sitting at the piano, playing
over and over a single passage, without heeding what
it was.

IV

So far, they had seen nothing of Rosek at the httle
house. She wondered if Fiorsen had passed on to him
her remark, though if he had, he would surely say he
hadn't; she had learned that her husband spoke the
truth when convenient, not when it caused him pain.
About music, or any art, however, he could be implicitly
relied on; and his frankness was appalling when his
nerves were ruffled.

But at the first concert she saw Rosek's unwelcome
figure on the other side of the gangway, two rows back.
He was talking to a young girl, whose face, short and
beautiful^ formed, had the opaque transparency of
alabaster. With her round blue eyes fixed on him,
and her lips just parted, she had a slightly vacant
look. Her laugh, too, was just a little vacant. And
yet her features were so beautiful, her hair so smooth
and fair, her colouring so pale and fine, her neck so
white and round, the poise of her body so perfect that
Gyp found it difficult to take her glance away. She
had refused her aunt's companionship. It might
irritate Fiorsen and affect his playing to see her with
" that stiff English creature." She wanted, too, to
feel again the sensations of Wiesbaden. There would
be a kind of sacred pleasure in knowing that she had
helped to perfect sounds which touched the hearts and
senses of so many listeners. She had looked forward
to this concert so long. And she sat scarcely breathing,

89

90 BEYOND

abstracted from consciousness of those about her, soft
and still, radiating warmth and eagerness.

Fiorsen looked his worst, as ever, when first coming
before an audience — cold, furtive, defensive, defiant,
half turned away, with those long fingers tightening
the screws, touching the strings. It seemed queer to
think that only six hours ago she had stolen out of
bed from beside him. Wiesbaden ! No; this was not
like Wiesbaden ! And when he played she had not
the same emotions. She had heard him now too
often, knew too exactly how he produced those sounds;
knew that their fire and sweetness and nobility sprang
from fingers, ear, brain — not from his soul. Nor was
it possible any longer to drift off on those currents of
sound into new worlds, to hear bells at dawn, and the
dews of evening as the}'' fell, to feel the divinity of
wind and sunlight. The romance and ecstasy that at
Wiesbaden had soaked her spirit came no more. She
was watching for the weak spots, the passages with
which he had struggled and she had struggled; she
was distracted by memories of petulance, black moods,
and sudden caresses. And then she caught his eye.
The look was like, yet how unlike, those looks at
Wiesbaden. It had the old love-hunger, but had lost
the adoration, its spiritual essence. And she thought :
' Is it my fault, or is it only because he has me now
to do what he likes with ?' It was all another dis-
illusionment, perhaps the greatest yet. But she
kindled and flushed at the applause, and lost herself
in pleasure at his success. At the interval, she slipped
out at once, for her first visit to the artist's room,
the mysterious enchantment of a peep behind the
scenes. He was coming down from his last recall;
and at sight of her his look of bored contempt vanished ;

BEYOND 91

lifting her hand, he kissed it. Gyp felt happier than
she had since her marriage. Her eyes shone, and she
whispered :

" Beautiful !"

He whispered back :

" So ! Do you love me. Gyp ?"

She nodded. And at that moment she did, or
thought so.

Then people began to come; amongst them her old
music-master, Monsieur Harmost, grey and mahogany
as ever, who, after a " Merveilleux," " Tres fort " or
two to Fiorsen, turned his back on him to talk to his
old pupil.

So she had married Fiorsen — dear, dear ! That
was extraordinary, but extraordinary ! And what was
it like, to be always with him — a little funny — not so ?
And how was her music ? It would be spoiled now.
Ah, what a pity ! No ? She must come to him, then ;
yes, come again. All the time he patted her arm, as
if playing the piano, and his fingers, that had the
touch of an angel, felt the firmness of her flesh, as
though debating whether she were letting it deteriorate.
He seemed really to have missed " his little friend,"
to be glad at seeing her again; and Gyp, who never
could withstand appreciation, smiled at him. More
people came. She saw Rosek talking to her husband,
and the young alabaster girl standing silent, her lips
still a little parted, gazing up at Fiorsen. A perfect
figure, though rather short; a dovelike face, whose
exquisitely shaped, just-opened lips seemed to be
demanding sugar-plums. She could not be more than
nineteen. Who was she ?

A voice said almost in her ear:

" How do you do, Mrs. Fiorsen ? I am fortunate
to see you again at last."

92 BEYOND

She was obliged to turn. If Gustav had given her
away, one would never know it from this velvet-
masked creature, with his suave watchfulness and
ready composure, who talked away so smoothly.
What was it that she so disliked in him ? Gyp had
acute instincts, the natural intelligence deep in certain
natures, not over intellectual, but whose " feelers " are
too delicate to be deceived. And, for something to
say, she asked :

" Who is the girl you were talking to, Count Rosek ?
Her face is so lovely."

He smiled, exactly the smile she had so disliked at
Wiesbaden; following his glance, she saw her husband
talking to the girl, whose lips at that moment seemed
more than ever to ask for sugar-plums.

" A young dancer, Daphne Wing — she will make a
name. A dove flying ! So you admire her, Madame
Gyp?"

Gyp said, smiling:

" She's very pretty — I can imagine her dancing
beautifully."

" Will you come one day and see her ? She has
still to make her debut."

Gyp answered:

" Thank you. I don't know. I love dancing, of
course."

" Good ! I will arrange it."

And Gyp thought: ' No, no ! I don't want to have
anything to do with you ! Why do I speak the truth ?
Why didn't I say I hate dancing ?'

Just then a bell sounded; people began hurrying
away. The girl came up to Rosek.

" Miss Daphne Wing — Mrs. Fiorsen."

Gyp put out her hand with a smile — this girl was

BEYOND 93

certainly a picture. Miss Daphne Wing smiled, too,
and said, with the intonation of those who have been
carefully corrected of an accent:

" Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, how beautifully your husband
plays — doesn't he ?"

It was not merely the careful speech but something
lacking when the perfect mouth moved — spirit, sensi-
bility, who could say ? And Gyp felt sorry, as at
blight on a perfect flower. With a friendly nod, she
turned away to Fiorsen, who was waiting to go up
on to the platform. Was it at her or at the girl he
had been looking ? She smiled at him and slid away.
In the corridor, Rosek, in attendance, said:

" Why not this evening ? Come with Gustav to
my rooms. She shall dance to us, and we will all
have supper. She admires you, Madame Gyp. She
will love to dance for you."

Gyp longed for the simple brutality to say: " I
don't want to come, I don't like you !" But all she
could manage was :

" Thank you. I — I will ask Gustav."

Once in her seat again, she rubbed the cheek that
his breath had touched. A girl was singing now —
one of those faces that Gyp always admired, reddish-
gold hair, blue eyes — the very antithesis of herself —
and the song was " The Bens of Jura," that strange
outpouring from a heart broken by love:

" And my heart reft of its own sun "

Tears rose in her eyes, and the shiver of some very
deep response passed through her. What was it Dad
had said: " Love catches ^^'ou, and you're gone !"

She, who w^as the result of love like that, did not
want to love !

94 BEYOND

The girl finished singing. There was Uttle applause.
Yet she had sung beautifully; and what more wonder-
ful song in the world ? Was it too tragic, too painful,
too strange — not " pretty " enough ? Gyp felt sorry
for her. Her head ached now. She would so have
liked to slip away when it was all over. But she had
not the needful rudeness. She would have to go
through with this evening at Rosek's and be gay.
And why not ? Why this shadow over everything ?
But it was no new sensation, that of having entered
by her own free will on a life which, for all effort,
would not give her a feeling of anchorage or home.
Of her own accord she had stepped into the cage !

On the way to Rosek's rooms, she disguised from
Fiorsen her headache and depression. He was in one
of his boy-out-of-school moods, elated by applause,
mimicking her old master, the idolatries of his wor-
shippers, Rosek, the girl dancer's upturned expectant
lips. And he slipped his arm round Gyp in the cab,
crushing her against him and snifhng at her cheek
as if she had been a flower.

Rosek had the first floor of an old-time mansion in
Russell Square. The smell of incense or some kindred
perfume was at once about one ; and, on the walls of
the dark hall, electric light burned, in jars of alabaster
picked up in the East. The whole place was in fact
a sanctum of the collector's spirit. Its owner had a
passion for black — the walls, divans, picture-frames,
even some of the tilings were black, with glimmerings
of gold, ivory, and moonlight. On a round black
table there stood a golden bowl filled with moonlight-
coloured velvety " palm " and " honesty" ; from a black
wall gleamed out the ivory mask of a faun's face;
from a dark niche the little silver figure of a dancing

BEYOND 95

girl. It was beautiful, but deathly. And Gyp,
though excited always by anything new, keenly alive
to every sort of beauty, felt a longing for air and sun-
light. It was a relief to get close to one of the black-
curtained windows, and see the westering sun shower
warmth and light on the trees of the Square gardens.
She was introduced to a Mr. and Mrs. Gallant, a dark-
faced, cynical-looking man with clever, malicious eyes,
and one of those large cornucopias of women with avid
blue stares. The little dancer was not there. She
had " gone to put on nothing," Rosek informed them.
He took Gyp the round of his treasures, scarabs,
Rops drawings, death-masks, Chinese pictures, and
queer old flutes, with an air of displaying them for the
first time to one who could truly appreciate. And
she kept thinking of that saying, " Une technique
merveilleuse." Her instinct apprehended the refined
bone-viciousness of this place, where nothing, save
perhaps taste, would be sacred. It was her first
glimpse into that gilt-edged bohemia, whence the
generosities, the elans, the struggles of the true bohemia
are as rigidly excluded as from the spheres where
bishops moved. But she talked and smiled; and no
one could have told that her nerves were crisping as
if at contact with a corpse. While showing her those
alabaster jars, her host had laid his hand softly on her
wrist, and in taking it away, he let his fingers, with
a touch softer than a kitten's paw, ripple over the
skin, then put them to his lips. Ah, there it was —
the — the technique ! A desperate desire to laugh
seized her. And he saw it — oh, yes, he saw it ! He
gave her one look, passed that same hand over his
smooth face, and — behold ! — it showed as before, un-
mortified, unconscious. A deadly little man !

96 BEYOND

When they returned to the salon, as it was called,
Miss Daphne Wing in a black kimono, whence her face
and arms emerged more like alabaster than ever, was
sitting on a divan beside Fiorsen. She rose at once
and came across to Gyp.

" Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen " — why did everything she said
begin with " Oh !" — " isn't this room lovely ? It's
perfect for dancing. I only brought cream, and
flame-colour; they go so beautifully with black."

She threw back her kimono for Gyp to inspect her
dress — a girdled cream-coloured shift, which made her
ivory arms and neck seem more than ever dazzling;
and her mouth opened, as if for a sugar-plum of praise.
Then, lowering her voice, she murmured:

" Do you know, I'm rather afraid of Count Rosek."

" Why ?"

" Oh, I don't know; he's so critical, and smooth,
and he comes up so quietly. I do think your husband
plays wonderfully. Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, you are beauti-
ful, aren't you ?" Gyp laughed. " What would you
like me to dance first. A waltz of Chopin's ?"

" Yes; I love Chopin."

" Then I shall. I shall dance exactly what you like,
because I do admire you, and I'm sure you're awfully
sweet. Oh, yes; you are; I can see that ! And I
think your husband is awfully in love with you. I
should be, if I were a man. You know, I've been
studying five years, and I haven't come out yet.
But now Count Rosek's going to back me, I expect
it'll be very soon. Will you come to my first night ?
Mother says I've got to be awfully careful. She only
let me come this evening because you were going to
be here. Would you like me to begin ?"

She slid across to Rosek, and Gyp heard her say:

BEYOND 97

"Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen wants me to begin; a Chopin
waltz, please. The one that goes like this."

Rosek went to the piano, the little dancer to the
centre of the room. Gyp sat down beside Fiorsen.

Rosek began playing, his eyes fixed on the girl, and
his mouth loosened from compression in a sweetish
smile. Miss Daphne Wing was standing with her
finger-tips joined at her breast — a perfect statue of
ebony and palest wax. Suddenly she flung away the
black kimono. A thrill swept Gyp from head to foot.
She could dance — that common little girl ! Every
movement of her round, sinuous body, of her bare
limbs, had the ecstasy of natural genius, controlled
by the quivering balance of a really fine training.
" A dove flying !" So she was. Her face had lost
its vacancy, or rather its vacancy had become divine,
having that look — not lost but gone before — which
dance demands. Yes, she was a gem, even if she had
a common soul. Tears came up in Gyp's eyes. It
was so lovely — like a dove, when it flings itself up in
the wind, breasting on up, up — wings bent back,
poised. Abandonment, freedom — chastened, shaped,
controlled !

When, after the dance, the girl came and sat down
beside her, she squeezed her hot little hand, but the
caress was for her art, not for this moist little person
with the lips avid of sugar-plums.

' Oh, did you like it ? I'm so glad. Shall I go
and put on my flame-colour, now ?"

The moment she was gone, comment broke out
freely. The dark and cynical Gallant thought the
girl's dancing like a certain Napierkowska whom he
had seen in Moscow, without her fire — the touch of
passion would have to be supplied. She wanted love !

7

98 BEYOND

Love ! And suddenly Gyp was back in the concert-
hall, listening to that other girl singing the song of a
broken heart.

" Thy kiss, dear love

Like watercress gathered fresh from cool streams."

Love ! in this abode — of fauns' heads, deep cushions,
silver dancing girls ! Love ! She had a sudden sense
of deep abasement. What was she, herself, but just
a feast for a man's senses ? Her home, what but a
place like this ? Miss Daphne Wing was back again.
Gyp looked at her husband's face while she was
dancing. His lips ! How was it that she could see
that disturbance in him, and not care. If she had
really loved him, to see his lips like that would have
hurt her, but she might have understood perhaps, and
forgiven. Now she neither quite understood nor quite
forgave.

And that night, when he kissed her, she murmured:
" Would you rather it were that girl — not me ?"
" That girl ! I could swallow her at a draught.

But you, my Gyp — I want to drink for ever !"

Was that true ? // she had loved him — how good

to hear !

V

After this, Gyp was daily more and more in contact
with high bohemia, that curious composite section of
society which embraces the neck of music, poetry,
and the drama. She was a success, but secretly she
felt that she did not belong to it, nor, in truth, did
Fiorsen, who was much too genuine a bohemian, and
artist, and mocked at the Gallants and even the Roseks
of this life, as he mocked at Winton, Aunt Rosamund,
and their world. Life with him had certainly one
effect on Gyp ; it made her feel less and less a part of
that old orthodox, well-bred world which she had
known before she married him; but to which she had
confessed to Winton she had never felt that she
belonged, since she knew the secret of her birth. She
was, in truth, much too impressionable, too avid of
beauty, and perhaps too naturally critical to accept
the dictates of their fact-and-form-governed routine;
only, of her own accord, she would never have had
initiative enough to step out of its circle. Loosened
from those roots, unable to attach herself to this new
soil, and not spiritually leagued with her husband, she
was more and more lonely. Her only truly happy
hours were those spent with Winton or at her piano
or with her puppies. She was always wondering at
what she had done, longing to find the deep, the
sufficient reason for having done it. But the more
she sought and longed, the deeper grew her bewilder-
ment, her feeling of being in a cage. Of late, too,

99

100 BEYOND

another and more definite uneasiness had come
to her.

She spent much time in her garden, where the
blossoms had all dropped, lilac was over, acacias coming
into bloom, and blackbirds silent.

Winton, who, by careful experiment, had found that
from half-past three to six there was little or no chance
of stumbling across his son-in-law, came in nearly
every day for tea and a quiet cigar on the lawn. He
was sitting there with Gyp one afternoon, when Betty,
who usurped the functions of parlour-maid whenever
the whim moved her, brought out a card on which
were printed the words, " Miss Daphne Wing."

" Bring her out, please, Betty dear, and some fresh
tea, and buttered toast — plenty of buttered toast;
yes, and the chocolates, and any other sweets there are,
Betty darling."

Betty, with that expression which always came over
her when she was called " darling," withdrew across
the grass, and Gyp said to her father:

" It's the little dancer I told you of, Dad. Now
you'll see something perfect. Only, she'll be dressed.
It's a pity."

She was. The occasion had evidently exercised her
spirit. In warm ivory, shrouded by leaf-green chiffon,
with a girdle of tiny artificial leaves, and a lightly
covered head encircled by other green leaves, she was
somewhat like a nymph peering from a bower. If
rather too arresting, it was charming, and, after all,
no frock could quite disguise the beauty of her figure.
She was evidently nervous.

" Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I thought you wouldn't mind
my coming. I did so want to see you again. Count
Rosek said he thought I might. It's all fixed for my

BEYOND loi

coming out. Oh, how do you do ?" And with lips
and eyes opening at Winton, she sat down in the chair
he placed for her. Gyp, watching his expression, felt
inclined to laugh. Dad, and Daphne Wing ! And
the poor girl so evidently anxious to make a good
impression ! Presently she asked:

" Have you been dancing at Count Rosek's again
lately ?"

" Oh, yes, haven't you — didn't you — I " And

she stopped.

The thought flashed through Gyp : ' So Gustav's
been seeing her, and hasn't told me !' But she said
at once:

" Ah, yes, of course; I forgot. When is the night of
your coming-out ?"

" Next Friday week. Fancy ! The Octagon. Isn't
it splendid ? They've given me such a good engage-
ment. I do so want you and Mr. Fiorsen to come,
though !"

Gyp, smiling, murmured:

" Of course we will. My father loves dancing, too;
don't you. Dad ?"

Winton took his cigar from his mouth.
" When it's good," he said, urbanely.
" Oh, mine is good; isn't it, Mrs. Fiorsen ? I mean,
I have worked — ever since I was thirteen, you know.
I simply love it. I think yoic would dance beautifully,
Mrs. Fiorsen. You've got such a perfect figure. I
simply love to see you walk."
Gyp flushed, and said:

" Do have one of these. Miss Wing — they've got
whole raspberries inside."
The little dancer put one in her mouth.
" Oh, but please don't call me Miss Wing ! I

102 BEYOND

wish you'd call me Daphne. Mr. Fior — everybody
does."

Conscious of her father's face, Gyp murmured:

" It's a lovely name. Won't you have another ?
These are apricot."

" They're perfect. You know, my first dress is
going to be all orange-blossom; Mr. Fiorsen suggested
that. But I expect he told you. Perhaps you sug-
gested it really; did you ?" Gyp shook her head.

" Count Rosek says the world is waiting for me "

She paused with a sugar-plum half-way to her lips,
and added doubtfully: "Do you think that's
true ?"

Gyp answered with a soft : "I hope so."

" He says I'm something new. It would be nice to
think that. He has great taste; so has Mr. Fiorsen,
hasn't he ?"

Conscious of the compression in the lips behind the
smoke of her father's cigar, and with a sudden longing
to get up and walk away, Gyp nodded.

The little dancer placed the sweet in her mouth,
and said complacently:

" Of course he has; because he married you."

Then, seeming to grow conscious of Winton's eyes
fixed so intently on her, she became confused, swal-
lowed hastily, and said:

" Oh, isn't it lovely here — like the country ! I'm
afraid I must go; it's my practice-time. It's so im-
portant for me not to miss any now, isn't it ?" And
she rose.

Winton got up, too. Gyp saw the girl's eyes,
lighting on his rigid hand, grow round and rounder;
and from her, walking past the side of the house, the
careful voice floated back.

BEYOND 103

" Oh, I do hope " But what, could not be

heard.

Sinking back in her chair. Gyp sat motionless.
Bees were murmurous among her flowers, pigeons
murmurous among the trees; the sunlight warmed her
knees, and her stretched-out feet through the open-
work of her stockings. The maid's laughter, the
delicious growling of the puppies at play in the kitchen
came drifting down the garden, with the distant cry
of a milkman up the road. All was very peaceful.
But in her heart were such curious, baffled emotions,
such strange, tangled feelings. This moment of en-
lightenment regarding the measure of her husband's
frankness came close on the heels of the moment fate
had chosen for another revelation, for clinching within
her a fear felt for weeks past. She had said to Winton
that she did not want to have a child. In those
conscious that their birth has caused death or even
too great suffering, there is sometimes this hostile
instinct. She had not even the consolation that
Fiorsen wanted children; she knew that he did not.
And now she was sure one was coming. But it was
more than that. She had not reached, and knew she
could not reach, that point of spirit-union which alone
makes marriage sacred, and the sacrifices demanded
by motherhood a joy. She was fairly caught in the
web of her foolish and presumptuous mistake ! So
few months of marriage — and so sure that it was a
failure, so hopeless for the future ! In the light of
this new certainty, it was terrifying. A hard, natural
fact is needed to bring a yearning and bewildered
spirit to knowledge of the truth. Disillusionment is
not welcome to a woman's heart; the less welcome
when it is disillusionment with self as much as with

104 BEYOND

another. Her great dedication — her scheme of Hfe !
She had been going to — what ? — save Fiorsen from
himself ! It was laughable. She had only lost herself.
Already she felt in prison, and by a child would be
all the more bound. To some women, the knowledge
that a thing must be brings assuagement of the nerves.
Gyp was the opposite of those. To force her was the
way to stiver up every contrary emotion. She might
will herself to acquiesce, but — one cannot change one's
nature.

And so, while the pigeons cooed and the sunlight
warmed her feet, she spent the bitterest moments of
her life — so far. Pride came to her help. She had
made a miserable mess of it, but no one must know —
certainly not her father, who had warned her so
desperately ! She had made her bed, and she would
have to lie on it.

When Winton came back, he found her smiUng, and
said:

" I don't see the fascination. Gyp."

" Don't you think her face really rather perfect ?"

" Common."

" Yes; but that drops off when she's dancing."

Winton looked at her from under half-closed eyelids.

" With her clothes ? What does Fiorsen think of
her ?"

Gyp smiled.

" Does he think of her ? I don't know."

She could feel the watchful tightening of his face.
And suddenly he said :

" Daphne Wing ! By George !"

The words were a masterpiece of resentment and
distrust. His daughter in peril from — such as that !

After he was gone Gyp sat on till the sun had quite

BEYOND 105

vanished and the dew was steahng through her thin
frock. She would think of anything, anybody except
herself ! To make others happy was the way to be
happy — or so they said. She would try — must try.
Betty — so stout, and with that rheumatism in her leg
— did she ever think of herself ? Or Aunt Rosamund,
with her perpetual rescuings of lost dogs, lame horses,
and penniless musicians ? And Dad, for all his man-
of-the-world ways, was he not always doing little
things for the men of his old regiment, always thinking
of her, too, and what he could do to give her pleasure ?
To love everybody, and bring them happiness ! Was
it not possible ? Only, people were hard to love,
different from birds and beasts and flowers, to love
which seemed natural and easy.

She went up to her room and began to dress for
dinner. Which of her frocks did he like best ? The
pale, low-cut amber, or that white, soft one, with the
coffee-dipped lace ? She decided on the latter.
Scrutinizing her supple, slender image in the glass, a
shudder went through her. That would all go; she
would be like those women taking careful exercise in
the streets, who made her wonder at their hardihood
in showing themselves. It wasn't fair that one must
become unsightly, offensive to the eye, in order to
bring life into the world. Some women seemed proud
to be like that. How was that possible ? She would
never dare to show herself in the days coming.

She finished dressing and went downstairs. It was
nearly eight, and Fiorsen had not come in. When the
gong was struck, she turned from the window with a
sigh, and went in to dinner. That sigh had been
rehef. She ate her dinner \\ith the two pups beside
her, sent them off, and sat down at her piano. She

io6 BEYOND

played Chopin — studies, waltzes, mazurkas, preludes,
a polonaise or two. And Betty, who had a weakness
for that composer, sat on a chair by the door which
partitioned off the back premises, having opened it a
little. She wished she could go and take a peep at
her " pretty " in her white frock, with the candle-
flames on each side, and those lovely lilies in the vase
close by, smelling beautiful. And one of the maids
coming too near, she shooed her angrily away.

It grew late. The tray had been brought up; the
maids had gone to bed. Gyp had long stopped play-
ing, had turned out, ready to go up, and, by the
French window, stood gazing out into the dark. How
warm it was — warm enough to draw forth the scent
of the jessamine along the garden wall ! Not a star.
There always seemed so few stars in London. A
sound made her swing round. Something tall was
over there in the darkness, by the open door. She
heard a sigh, and called out, frightened:

" Is that you, Gustav ?"

He spoke some words that she could not understand.
Shutting the window quickly, she went toward him.
Light from the hall lit up one side of his face and
figure. He was pale; his eyes shone strangely; his
sleeve was all white. He said thickly:

" Little ghost !" and then some words that must be
Swedish. It was the first time Gyp had ever come to
close quarters with drunkenness. And her thought
was simply : ' How awful if anybody were to see —
how awful !' She made a rush to get into the hall
and lock the door leading to the back regions, but he
caught her frock, ripping the lace from her neck, and
his entangled fingers clutched her shoulder. She
stopped dead, fearing to make a noise or pull him over,

BEYOND 107

and his other hand clutched her other shoulder, so
that he stood steadying himself by her. Why was
she not shocked, smitten to the ground with grief and
shame and rage ? She only felt : ' What am I to do ?
How get him upstairs without anyone knowing ? '
And she looked up into his face — it seemed to her so
pathetic with its shining eyes and its staring whiteness
that she could have burst into tears. She said gently :
" Gustav, it's all right. Lean on me; we'll go up."
His hands, that seemed to have no power or purpose,
touched her cheeks, mechanically caressing. More
than disgust, she felt that awful pity. Putting her
arm round his waist, she moved with him toward the
stairs. If only no one heard; if only she could get
him quietly up ! And she murmured:

" Don't talk; you're not well. Lean on me hard."
He seemed to make a big effort; his lips puffed out,
and with an expression of pride that would have been
comic if not so tragic, he muttered something.

Holding him close with all her strength, as she might
have held one desperately loved, she began to mount.
It was easier than she had thought. Only across the
landing now, into the bedroom, and then the danger
would be over. Done ! He was lying across the bed,
and the door shut. Then, for a moment, she gave
way to a fit of shivering so violent that she could hear
her teeth chattering yet could not stop them. She
caught sight of herself in the big mirror. Her pretty
lace was all torn; her shoulders were red where his
hands had gripped her, holding himself up. She threw
off her dress, put on a wrapper, and went up to him.
He was lying in a sort of stupor, and with difficulty
she got him to sit up and lean against the bed-rail.
Taking off his tie and collar, she racked her brains for

io8 BEYOND

what to give him. Sal volatile ! Surely that must
be right. It brought him to himself, so that he even
tried to kiss her. At last he was in bed, and she stood
looking at him. His eyes were closed; he would not
see if she gave way now. But she would not cry —
she would not. One sob came — but that was all.
Well, there was nothing to be done now but get into
bed too. She undressed, and turned out the light.
He was in a stertorous sleep. And lying there, with
eyes wide open, staring into the dark, a smile came
on her lips — a very strange smile ! She was thinking
of all those preposterous young wives she had read of,
who, blushing, trembling, murmur into the ears of their
young husbands that they " have something — some-
thing to tell them !"

VI

Looking at Fiorsen, next morning, still sunk in heavy
sleep, her first thought was: " He looks exactly the
same." And, suddenly, it seemed queer to her that
she had not been, and still was not, disgusted. It
was all too deep for disgust, and somehow, too natural.
She took this new revelation of his unbridled ways
without resentment. Besides, she had long known of
this taste of his — one cannot drink brandy and not
betray it.

She stole noiselessly from bed, noiselessly gathered
up his boots and clothes all tumbled on to a chair,
and took them forth to the dressing-room. There she
held the garments up to the early light and brushed
them, then, noiseless, stole back to bed, with needle
and thread and her lace. No one must know; not
even he must know. For the moment she had for-
gotten that other thing so terrifically important. It
came back to her, very sudden, very sickening. So
long as she could keep it secret, no one should know
that either — he least of all.

The morning passed as usual; but when she came
to the music-room at noon, she found that he had
gone out. She was just sitting down to lunch when
Betty, with the broad smile which prevailed on her
moon-face when someone had tickled the right side of
her, announced:

" Count Rosek."

Gyp got up, startled.

109

no BEYOND

" Say that Mr. Fiorsen is not in, Betty. But — but
ask if he will come and have some lunch, and get a
bottle of hock up, please."

In the few seconds before her visitor appeared, Gyp
experienced the sort of excitement one has entering a
field where a bull is grazing.

But not even his severest critics could accuse Rosek
of want of tact. He had hoped to see Gustav, but
it was charming of her to give him lunch — a great
delight !

He seemed to have put off, as if for her benefit, his
corsets, and some, at all events, of his offending looks
— seemed simpler, more genuine. His face was
slightly browned, as if, for once, he had been taking his
due of air and sun. He talked without cynical sub-
meanings, was most appreciative of her " charming
little house," and even showed some warmth in his
sayings about art and music. Gyp had never disliked
him less. But her instincts were on the watch. After
lunch, they went out across the garden to see the
music-room, and he sat down at the piano. He had
the deep, caressing touch that lies in fingers of steel
worked by a real passion for tone. Gyp sat on the
divan and listened. She was out of his sight there;
and she looked at him, wondering. He was playing
Schumann's Child Music. How could one who
produced such fresh idyllic sounds have sinister
intentions ? And presently she said :

" Count Rosek !"

" Madame ?"

" Will you please tell me why you sent Daphne
Wing here yesterday ?"

" / send her ?"

" Yes."

BEYOND III

But instantly she regretted having asked that
question. He had swung round on the music-stool
and was looking full at her. His face had changed.

" Since you ask me, I thought you should know that
Gustav is seeing a good deal of her."

He had given the exact answer she had divined.

" Do you think I mind that ?"

A flicker passed over his face. He got up and said
quietly :

" I am glad that you do not."

"Why glad?"

She, too, had risen. Though he was Uttle taller than
herself, she was conscious suddenly of how thick and
steely he was beneath his dapper garments, and of a
kind of snaky will-power in his face. Her heart beat
faster.

He came toward her and said :

" I am glad you understand that it is over with

Gustav — finished " He stopped dead, seeing at

once that he had gone wrong, and not knowing quite
where. Gyp had simply smiled. A flush coloured his
cheeks, and he said:

" He is a volcano soon extinguished. You see, I
know him. Better you should know him, too. Why
do you smile ?"

" Why is it better I should know ?"

He went very pale, and said between his teeth:

" That you may not waste your time; there is love
waiting for you."

But Gyp still smiled.

" Was it from love of me that you made him drunk
last night ?"

His lips quivered.

" Gyp !" Gyp turned. But with the merest change

112 BEYOND

of front, he had put himself between her and the door.
" You never loved him. That is my excuse. You
have given him too much already — more than he is
worth. Ah ! God ! I am tortured by you ; I am
possessed."

He had gone white through and through like a
flame, save for his smouldering eyes. She was afraid,
and because she was afraid, she stood her ground.
Should she make a dash for the door that opened into
the little lane and escape that way ? Then suddenly
he seemed to regain control; but she could feel that
he was trying to break through her defences by the
sheer intensity of his gaze — by a kind of mesmerism,
knowing that he had frightened her.

Under the strain of this duel of eyes, she felt herself
beginning to sway, to get dizzy. Whether or no he
really moved his feet, he seemed coming closer inch
by inch. She had a horrible feeling — as if his arms
were already round her.

With an effort, she wrenched her gaze from his, and
suddenly his crisp hair caught her eyes. Surely —
surely it was curled with tongs ! A kind of spasm of
amusement was set free in her heart, and, almost
inaudibly, the words escaped her lips : " Une technique
merveilleuse I" His eyes wavered; he uttered a little
gasp; his lips fell apart. Gyp walked across the room
and put her hand on the bell. She had lost her fear.
Without a word, he turned, and went out into the
garden. She watched him cross the lawn. Gone !
She had beaten him by the one thing not even violent
passions can withstand — ridicule, almost unconscious
ridicule. Then she gave way and pulled the bell with
nervous violence. The sight of the maid, in her trim
black dress and spotless white apron, coming from

BEYOND 1 13

the house completed her restoration. Was it possible
that she had really been frightened, nearly failing in
that encounter, nearly dominated by that man — in
her own house, with her own maids down there at
hand ? And she said quietly :

" I want the puppies, please."

" Yes, ma'am."

Over the garden, the day brooded in the first-
gathered warmth of summer. Mid-June of a fine year.
The air was drowsy with hum and scent.

And Gyp, sitting in the shade, while the puppies
rolled and snapped, searched her little world for com-
fort and some sense of safety, and could not find it;
as if there were all round her a hot heavy fog in which
things lurked, and where she kept erect only by pride
and the will not to cry out that she was struggling
and afraid.

Fiorsen, leaving his house that morning, had walked
till he saw a taxi-cab. Leaning back therein, with hat
thrown off, he caused himself to be driven rapidly, at
random. This was one of his habits when his mind
was not at ease — an expensive idiosyncracy, ill-afforded
by a pocket that had holes. The swift motion and
titillation by the perpetual close shaving of other
vehicles were sedative to him. He needed sedatives
this morning. To wake in his own bed without the
least remembering how he had got there was no more
new to him than to many another man of twenty-
eight, but it was new since his marriage. If he had
remembered even less he would have been more at
ease. But he could just recollect standing in the dark
drawing-room, seeing and touching a ghostly Gyp
quite close to him. And, somehow, he was afraid.

8

114 * BEYOND

And when he was afraid — Hke most people — he was at
his worst.

If she had been hke all the other women in whose
company he had eaten passion-fruit, he would not have
felt this carking humiliation. If she had been like
them, at the pace he had been going since he obtained
possession of her, he would already have " finished,"
as Rosek had said. And he knew well enough that
he had not " finished." He might get drunk, might
be loose-ended in every way, but Gyp was hooked
into his senses, and, for all that he could not get near
her, into his spirit. Her very passivity was her
strength, the secret of her magnetism. In her, he felt
some of that mysterious sentiency of nature, which,
even in yielding to man's fevers, lies apart with a
faint smile — the uncapturable smile of the woods and
fields by day or night, that makes one ache with
longing. He felt in her some of the unfathomable,
soft, vibrating indifference of the flowers and trees
and streams, of the rocks, of bird-songs, and the
eternal hum, under sunshine or starshine. Her dark,
half-smiling eyes enticed him, inspired an unquench-
able thirst. And his was one of those natures which,
encountering spiritual difficulty, at once jib off, seek
anodynes, try to bandage wounded egoism with ex-
cess— a spoiled child, with the desperations and the
inherent pathos, the something repulsive and the
something lovable that belong to all such. Having
wished for this moon, and got her, he now did not
know what to do with her, kept taking great bites at
her, with a feeling all the time of getting further and
further away. At moments, he desired revenge for
his failure to get near her spiritually, and was ready to
commit follies of all kinds. He was only kept in

BEYOND 115

control at all by his work. For he did work hard;
though, even there, something was lacking. He had
all the qualities of making good, except the moral back-
bone holding them together, which alone could give
him his rightful — as he thought — pre-eminence. It
often surprised and vexed him to find that some con-
temporary held higher rank than himself.
Threading the streets in his cab, he mused:
" Did I do anything that really shocked her last
night ? Why didn't I wait for her this morning and
find out the worst ?" And his lips twisted awry — for
to find out the worst was not his forte. Meditation,
seeking as usual a scapegoat, lighted on Rosek. Like
most egoists addicted to women, he had not many
friends. Rosek was the most constant. But even for
him, Fiorsen had at once the contempt and fear that
a man naturally uncontrolled and yet of greater scope
has for one of less talent but stronger will-power. He
had for him, too, the feeling of a wayward child for
its nurse, mixed with the need that an artist, especially
an executant artist, feels for a connoisseur and patron
with well-lined pockets.

' Curse Paul !' he thought, ' He must know — he
does know — that brandy of his goes down like water.
Trust him, he saw I was getting silly ! He had some
game on. Where did I go after ? How did I get
home?' And again: 'Did I hurt Gyp?' If the
servants had seen — that would be the worst; that
would upset her fearfully ! And he laughed. Then
he had a fresh access of fear. He didn't know her,
never knew what she was thinking or feeling, never
knew anything about her. And he thought angrily:
' That's not fair ! I don't hide myself from her. I
am as free as nature; I let her see everything. What

ii6 BEYOND

did I do ? That maid looked very queerly at me this
morning !' And suddenly he said to the driver :
" Bury Street, St. James's." He could find out, at
all events, whether Gyp had been to her father's.
The thought of Winton ever afflicted him; and he
changed his mind several times before the cab reached
that little street, but so swiftly that he had not time
to alter his instructions to the driver. A light sweat
broke out on his forehead while he was waiting for
the door to be opened.

" Mrs. Fiorsen here ?"

" No, sir."

" Not been here this morning ?"

" No, sir."

He shrugged away the thought that he ought to
give some explanation of his question, and got into
the cab again, telling the man to drive to Curzon
Street, li she had not been to " that Aunt Rosa-
mund " either it would be all right. She had not.
There was no one else she would go to. And, with
a sigh of relief, he began to feel hungry, having had
no breakfast. He would go to Rosek's, borrow the
money to pay his cab, and lunch there. But Rosek
was not in. He would have to go home to get
the cab paid. The driver seemed to eye him
queerly now, as though conceiving doubts about the
fare.

Going in under the trellis, Fiorsen passed a man
coming out, who held in his hand a long envelope
and eyed him askance.

Gyp, who was sitting at her bureau, seemed to be
adding up the counterfoils in her cheque-book. She
did not turn round, and Fiorsen paused. How was
she going to receive him ?

BEYOND 117

" Is there any lunch ?" he said.

She reached out and rang the bell. He felt sorr^^
for himself. He had been quite ready to take her in
his arms and say: " Forgive me, little Gyp; I'm
sorry !"

Betty answered the bell.

" Please bring up some lunch for Mr. Fiorsen."

He heard the stout woman sniff as she went out.
She was a part of his ostracism. And, with sudden
rage, he said:

" What do you want for a husband — a bourgeois
who would die if he missed his lunch ?"

Gyp turned round to him and held out her cheque-
book.

" I don't in the least mind about meals; but I do
about this." He read on the counterfoil:

" Messrs. Travers & Sanborn, Tailors, Account
rendered: £^4 3s. yd." " Are there many of these,
Gustav ?"

Fiorsen had turned the peculiar white that marked
deep injury to his self-esteem. He said violently:

" Well, what of that ? A bill ! Did you pay it ?
You have no business to pay my bills."

" The man said if it wasn't paid this time, he'd
sue you." Her lips quivered. " I think owing money
is horrible. It's undignified. Are there many others ?
Please tell me !"

" I shall not tell you. What is it to you ?"

" It is a lot to me. I have to keep this house and
pay the maids and everything, and I want to know
how I stand. I am not going to make debts. That's
hateful."

Her face had a hardness that he did not know. He
perceived dimly that she was different from the Gyp

ii8 BEYOND

of this hour yesterday — the last time when, in posses-
sion of his senses, he had seen or spoken to her. The
novelty of her revolt stirred him in strange ways,
wounded his self-conceit, inspired a curious fear, and
yet excited his senses. He came up to her, said
softly :

" Money ! Curse money ! Kiss me !" With a
certain amazement at the sheer distaste in her face,
he heard her say :

" It's childish to curse money. I will spend all the
income I have; but I will not spend more, and I will
not ask Dad."

He flung himself down in a chair.

"Ho! Ho! Virtue!"

" No— pride."

He said gloomily:

" So you don't believe in me. You don't believe
I can earn as much as I want — more than you have —
any time ? You never have beheved in me."

" I think you earn now as much as you are ever
likely to earn."

" That is what you think ! I don't want money —
your money ! I can live on nothing, any time. I
have done it — often."

" Hssh !"

He looked round and saw the maid in the doorway.

" Please, sir, the driver says can he have his fare,
or do you want him again ? Twelve shiUings."

Fiorsen stared at her a moment in the way that —
as the maid often said — made you feel like a silly.

" No. Pay him."

The girl glanced at Gyp, answered: " Yes, sir," and
went out.
Fiorsen laughed; he laughed, holding his sides. It

BEYOND 119

was droll coming on the top of his assertion, too droU !
And, looking up at her, he said:

" That was good, wasn't it. Gyp ?"

But her face had not abated its gravity ; and, know-
ing that she was even more easily tickled by the in-
congruous than himself, he felt again that catch of
fear. Something was different. Yes; something was
really different.

" Did I hurt you last night ?"

She shrugged her shoulders and went to the window.
He looked at her darkly, jumped up, and swung out
past her into the garden. And, almost at once, the
sound of his vioKn, furiously played in the music-room,
came across the lawn.

Gyp listened with a bitter smile. Money, too !
But what did it matter ? She could not get out of
what she had done. She could never get out. To-night
he would kiss her; and she would pretend it was all
right. And so it would go on and on ! Well, it was
her own fault. Taking twelve shillings from her purse,
she put them aside on the bureau to give the maid.
And suddenly she thought: ' Perhaps he'll get tired
of me. If only he would get tired !' That was a
long way the furthest she had yet gone.

VII

They who have known the doldrums — how the sails
of the listless ship droop, and the hope of escape dies
day by day — may understand something of the life
Gyp began living now. On a ship, even doldrums
come to an end. But a young woman of twenty-three,
who has made a mistake in her marriage, and has only
herself to blame, looks forward to no end, unless she
be the new woman, which Gyp was not. Having
settled that she would not admit failure, and clenched
her teeth on the knowledge that she was going to have
a child, she went on keeping things sealed up even
from Winton. To Fiorsen, she managed to behave as
usual, making material life easy and pleasant for him
— playing for him, feeding him well, indulging his
amorousness. It did not matter; she loved no one
else. To count herself a martyr would be silly ! Her
malaise, successfully concealed, was deeper — of the
spirit; the subtle utter discouragement of one who has
done for herself, clipped her own wings.

As for Rosek, she treated him as if that little scene
had never taken place. The idea of appealing to her
husband in a difficulty was gone for ever since the night
he came home drunk. And she did not dare to tell
her father. He would — what would he not do ? But
she was always on her guard, knowing that Rosek
would not forgive her for that dart of ridicule. His
insinuations about Daphne Wing she put out of mind,
as she never could have if she had loved Fiorsen.

BEYOND 121

She set up for herself the idol of pride, and became
its faithful worshipper. Only Winton, and perhaps
Betty, could tell she was not happy. Fiorsen's debts
and irresponsibility about money did not worry her
much, for she paid everything in the house — rent,
wages, food, and her own dress — and had so far made
ends meet ; and what he did outside the house she could
not help.

So the summer wore on till concerts were over, and
it was supposed to be impossible to stay in London.
But she dreaded going away. She wanted to be left
quiet in her little house. It was this which made her
tell Fiorsen her secret one night, after the theatre.
He had begun to talk of a holiday, sitting on the edge
of the settee, with a glass in his hand and a cigarette
between his lips. His cheeks, white and hollow from
too much London, went a curious dull red; he got up
and stared at her. Gyp made an involuntary move-
ment with her hands.

" You needn't look at me. It's true."

He put down glass and cigarette and began to tramp
the room. And Gyp stood with a little smile, not
even watching him. Suddenly he clasped his forehead
and broke out:

"But I don't want it; I won't have it — spoiling
my Gyp." Then quickly going up to her with a scared
face: " I don't want it; I'm afraid of it. Don't
have it."

In Gyp's heart came the same feeling as when he
had stood there drunk, against the wall — compassion,
rather than contempt of his childishness. And taking
his hand she said:

" All right, Gustav. It shan't bother you. When I
begin to get ugly, I'll go away with Betty till it's over."

122 BEYOND

He went down on his knees.

" Oh, no ! Oh, no ! Oh, no ! My beautiful Gyp !'

And Gyp sat hke a sphinx, for fear that she too
might let slip those words: " Oh, no !"

The windows were open, and moths had come in.
One had settled on the hydrangea plant that filled the
hearth. Gyp looked at the soft, white, downy thing,
whose head was like a tiny owl's against the bluish
petals; looked at the purple-grey tiles down there,
and the stuff of her own frock, in the shaded gleam of
the lamps. And all her love of beauty rebelled, called
up by his: " Oh, no !" She would be unsightly soon,
and suffer pain, and perhaps die of it, as her own
mother had died. She set her teeth, listening to that
grown-up child revolting against what he had brought
on her, and touched his hand, protectingly.

It interested, even amused her this night and next
day to watch his treatment of the disconcerting piece
of knowledge. For when at last he realized that he
had to acquiesce in nature, he began, as she had known
he would, to jib away from all reminder of it. She
was careful not to suggest that he should go away
without her, knowing his perversity. But when he
proposed that she should come to Ostend with him
and Rosek, she answered, after seeming deliberation,
that she thought she had better not — she would rather
stay at home quite quietly; but he must certainly go
and get a good holiday.

When he was really gone, peace fell on Gyp — peace
such as one feels, having no longer the tight, banded
sensations of a fever. To be without that strange,
disorderly presence in the house ! When she woke in
the sultry silence of the next morning, she utterly
failed to persuade herself that she was missing him,

BEYOND 123

missing the sound of his breathing, the sight of his
rumpled hair on the pillow, the outline of his long form
under the sheet. Her heart was devoid of any empti-
ness or ache; she only felt how pleasant and cool and
tranquil it was to lie there alone. She stayed quite
late in bed. It was delicious, with window and door
wide open and the puppies running in and out, to lie
and doze off, or listen to the pigeons' cooing, and the
distant sounds of traffic, and feel in command once
more of herself, body and soul. Now that she had
told Fiorsen, she had no longer any desire to keep
her condition secret. Feeling that it would hurt her
father to learn of it from anyone but herself, she
telephoned to tell him she was alone, and asked if she
might come to Bury Street and dine with him.

Winton had not gone away, because, between
Goodwood and Doncaster there was no racing that
he cared for; one could not ride at this time of year,
so might just as well be in London. In fact, August
was perhaps the pleasantest of all months in town;
the club was empty, and he could sit there without
some old bore buttonhohng him. Little Boncarte,
the fencing-master, was always free for a bout —
Winton had long learned to make his left hand what
his right hand used to be; the Turkish baths in Jermyn
Street were nearly void of their fat clients; he could
saunter over to Covent Garden, buy a melon, and carry
it home without meeting any but the most inferior
duchesses in Piccadilly; on warm nights he could stroll
the streets or the parks, smoking his cigar, his hat
pushed back to cool his forehead, thinking vague
thoughts, recalling vague memories. He received the
news that his daughter was alone and free from that
fellow with something like delight. Where should he

124 BEYOND

dine her ? Mrs. Markey was on her holiday. Why
not Blafard's ? Quiet — small rooms — not too re-
spectable— quite fairly cool — good things to eat. Yes;
Blafard's !

When she drove up, he was ready in the doorway,
his thin brown face with its keen, half -veiled eyes the
picture of composure, but feeling at heart like a school-
boy off for an exeat. How pretty she was looking —
though pale from London — her dark eyes, her smile !
And stepping quickly to the cab, he said:

" No; I'm getting in — dining at Blafard's, Gyp — a
night out !"

It gave him a thrill to walk into that little restaurant
behind her; and passing through its low red rooms
to mark the diners turn and stare with envy — taking
him, perhaps, for a different sort of relation. He
settled her into a far corner by a window, where she
could see the people and be seen. He wanted her to
be seen; while he himself turned to the world only
the short back wings of his glossy greyish hair. He
had no notion of being disturbed in his enjoyment by
the sight of Hivites and Amorites, or whatever they
might be, lapping champagne and shining in the heat.
For, secretly, he was living not only in this evening
but in a certain evening of the past, when, in this
very corner, he had dined with her mother. His face
then had borne the brunt; hers had been turned away
from inquisition. But he did not speak of this to

Gyp.

She drank two full glasses of wine before she told
him her news. He took it with the expression she
knew so well — tightening his lips and staring a little
upward. Then he said quietly:

" When ?"

BEYOND 125

" November, Dad."

A shudder, not to be repressed, went through
Winton. The very month ! And stretching his hand
Across the table, he took hers and pressed it tightly.

" It'll be all right, child; I'm glad."

Clinging to his hand, Gyp murmured:

" I'm not; but I won't be frightened — I promise."

Each was trying to deceive the other; and neither
was deceived. But both were good at putting a calm
face on things. Besides, this was " a night out " —
for her, the first since her marriage — of freedom, of
feeling somewhat as she used to feel with all before
her in a ballroom of a world; for him, the unfettered
resumption of a dear companionship and a stealthy
revel in the past. After his, " So he's gone to Os-
tend ?" and his thought: 'He would!' they never
alluded to Fiorsen, but talked of horses, of Mildenham
— it seemed to Gyp years since she had been there —
of her childish escapades. And, looking at him
quizzically, she asked:

" What were you like as a boy. Dad ? Aunt Rosa-
mund says that you used to get into white rages when
nobody could go near you. She says you were always
climbing trees, or shooting with a catapult, or stalk-
ing things, and that you never told anybody what
you didn't want to tell them. And weren't you des-
perately in love with your nursery-governess ?"

Winton smiled. How long since he had thought of
that first affection. Miss Huntley ! Helena Huntley
— with crinkly brown hair, and blue eyes, and fasci-
nating frocks ! He remembered with what grief and
sense of bitter injury he heard in his first school-
holidays that she was gone. And he said:

" Yes, yes. By Jove, what a time ago ! And my

126 BEYOND

father's going off to India. He never came back;
killed in that first Afghan business. When I was
fond, I was fond. But I didn't feel things like you —
not half so sensitive. No; not a bit like you, Gyp."

And watching her unconscious eyes following the
movements of the waiters, never staring, but taking
in all that was going on, he thought : ' Prettiest creature
in the world !'

" Well," he said: " What would you like to do now
— drop into a theatre, or music-hall, or what ?"

Gyp shook her head. It was so hot. Could they
just drive, and then perhaps sit in the park ? That
would be lovely. It had gone dark, and the air
was not quite so exhausted — a little freshness of scent
from the trees in the squares and parks mingled with
the fumes of dung and petrol. Winton gave the
same order he had given that long past evening:
" Knightsbridge Gate." It had been a hansom then,
and the night air had blown in their faces, instead of
as now in these infernal taxis, down the back of one's
neck. They left the cab and crossed the Row; passed
the end of the Long Water, up among the trees. There,
on two chairs covered by Winton's coat, they sat side
by side. No dew was falling yet; the heavy leaves
hung unstirring; the air was warm, sweet-smelling.
Blotted against trees or on the grass were other couples
darker than the darkness, very silent. All was quiet
save for the never-ceasing hum of traffic. From
Winton's lips, the cigar smoke wreathed and curled.
He was dreaming. The cigar between his teeth
trembled; a long ash fell. Mechanically he raised his
hand to brush it off — his right hand ! A voice said
softly in his ear:

" Isn't it delicious, and warm, and gloomy black ?"

BEYOND 127

Winton shivered, as one shivers recalled from
dreams; and, carefully brushing off the ash with his
left hand, he answered:

" Yes; very jolly. My cigar's out, though, and I
haven't a match."

Gyp's hand slipped through his arm.

" All these people in love, and so dark and whispery
— it makes a sort of strangeness in the air. Don't
you feel it ?"

Winton murmured:

" No moon to-night !"

Again they were silent. A puff of wind ruffled the
leaves; the night, for a moment, seemed full of whisper-
ing; then the sound of a giggle jarred out and a girl's
voice :

" Oh ! Chuck it, 'Arry."

Gyp rose.

" I feel the dew now, Dad. Can we walk on ?"

They went along paths, so as not to wet her feet
in her thin shoes. And they talked. The spell was
over; the night again but a common London night;
the park a space of parching grass and gravel; the
people just clerks and shop-girls walking out.

VIII

Fiorsen's letters were the source of one long smile
to Gyp. He missed her horribly; if only she were
there ! — and so forth — blended in the queerest way
with the impression that he was enjoying himself
uncommonly. There were requests for money, and
careful omission of any real account of what he was
doing. Out of a balance running rather low, she sent
him remittances; this was her holiday, too, and she
could afford to pay for it. She even sought out a shop
where she could sell jewelry, and, with a certain
malicious joy, forwarded him the proceeds. It would
give him and herself another week.

One night she went with Winton to the Octagon,
where Daphne Wing was still performing. Remember-
ing the girl's squeaks of rapture at her garden, she
wrote next day, asking her to lunch and spend a lazy
afternoon under the trees.

The little dancer came with avidity. She was pale,
and droopy from the heat, but happily dressed in
Liberty silk, with a plain turn-down straw hat. They
unched off sweetbreads, ices, and fruit, and then,
with coffee, cigarettes, and plenty of sugar-plums,
settled down in the deepest shade of the garden, Gyp
in a low wicker chair, Daphne Wing on cushions and
the grass. Once past the exclamatory stage, she
seemed a great talker, laying bare her little soul with
perfect liberality. And Gyp — excellent listener — en-

128

BEYOND 129

joyed it, as one enjoys all confidential revelations of
existences very different from one's own, especially
when regarded as a superior being.

" Of course I don't mean to stay at home any longer
than I can help; only it's no good going out into life "
— this phrase she often used — " till you know where
you are. In my profession, one has to be so careful.
Of course, people think it's worse than it is; Father
gets fits sometimes. But you know, Mrs. Fiorsen,
home's awful. We have mutton — you know what
mutton is — it's really awful in your bedroom in hot
weather. And there's nowhere to practise. What I
should like would be a studio. It would be lovely,
somewhere down by the river, or up here near you.
That would be lovely. You know, I'm putting by.
As soon as ever I have two hundred pounds, I shall
skip. What I think would be perfectly lovely would
be to inspire painters and musicians. I don't want to
be just a common ' turn ' — ballet business year after
year, and that; I want to be something rather special.
But Mother's so silly about me; she thinks I oughtn't
to take any risks at all. I shall never get on that
way. It is so nice to talk to you, Mrs. Fiorsen, because
you're young enough to know what I feel; and I'm
sure you'd never be shocked at anything. You see,
about men: Ought one to marry, or ought one to take
a lover ? They say you can't be a perfect artist till
you've felt passion. But, then, if you marry, that
means mutton over again, and peAaps babies, and
perhaps the wrong man after all. Ugh ! But then,
on the other hand, I don't want to be raffish. I hate
raffish people — I simply hate them. What do 3'ou
think ? It's awfully difficult, isn't it ?"

Gyp, perfectly grave, answered:

9

130 BEYOND

" That sort of thing settles itself, I shouldn't
bother beforehand."

Miss Daphne Wing buried her perfect chin deeper in
her hands, and said meditatively:

" Yes; I rather thought that, too; of course I could
do either now. But, you see, I really don't care for
men who are not distinguished. I'm sure I shall only
fall in love with a really distinguished man. That's
what you did — isn't it ? — so you must understand. I
think Mr. Fiorsen is wonderfully distinguished."

Sunlight, piercing the shade, suddenly fell warm on
Gyp's neck where her blouse ceased, and fortunately
stilled the medley of emotion and laughter a little
lower down. She continued to look gravely at Daphne
Wing, who resumed:

" Of course, Mother would have fits if I asked her
such a question, and I don't know what Father would
do. Only it is important, isn't it ? One may go all
wrong from the start; and I do really want to get on.
I simply adore my work. I don't mean to let love
stand in its way; I want to make it help, you know.
Count Rosek says my dancing lacks passion. I wish
you'd tell me if you think it does. I should believe
ou."

Gyp shook her head.

" I'm not a judge."

Daphne Wing looked up reproachfully.

" Oh, I'm sure you are ! If I were a man, I should
be passionately in love with you. I've got a new
dance where I'm supposed to be a nymph pursued by
a faun; it's so difficult to feel like a nymph when you
know it's only the ballet-master. Do you think I
ought to put passion into that ? You see, I'm sup-
posed to be flying all the time; but it would be much

BEYOND 131

more subtle, wouldn't it, if I could give the impression
that I wanted to be caught. Don't you think so ?"

Gyp said suddenly:

" Yes, I think it would do you good to be in love."

Miss Daphne's mouth fell a little open; her eyes
grew round. She said:

" You frightened me when you said that. You
looked so different — so — intense."

A flame indeed had leaped up in Gyp. This fluffy,
flabby talk of love set her instincts in revolt. She did
not want to love; she had failed to fall in love. But,
whatever love was like, it did not bear talking about
How was it that this little suburban girl, when she
once got on her toes, could twirl one's emotions as
she did ?

" D'you know what I should simply revel in ?"
Daphne Wing went on: "To dance to you here in the
garden some night. It must be wonderful to dance
out of doors; and the grass is nice and hard now.
Only, I suppose it would shock the servants. Do
they look out this way ?" Gyp skook her head. " I
could dance over there in front of the drawing-room
window. Only it would have to be moonlight. I
could come any Sunday. I've got a dance where I'm
supposed to be a lotus flower — that would do splen-
didly. And there's my real moonlight dance that goes
to Chopin, I could bring my dresses, and change in
the music-room, couldn't I ?" She wriggled up, and
sat cross-legged, gazing at Gyp, and clasping her hands.
" Oh, may I ?"

Her excitement infected Gyp. A desire to give
pleasure, the queerness of the notion, and her real love
of seeing this girl dance, made her say:

" Yes; next Sunday."

132 BEYOND

Daphne Wing got up, made a rush, and kissed her.
Her mouth was soft, and she smelled of orange blossom ;
but Gyp recoiled a little — she hated promiscuous
kisses. Somewhat abashed, Miss Daphne hung her
head, and said:

"You did look so lovely; I couldn't help it,
really."

And Gyp gave her hand the squeeze of compunction.

They went indoors, to try over the music of the
two dances; and soon after Daphne Wing departed,
full of sugar-plums and hope.

She arrived punctually at eight o'clock next Sunday,
carrying an exiguous green linen bag, which contained
her dresses. She was subdued, and, now that it had
come to the point, evidently a little scared. Lobster
salad, hock, and peaches restored her courage. She
ate heartily. It did not apparently matter to her
whether she danced full or empty; but she would not
smoke.

" It's bad for the " She checked herself.

When they had finished supper. Gyp shut the dogs
into the back premises ; she had visions of their rending
Miss Wing's draperies, or calves. Then they went
into the drawing-room, not lighting up, that they might
tell when the moonlight was strong enough outside.
Though it was the last night of August, the heat was
as great as ever — a deep, unstirring warmth; the climb-
ing moon shot as yet but a thin shaft here and there
through the heavy foliage. They talked in low voices,
unconsciously playing up to the nature of the escapade.
As the moon drew up, they stele out across the garden
to the music-room. Gyp lighted the candles.

" Can you manage ?"

Miss Daphne had already shed half her garments.

BEYOND 133

" Oh, I'm so excited, Mrs. Fiorsen ! I do hope I
shall dance well."

Gyp stole back to the house; it being Sunday
evening, the servants had been easily disposed of.
She sat down at the piano, turning her eyes toward
the garden. A blurred white shape flitted suddenly
across the darkness at the far end and became motion-
less, as it might be a whiteflowering bush under the
trees. Miss Daphne had come out, and was waiting
for the moon. Gyp began to play. She pitched on
a little Sicilian pastorale that the herdsmen play on
their pipes coming down from the hills, softly, from
very far, rising, rising, swelling to full cadence, and
failing, failing away again to nothing. The moon
rose over the trees; its light flooded the face of the
house, down on to the grass, and spread slowly back
toward where the girl stood waiting. It caught the
border of sunflowers along the garden wall with a stroke
of magical, unearthly colour — gold that was not gold.

Gyp began to play the dance. The pale blurr in the
darkness stirred. The moonlight fell on the girl now,
standing with arms spread, holding out her drapery —
a white, winged statue. Then, like a gigantic moth
she fluttered forth, blanched and noiseless flew over
the grass, spun and hovered. The moonlight etched
out the shape of her head, painted her hair with pallid
gold. In the silence, with that unearthly gleam of
colour along the sunflowers and on the girl's head, it
was as if a spirit had dropped into the garden and was
fluttering to and fro, unable to get out.

A voice behind Gyp said: " My God ! What's this ?
An angel ?"

Fiorsen was standing half-way in the darkened
room staring out into the garden, where the girl had

134 BEYOND

halted, transfixed before the window, her eyes as round
as saucers, her mouth open, her hmbs rigid with
interest and affright. Suddenly she turned and,
gathering her garment, fled, her limbs gleaming in
the moonlight.

And Gyp sat looking up at the apparition of her
husband. She could just see his eyes straining after
that flying nymph. Miss Daphne's faun ! Why,
even his ears were pointed ! Had she never noticed
before how like a faun he was ? Yes— on her wedding-
night ! And she said quietly:

" Daphne Wing was rehearsing her new dance. So
you're back ! Why didn't you let me know ? Are
you all right — you look splendid !"

Fiorsen bent down and clutched her by the shoulders.

" My Gyp ! Kiss me !"

But even while his lips were pressed on hers, she
felt rather than saw his eyes straying to the garden,
and thought, " He would like to be kissing that girl !"

The moment he had gone to get his things from the
cab, she slipped out to the music-room.

Miss Daphne was dressed, and stuffing her garments
into the green linen bag. She looked up, and said
piteously :

"Oh! Does he mind? It's awful, isn't it ?"

Gyp strangled her desire to laugh.

" It's for you to mind."

" Oh, / don't, if you don't ! How did you like the
dance ?"

" Lovely ! When you're ready — come along !"

" Oh, I think I'd rather go home, please ! It must
seem so funny !"

" Would you like to go by this back way into the
lane ? You turn to the right, into the road."

BEYOND 135

"Oh, yes; please. It would have been better if he
could have seen the dance properly, wouldn't it ?
What will he think ?"

Gyp smiled, and opened the door into the lane.

When she returned, Fiorsen was at the window,
gazing out. Was it for her or for that flying nymph ?

IX

September and October passed. There were more
concerts, not very well attended. Fiorsen's novelty
had worn off, nor had his playing sweetness and senti-
ment enough for the big Public. There was also a
financial crisis. It did not seem to Gyp to matter.
Everything seemed remote and unreal in the shadow
of her coming time. Unlike most mothers to be, she
made no garments, no preparations of any kind.
Why make what might never be needed ? She played
for Fiorsen a great deal, for herself not at all, read
many books — poetry, novels, biographies — taking them
in at the moment, and forgetting them at once, as
one does with books read just to distract the mind.
Winton and Aunt Rosamund, by tacit agreement,
came on alternate afternoons. And Winton, almost
as much under that shadow as Gyp herself, would
take the evening train after leaving her, and spend the
next day racing or cub-hunting, returning the morning
of the day after to pay his next visit. He had no dread
just then like that of an unoccupied day face to face
with anxiety.

Betty, who had been present at Gyp's birth, was
in a queer state. The obvious desirability of such
events to one of motherly type defrauded by fate of
children was terribly impinged on by that old memory,
and a solicitude for her " pretty " far exceeding what
she would have had for a daughter of her own. What
a peony regards as a natural happening to a peony,

136

BEYOND 137

she watches with awe when it happens to the hly.
That other single lady of a certain age, Aunt Rosamund,
the very antithesis to Betty — a long, thin nose and
a mere button, a sense of divine rights and no sense of
rights at all, a drawl and a comforting wheeze, length
and circumference, decision and the curtsey to provi-
dence, humour and none, dyspepsia, and the digestion
of an ostrich, with other oppositions — Aunt Rosamund
was also uneasy, as only one could be who disapproved
heartily of uneasiness, and habitually joked and
drawled it into retirement.

But of all those round Gyp, Fiorsen gave the most
interesting display. He had not even an elementary
notion of disguising his state of mind. And his state
of mind was weirdly, wistfully primitive. He wanted
Gyp as she had been. The thought that she might
never become herself again terrified him so at times
that he was forced to drink brandy, and come home
only a little less far gone than that first time. Gyp
had often to help him go to bed. On two or three
occasions, he suffered so that he was out all night.
To account for this, she devised the formula of a room
at Count Rosek's, where he slept when music kept
him late, so as not to disturb her. Whether the
servants believed her or not, she never knew. Nor
did she ever ask him where he went — too proud, and
not feeling that she had the right.

Deeply conscious of the unaesthetic nature of her
condition, she was convinced that she could no longer
be attractive to one so easily upset in his nerves, so
intolerant of ugliness. As to deeper feelings about
her — had he any ? He certainly never gave anything
up, or sacrificed himself in any way. If she had loved,
she felt she would want to give up everything to the

138 BEYOND

loved one; but then — she would never love ! And yet
he seemed frightened about her. It was puzzling !
But perhaps she would not be puzzled much longer
about that or anything; for she often had the feeling
that she would die. How could she be going to live,
grudging her fate ? What would give her strength
to go through with it ? And, at times, she felt as if
she would be glad to die. Life had defrauded her, or
she had defrauded herself of life. Was it really only
a year since that glorious day's hunting when Dad and
she, and the 3^oung man with the clear eyes and the
irrepressible smile, had slipped away with the hounds
ahead of all the field — the fatal day Fiorsen descended
from the clouds and asked for her ? An overwhelming
longing for Mildenham came on her, to get away there
with her father and Betty.

She went at the beginning of November.
Over her departure, Fiorsen behaved like a tired
child that will not go to bed. He could not bear to
be away from her, and so forth; but when she had gone,
he spent a furious bohemian evening. At about five,
he woke with " an awful cold feeling in my heart,"
as he wrote to Gyp next day — " an awful feeling, my
Gyp; I walked up and down for hours" (in reality,
half an hour at most). " How shall I bear to be away
from you at this time ? I feel lost." Next day, he
found himself in Paris with Rosek. " I could not
stand," he wrote, " the sight of the streets, of the
garden, of our room. When I come back I shall stay
with Rosek. Nearer to tht day I will come; I must
come to you." But Gyp, when she read the letter,
said to Winton: " Dad, when it comes, don't send for
him. I don't want him here."

With those letters of his, she buried the last remnants

BEYOND 139

of her feeling that somewhere in him there must be
something as fine and beautiful as the sounds he made
with his violin. And yet she felt those letters genuine
in a way, pathetic, and with real feeling of a sort.

From the moment she reached Mildenham, she began
to lose that hopelessness about herself; and, for the
first time, had the sensation of wanting to live in the
new life within her. She first felt it, going into her
old nursery, where everything was the same as it had
been when she first saw it, a child of eight; there was
her old red doll's house, the whole side of which
opened to display the various floors ; the worn
Venetian blinds, the rattle of whose fall had sounded
in her ears so many hundred times; the high fender,
near which she had lain so often on the floor, her chin
on her hands, reading Grimm, or " Alice in Wonder-
land," or histories of England. Here, too, perhaps
this new child would Uve amongst the old familiars.
And the whim seized her to face her hour in her old
nursery, not in the room where she had slept as a girl.
She would not like the daintiness of that room de-
flowered. Let it stay the room of her girlhood. But
in the nursery — there was safety, comfort ! And
when she had been at Mildenham a week, she made
Betty change her over.

No one in that house was half so calm to look at
in those days as Gyp. Betty was not guiltless of
sitting on the stairs and crying at odd moments.
Mrs. Markey had never made such bad soups. Markey
so far forgot himself as frequently to talk. Winton
lamed a horse trying an impossible jump that he might
get home the quicker, and, once back, was like an
unquiet spirit. If Gyp were in the room, he would
make the pretence of wanting to warm his feet or

140 BEYOND

hand, just to stroke her shoulder as he went back to
his chair. His voice, so measured and dry, had a ring
in it, that too plainly disclosed the anxiety of his heart.
Gyp, always sensitive to atmosphere, felt cradled in
all the love about her. Wonderful that they should
all care so much ! What had she done for anyone,
that people should be so sweet — he especially, whom
she had so grievously distressed by her wretched
marriage ? She would sit staring into the fire with her
wide, dark eyes, unblinking as an owl's at night —
wondering what she could do to make up to her father,
whom already once she had nearly killed by coming
into life. And she began to practise the bearing of
the coming pain, trying to project herself into this
unknown suffering, so that it should not surprise from
her cries and contortions.

She had one dream, over and over again, of sinking
and sinking into a feather bed, growing hotter and more
deeply walled in by that which had no stay in it, yet
through which her body could not fall and reach
anything more solid. Once, after this dream, she got
up and spent the rest of the night wrapped in a blanket
and the eider-down, on the old sofa, where, as a child,
they had made her lie flat on her back from twelve to
one every day. Betty was aghast at finding her there
asleep in the morning. Gyp's face was so like the
child-face she had seen lying there in the old days,
that she bundled out of the room and cried bitterly
into the cup of tea. It did her good. Going back
with the tea, she scolded her " pretty " for sleeping
out there, with the fire out, too !

But Gyp only said:

" Betty, darling, the tea's awfully cold ! Please
get me some more !"

X

From the day of the nurse's arrival, Winton gave up
hunting. He could not bring himself to be out of
doors for more than half an hour at a time. Distrust
of doctors did not prevent him having ten minutes
every morning with the old practitioner who had
• treated Gyp for mumps, measles, and the other bless-
ings of childhood. The old fellow — his name was
Rivershaw — was a most peculiar survival. He smelled
of mackintosh, had round purplish cheeks, a rim of
hair which people said he dyed, and bulging grey eyes
slightly bloodshot. He was short in body and wind,
drank port wine, was suspected of taking snuff, read
The Times, spoke always in a husk}^ voice, and used a
very small brougham with a very old black horse.
But he had a certain low cunning, which had defeated
many ailments, and his reputation for assisting people
into the world stood extremely high. Every morning
punctually at twelve, the crunch of his little brougham's
wheels would be heard. Winton would get up, and,
taking a deep breath, cross the hall to the dining-
room, extract from a sideboard a decanter of port, a
biscuit-canister, and one glass. He would then stand
with his eyes fixed on the door, till, in due time, the
doctor would appear, and he could say :

" Well, doctor ? How is she ?"

" Nicely; quite nicely."

" Nothing to make one anxious ?"

141

142 BEYOND

The doctor, puffing out his cheeks, with eyes stray-
ing to the decanter, would murmur:

" Cardiac condition, capital — a little — um — not to
matter. Taking its course. These things !"

And Winton, with another deep breath, would say:

" Glass of port, doctor ?"

An expression of surprise would pass over the
doctor's face.

" Cold day — ah, perhaps " And he would blow

his nose on his purple-and-red bandanna.

Watching him drink his port, Winton would remark:

" We can get you at any time, can't we ?"

And the doctor, sucking his lips, would answer :

" Never fear, my dear sir ! Little Miss Gyp — old
friend of mine. At her service day and night. Never
fear !"

A sensation of comfort would pass through Winton,
which would last quite twenty minutes after the
crunching of the wheels and the mingled perfumes of
him had died away.

In these days, his greatest friend was an old watch
that had been his father's before him; a gold repeater
from Switzerland, with a chipped dial-plate, and a case
worn wondrous thin and smooth — a favourite of Gyp's
childhood. He would take it out about every quarter
of an hour, look at its face without discovering the
time, finger it, all smooth and warm from contact
with his body, and put it back. Then he would Usten.
There was nothing whatever to listen to, but he could
not help it. Apart from this, his chief distraction was
to take a foil and make passes at a leather cushion,
set up on the top of a low bookshelf. In these occupa-
tions, varied by constant visits to the room next the
nursery, where — to save her the stairs — Gyp was now

BEYOND 143

established, and by excursions to the conservatory to
see if he could not find some new flower to take her,
he passed all his time, save when he was eating, sleep-
ing, or smoking cigars, which he had constantly to
be relighting.

By Gyp's request, they kept from him knowledge
of when her pains began. After that first bout was
over and she was lying half asleep in the old nursery,
he happened to go up. The nurse — a bonny creature
— one of those free, independent, economic agents
that now abound — met him in the sitting-room.
Accustomed to the " fuss and botheration of men "
at such times, she was prepared to deliver him a little
lecture. But, in approaching, she became affected
by the look on his face, and, realizing somehow that
she was in the presence of one whose self-control was
proof, she simply whispered:

" It's beginning; but don't be anxious — she's not
suffering just now. We shall send for the doctor
soon. She's very plucky;" and with an unaccustomed
sensation of respect and pity she repeated: " Don't
be anxious, sir."

" If she wants to see me at any time, I shall be in
my study. Save her all you can, nurse."

The nurse was left with a feeling of surprise at having
used the word " Sir "; she had not done such a thing

since — since ! And, pensive, she returned to the

nursery, where Gyp said at once:

" Was that my father ? I didn't want him to know."

The nurse answered mechanically :

" That's all right, my dear."

" How long do you think before — before it'll begin
again, nurse ? I'd like to see him."

The nurse stroked her hair.

144 BEYOND

" Soon enough when it's all over and comfy. Men
are always fidgety."

Gyp looked at her, and said quietly :

" Yes. You see, my mother died when I was born."

The nurse, watching those lips, still pale with pain,
felt a queer pang. She smoothed the bedclothes
and said:

" That's nothing — it often happens — that is, I mean,
— you know it has no connection whatever."

And seeing Gyp smile, she thought : ' Well, I am
a fool.'

" If by any chance I don't get through, I want to
be cremated; I want to go back as quick as I can.
I can't bear the thought of the other thing. Will
you remember, nurse ? I can't tell my father that
just now; it might upset him. But promise me."

And the nurse thought: ' That can't be done with-
out a will or something, but I'd better promise. It's
a morbid fancy, and yet she's not a morbid subject,
either.' And she said:

"Very well, my dear; only, you're not going to do
anything of the sort. That's flat."

Gyp smiled again, and there was silence, till she
said:

" I'm awfully ashamed, wanting all this attention,
and making people miserable. I've read that Japanese
women quietly go out somewhere by themselves and
sit on a gate."

The nurse, still busy with the bedclothes, murmured
abstractedly :

" Yes, that's a very good way. But don't you fancy
you're half the trouble most of them are. You're
very good, and you're going to get on splendidly."
And she thought : ' Odd ! She's never once spoken

BEYOND 145

of her husband. I don't like it for this sort — too
perfect, too sensitive; her face touches you so !'

Gyp murmured again:

" I'd hke to see my father, please; and rather
quick."

The nurse, after one swift look, went out.

Gyp, who had clenched her hands under the bed-
clothes, fixed her eyes on the window. November !
Acorns and the leaves — the nice, damp, earthy smell !
Acorns all over the grass. She used to drive the old
retriever in harness on the lawn covered with acorns
and the dead leaves, and the wind still blowing them
off the trees — in her brown velvet — that was a ducky
dress ! Who was it had called her once " a wise little
owl," in that dress ? And, suddenly, her heart sank.
The pain was coming again. Winton's voice from the
door said:

" WeU, my pet ?"

" It was only to see how you are. I'm all right.
What sort of a day is it ? You'll go riding, won't
you ? Give my love to the horses. Good-bye, Dad;
just for now."

Her forehead was wet to his lips.

Outside, in the passage, her smile, like something
actual on the air, preceded him — the smile that had
just lasted out. 3ut when he was back in the study,
he suffered — suffered ! Why could he not have that
pain to bear instead ?

The crunch of the brougham brought his ceaseless
march over the carpet to an end. He went out into
the hall and looked into the doctor's face — he had
forgotten that this old fellow knew nothing of his
special reason for deadly fear. Then he turned back
into his study. The wild south wind brought wet

146 BEYOND

drift-leaves whirling against the panes. It was here
that he had stood loo ring out into the ark, when
Fiorsen came down to ask for Gyp a year pj^o. Why
had he not bundled the fellow out neck and crop, and
taken her away ? — India, Japan — anywhere would
have done ! She had not loved that fiddler, never
really loved him. Monstrous — monstrous ! The full
bitterness of having missed right action swept over
Winton, and he positively groaned aloud. He moved
from the window and went over to the bookcase;
there in one row were the few books he ever read,
and he took one out. " Life of General Lee." He
put it back and took another, a novel of Whyte
Melville's: " Good for Nothing." Sad book — sad
ending ! The book dropped from his hand and fell
with a flump on the floor. In a sort of icy discovery,
he had seen his life as it would be if for a second time
he had to bear such loss. She must not — could not

die ! If she did — then, for him ! In old times

they buried a man with his horse and his dog, as if
at the end of a good run. There was always that !
The extremity of this thought brought relief. He sat
down, and, for a long time, stayed staring into the fire
in a sort of coma. Then his feverish fears began
again. Why the devil didn't they come and tell him
something, anything — rather than this silence, this
deadly solitude and waiting ? What was that ?
The front door shutting. Wheels ? Had that hell-
hound of an old doctor sneaked off ? He started up.
There at the door was Markey, holding in his hand
some cards. Winton scanned them.

" Lady Summerhay; Mr. Bryan Summerhay. I
said, ' Not at home,' sir."

Winton nodded.

BEYOND 147

"Well?"

" Nothing at present. You have had no lunch, sir."

" What time is it ?"

" Four o'clock."

" Bring in my fur coat and the port, and make the
fire up. I want any news there is."

Markey nodded.

Odd to sit in a fur coat before a fire, and the day
not cold ! They said you lived on after death. He
had never been able to feel that she was living on.

She lived in Gyp. And now if Gyp ! Death —

your own — no great matter ! But — for her ! The
wind was dropping with the darkness. He got up
and drew the curtains.

It was seven o'clock when the doctor came down
into the hall, and stood rubbing his freshly washed
hands before opening the study door. Winton was
still sitting before the fire, motionless, shrunk into his
fur coat. He raised himself a little and looked round
dully.

The doctor's face puckered, his eyelids drooped
half-way across his bulging eyes; it was his way of
smiling. " Nicely," he said; " nicely — a girl. No
complications."

Winton's whole body seemed to swell, his lips opened,
he raised his hand. Then, the habit of a lifetime
catching him by the throat, he stayed motionless. At
last he got up and said :

" Glass of port, doctor ?"

The doctor spying at him above the glass thought:
' This is " the fifty-two." Give me " the sixty-eight "
— more body.'

After a time, Winton went upstairs. Waiting in
the outer room he had a return of his cold dread.

148 BEYOND

" Perfectly successful — the patient died from ex-
haustion !" The tiny squawking noise that fell on
his ears entirely failed to reassure him. He cared
nothing for that new being. Suddenly he found
Betty just behind him, her bosom heaving horribly.
" What is it, woman ? Don't !"
She had leaned against his shoulder, appearing to
have lost all sense of right and wrong, and, out of her
sobbing, gurgled:

" She looks so lovely — oh dear, she looks so
lovely !"

Pushing her abruptly from him, Winton peered in
through the just-opened door. Gyp was lying extremely
still, and very white; her eyes, very large, very dark,
were fastened on her baby. Her face wore a kind of
wonder. She did not see Winton, who stood stone-
quiet, watching, while the nurse moved about her
business behind a screen. This was the first time in
his life that he had seen a mother with her just-born
baby. That look on her face — gone right away some-
where, right away — amazed him. She had never
seemed to like children, had said she did not want a
child. She turned her head and saw him. He went
in. She made a faint motion toward the baby, and
her eyes smiled. Winton looked at that swaddled
speckled mite; then, bending down, he kissed her hand
and tiptoed away.

At dinner he drank champagne, and benevolence
towards all the world spread in his being. Watching
the smoke of his cigar wreathe about him, he thought :
' Must send that chap a wire.' After all, he was a
fellow being — might be suffering, as he himself had
suffered only two hours ago. To keep him in ignorance
— it wouldn't do ! And he wrote out the form —

BEYOND 149

" All well, a daughter. — Winton,"

and sent it out with the order that a groom should take
it in that night.

Gyp was sleeping when he stole up at ten o'clock.

He, too, turned in, and slept like a child.

XI

Returning the next afternoon from the first ride for
several days, Winton passed the station fly rolUng away
from the drive-gate with the Hght-hearted disillusion-
ment pecuUar to quite empty vehicles.

The sight of a fur coat and broad-brimmed hat in
the hall warned him of what had happened.

" Mr. Fiorsen, sir; gone up to Mrs. Fiorsen."

Natural, but a d d bore ! And bad, perhaps, for

Gyp. He asked:

" Did he bring things ?"

" A bag, sir."

" Get a room ready, then."

To dine tete-d-tete with that fellow !

Gyp had passed the strangest morning in her life,
so far. Her baby fascinated her, also the tug of its
lips, giving her the queerest sensation, almost sensual;
a sort of meltedness, an infinite warmth, a desire to
grip the little creature right into her — which, of course
one must not do. And yet, neither her sense of humour
nor her sense of beauty were deceived. It was a
queer little affair with a tuft of black hair, in grace
greatly inferior to a kitten. Its tiny, pink, crisped
fingers with their infinitesimal nails, its microscopic
curly toes, and solemn black eyes — when they showed,
its inimitable stillness when it slept, its incredible
vigour when it fed, were all, as it were, miraculous.
Withal, she had a feeling of gratitude to one that had
not killed nor even hurt her so very desperately —

150

BEYOND 151

gratitude because she had succeeded, performed her
part of mother perfectly — the nurse had said so —
she, so distrustful of herself ! Instinctively she knew,
too, that this was her baby, not his, going " to take
after her," as they called it. How it succeeded in
giving that impression she could not tell, unless it
were the passivity, and dark eyes of the little creature.
Then from one till three they had slept together with
perfect soundness and unanimity. She awoke to find
the nurse standing by the bed, looking as if she wanted
to tell her something.

" Someone to see you, my dear."

And Gyp thought: 'He! I can't think quickly;
I ought to think quickly — I want to, but I can't.'
Her face expressed this, for the nurse said at once:

" I don't think you're quite up to it yet."

Gyp answered

" Yes. ■ Only, not for five minutes, please."

Her spirit had been very far away, she wanted time
to get it back before she saw him — time to know in
some sort what she felt now; what this mite lying
beside her had done for her and him. The thought
that it was his, too — this tiny, helpless being — seemed
unreal. No, it was not his ! He had not wanted it,
and now that she had been through the torture it was
hers, not his — never his. The memory of the night
when she first yielded to the certainty that the child
was coming, and he had come home drunk, swooped
on her, and made her shrink and shudder and put her
arm round her baby. It had not made any difference.

Only Back came the old accusing thought, from

which these last days she had been free : ' But I
married him — I chose to marry him. I can't get out
of that !' And she felt as if she must cry out to the

152 BEYOND

nurse: "Keep him away; I don't want to see him.
Oh, please, I'm tired." She bit the words back.
And presently, with a very faint smile, said :

" Now, I'm ready."

She noticed first what clothes he had on — his newest
suit, dark grey, with little lighter lines — she had chosen
it herself; that his tie was in a bow, not a sailor's knot,
and his hair brighter than usual — as always just after
being cut ; and surely the hair was growing down again
in front of his ears. Then, gratefully, almost with
emotion, she realized that his lips were quivering, his
whole face quivering. He came in on tiptoe, stood
looking at her a minute, then crossed very swiftly to
the bed, very swiftly knelt down, and, taking her hand,
turned it over and put his face to it. The bristles of
his moustache tickled her palm; his nose flattened
itself against her fingers, and his lips kept murmuring
words into the hand, with the moist warm touch of
his lips. Gyp knew he was burying there all his
remorse, perhaps the excesses he had committed while
she had been away from him, burying the fears he
had felt, and the emotion at seeing her so white and
still. She felt that in a minute he would raise a quite
different face. And it flashed through her: ' If I
loved him I wouldn't mind what he did — ever ! WTiy
don't I love him ? There's something lovable. Why
don't I ?'

He did raise his face; his eyes lighted on the
baby, and he grinned.

" Look at this !" he said. " Is it possible ? Oh,
my Gyp, what a funny one ! Oh, oh, oh !" He went
off into an ecstasy of smothered laughter; then his
face grew grave, and slowly puckered into a sort of
comic disgust. Gyp too had seen the humours of her

BEYOND 153

baby, of its queer little reddish pudge of a face, of
its twenty-seven black hairs, and the dribble at its
almost invisible mouth; but she had also seen it as a
miracle; she had felt it, and there surged up from her
all the old revolt and more against his lack of con-
sideration. It was not a funny one — her baby ! It
was not ugly ! Or, if it were, she was not fit to be
told of it. Her arm tightened round the warm bundled
thing against her. Fiorsen put his j5nger out and
touched its cheek.

" It is real — so it is. Mademoiselle Fiorsen. Tk,
tk!"

The baby stirred. And Gyp thought: ' If I loved
I wouldn't even mind his laughing at my baby. It
would be different,'

" Don't wake her !" she whispered. She felt his
eyes on her, knew that his interest in the baby had
ceased as suddenly as it came, that he v/as thinking,
' How long before I have you in my arms again ?'
He touched her hair. And, suddenly, she had a
fainting, sinking sensation that she had never yet
known. When she opened her eyes again, the economic
agent was holding something beneath her nose and
making sounds that seemed to be the words: " Well,

I am a d d fool !" repeatedly expressed. Fiorsen

was gone.

Seeing Gyp's eyes once more open, the nurse with-
drew the ammonia, replaced the baby, and saying :
" Now go to sleep !" withdrew behind the screen.
Like all robust personalities, she visited on others her
vexations with herself. But Gyp did not go to sleep;
she gazed now at her sleeping baby, now at the pattern
of the wall-paper, trying mechanically to find the bird
caught at intervals amongst its brown-and-green

154 BEYOND

foliage — one bird in each alternate square of the
pattern, so that there was always a bird in the centre
of four other birds. And the bird was of green and
yellow with a red beak.

On being turned out of the nursery with the assur-
ance that it was " all right — only a little faint," Fiorsen
went down-stairs disconsolate. The atmosphere of
this dark house where he was a stranger, an unwelcome
stranger, was insupportable. He wanted nothing in
it but Gyp, and Gyp had fainted at his touch. No
wonder he felt miserable. He opened a door. What
room was this ? A piano ! The drawing-room. Ugh !
No fire — what misery ! He recoiled to the doorway
and stood listening. Not a sound. Grey light in the
cheerless room ; almost dark already in the hall behind
him. What a life these English lived — worse than the
winter in his old country home in Sweden, where, at
all events, they kept good fires. And, suddenly, all
his being revolted. Stay here and face that father —
and that image of a servant ! Stay here for a night
of this ! Gyp was not his Gyp, lying there with that
baby beside her, in this hostile house. Smothering
his footsteps, he made for the outer hall. There were
his coat and hat. He put them on. His bag ? He
could not see it. No matter ! They could send it
after him. He would write to her — say that her faint-
ing had upset him — that he could not risk making her
faint again — could not stay in the house so near her,
yet so far. She M^ould understand. And there came
over him a sudden wave of longing. Gyp ! He
wanted her. To be with her ! To look at her and kiss
her, and feel her his own again ! And, opening the
door, he passed out on to the drive and strode away,

BEYOND 155

miserable and sick at heart. All the way to the station
through the darkening lanes, and in the railway
carriage going up, he felt that aching wretchedness.
Only in the lighted street, driving back to Rosek's,
did he shake it off a little. At dinner and after,
drinking that special brandy he nearly lost it; but it
came back when he went to bed, till sleep relieved him
with its darkness and dreams.

XII

Gyp's recovery proceeded at first with a sure rapidity
which delighted Winton. As the economic agent
pointed out, she was beautifully made, and that had
a lot to do with it !

Before Christmas Day, she was already out, and on
Christmas morning the old doctor, by way of present,
pronounced her fit and ready to go home when she liked.
That afternoon, she was not so well, and next day
back again upstairs. Nothing seemed definitely wrong,
only a sort of desperate lassitude; as if the knowledge
that to go back was within her power, only needing
her decision, had been too much for her. And since
no one knew her inward feelings, all were puzzled
except Winton. The nursing of her child was promptly
stopped.

It was not till the middle of January that she said
to him :

" I must go home. Dad."

The word " home " hurt him, and he only answered:

" Very well. Gyp; when ?"

" The house is quite ready. I think I had better
go to-morrow. He's still at Rosek's. I won't let him
know. Two or three days there by myself first would
be better for settling baby in."

" Very well; I'U take you up."

He made no effort to ascertain her feelings toward
Fiorsen. He knew too well.

They travelled next day, reaching London at half-

156

BEYOND 157

past two. Betty had gone up in the early morning
to prepare the way. The dogs had been with Aunt
Rosamund all this time. Gyp missed their greeting;
but the installation of Betty and the baby in the spare
room that was now to be the nursery, absorbed all
her first energies. Light was just beginning to fail
when, still in her fur, she took a key of the music-room
and crossed the garden, to see how all had fared
during her ten weeks' absence. What a wintry garden !
How different from that languorous, warm, moonlit
night when Daphne Wing had come dancing out of
the shadow of the dark trees. How bare and sharp
the boughs against the grey, darkening sky — and not
a song of any bird, not a flower ! She glanced back
at the house. Cold and white it looked, but there
were lights in her room and in the nursery, and some-
one just drawing the curtains. Now that the leaves
were off, one could see the other houses of the road,
each different in shape and colour, as is the habit of
London houses. It was cold, frosty; Gyp hurried
down the path. Four little icicles had formed beneath
the window of the music-room. They caught her eye,
and, passing round to the side, she broke one off.
There must be a fire in there, for she could see the
flicker through the curtains not quite drawn. Thought-
ful Ellen had been airing it ! But, suddenly, she
stood still. There was more than a fire in there !
Through the chink in the drawn curtains she had seen
two figures seated on the divan. Something seemed
to spin round in her head. She turned to rush away.
Then a kind of superhuman coolness came to her,
and she deliberately looked in. He and Daphne
Wing ! His arm was round her neck. The girl's face
riveted her eyes. It was turned a little back and up.

158 BEYOND

gazing at him, the Ups parted, the eyes hypnotized,
adoring; and her arm round him seemed to shiver —
with cold, with ecstasy ?

Again that something went spinning through Gyp's
head. She raised her hand. For a second it hovered
close to the glass. Then, with a sick feeling, she
dropped it and turned away.

Never ! Never would she show him or that girl
that they could hurt her ! Never ! They were safe
from any scene she would make — safe in their nest !
And blindly, across the frosty grass, through the un-
lighted drawing-room, she went upstairs to her room,
locked the door, and sat down before the fire. Pride
raged within her. She stuffed her handkerchief
between her teeth and lips; she did it unconsciously.
Her eyes felt scorched from the fire-flames, but she
did not trouble to hold her hand before them.

Suddenly she thought : ' Suppose I had loved him ?'
and laughed. The handkerchief dropped to her lap,
and she looked at it with wonder — it was blood-
stained. She drew back in the chair^ away from the
scorching of the fire, and sat quite still, a smile on her
lips. That girl's eyes, like a little adoring dog's —
that girl, who had fawned on her so ! She had got
her " distinguished man " ! She sprang up and looked
at herself in the glass; shuddered, turned her back on
herself, and sat down again. In her own house !
Why not here — in this room ? Why not before her
eyes ? Not yet a year married ! It was almost
funny — almost funny ! And she had her first calm
thought: ' I am free.'

But it did not seem to mean anything, had no value
to a spirit so bitterly stricken in its pride. She moved
her chair closer to the fire again. Why had she not

BEYOND 159

tapped on the window ? To have seen that girl's
face ashy with fright ! To have seen him — caught —
caught in the room she had made beautiful for him,
the room where she had played for him so many hours,
the room that was part of the hous^^ liiat she paid for !
How long had they used it for their meetings — sneak-
ing in by that door from the back lane ? Perhaps
even before she went away — to bear his child ! And
there began in her a struggle between mother instinct
and her sense of outrage — a spiritual tug-of-war so
deep that it was dumb, unconscious — to decide whether
her baby would be all hers, or would have slipped
away from her heart, and be a thing almost abhorrent.

She huddled nearer the fire, feeling cold and physi-
cally sick. And suddenly the thought came to her:
' If I don't let the servants know I'm here, they
might go out and see what I saw !' Had she shut the
drawing-room window when she returned so blindly ?

Perhaps already ! In a fever, she rang the bell,

and unlocked the door. The maid came up.

" Please shut the drawing-room window, Ellen; and
tell Betty I'm afraid I got a little chill travelhng.
I'm going to bed. Ask her if she can manage with
baby." And she looked straight into the girl's face.
It wore an expression of concern, even of commisera-
tion, but not that fluttered look which must have
been there if she had known.

"Yes, m'm; I'll get you a hot-water bottle, m'm.
Would you like a hot bath and a cup of hot tea at
once ?"

Gyp nodded. Anything — anything ! And when
the maid was gone, she thought mechanically : ' A
cup of hot tea ! How quaint ! What should it be
but hot?'

i6o BEYOND

The maid came back with the tea; she was an
affectionate girl, full of that admiring love servants
and dogs always felt for Gyp, imbued, too, with the
instinctive partisanship which stores itself one way or
the other in the hearts of those who live in houses
where the atmosphere lacks unity. To her mind, the
mistress was much too good for him — a foreigner —
and such 'abits ! Manners — he hadn't any ! And
no good would come of it. Not if you took her opinion !

" And I've turned the water in, m'm. Will you
have a little mustard in it ?"

Again Gyp nodded. And the girl, going downstairs
for the mustard, told cook there was" that about the
mistress that makes you quite pathetic." The cook,
who was fingering her concertina, for which she had
a passion, answered:

" She 'ides up her feelin's, same as they all does.
Thank 'eaven she haven't got that drawl, though,
that 'er old aunt 'as — always makes me feel to want
to say, ' Buck up, old dear, you ain't 'alf so precious
as all that ! ' "

And when the maid Ellen had taken the mustard
and gone, she drew out her concertina to its full length
and, with cautionary softness, began to practise
" Home, Sweet Home " !

To Gyp, lying in her hot bath, those muffled strains
just mounted, not quite as a tune, rather as some
far-away humming of large flies. The heat of the
water, the pungent smell of the mustard, and that
droning hum slowly soothed and drowsed away the
vehemence of feeling. She looked at her body, silver-
white in the yellowish water, with a dreamy sensation.
Some day she, too, would love ! Strange feeling she
had never had before ! Strange, indeed, that it

BEYOND i6i

should come at such a moment, breaking through the
old instinctive shrinking. Yes; some day love would
come to her. There floated before her brain the
adoring look on Daphne Wing's face, the shiver that
had passed along her arm, and pitifulness crept into
her heart — a half-bitter, half-admiring pitifulness.
Why should she grudge — she who did not love ? The
sounds, like the humming of large flies, grew deeper,
more vibrating. It was the cook, in her passion
swelling out her music on the phrase,

" Be it ne-e-ver so humble,
There's no-o place like home 1"

II

XIII

That night, Gyp slept peacefully, as though nothing
had happened, as though there were no future at all
before her. She woke into misery. Her pride would
never let her show the world what she had discovered,
would force her to keep an unmoved face and live an
unmoved life. But the struggle between mother-
instinct and revolt was still going on within her. She
was really afraid to see her baby, and she sent word
to Betty that she thought it would be safer if she
kept quite quiet till the afternoon.

She got up at noon and stole downstairs. She had
not realized how violent was her struggle over his
child till she was passing the door of the room where
it was lying. If she had not been ordered to give up
nursing, that struggle would never have come. Her
heart ached, but a demon pressed her on and past
the door. Downstairs she just pottered round, dusting
her china, putting in order the books which, after
house-cleaning, the maid had arranged almost too
carefully, so that the first volumes of Dickens and
Thackeray followed each other on the top shelf, and
the second volumes foUowed each other on the bottom
shelf. And all the time she thought dully : ' Why
am I doing this ? What do I care how the place
looks ? It is not my home. It can never be my
home !'

For lunch she drank some beef tea, keeping up the
fiction of her indisposition. After that, she sat down
» 162

BEYOND 163

at her bureau to write. Something must be decided !
There she sat, her forehead on her hand, and nothing
came — not one word — not even the way to address
him; just the date, and that was all. At a ring of the
bell she started up. She could not see anybody !
But the maid only brought a note from Aunt Rosa-
mund, and the dogs, who fell frantically on their
mistress and instantly began to fight for her possession.
She went on her knees to separate them, and enjoin
peace and good-will, and their little avid tongues
furiously licked her cheeks. Under the eager touch
of those wet tongues the band round her brain and
heart gave way; she was overwhelmed with longing
for her baby. Nearly a day since she had seen her —
was it possible ? Nearly a day without sight of those
solemn eyes and crinkled toes and fingers ! And,
followed by the dogs, she went upstairs.

The house was invisible from the music-room; and,
spurred on by thought that, until Fiorsen knew she
was back, those two might be there in each other's arms
any moment of the day or night. Gyp wrote that
evening :

" Dear Gustav, — We are back. — Gyp."

What else in the world could she say ? He would
not get it till he woke about eleven. With the instinct
to take all the respite she could, and knowing no more
than before how she would receive his return, she
went out in the forenoon and wandered about all day
shopping and trying not to think. Returning at tea-
time, she went straight up to her baby, and there
heard from Betty that he had come, and gone out
with his vioHn to the music-room.

Bent over the child, Gyp needed all her self-control

i64 BEYOND

— but her self-control was becoming great. Soon, the
girl would come fluttering down that dark, narrow
lane; perhaps at this very minute her fingers were
tapping at the door, and he was opening it to murmur :
" No; she's back !" Ah, then the girl would shrink !
The rapid whispering — some other meeting-place !
Lips to lips, and that look on the girl's face; till she
hurried away from the shut door, in the darkness,
disappointed ! And he, on that silver-and-gold divan,
gnawing his moustache, his eyes — catlike — staring at
the fire ! And then, perhaps, from his violin would
come one of those swaying bursts of sound, with tears
in them, and the wind in them, that had of old be-
witched her ! She said:

" Open the window just a little, Betty dear — it's
hot."

There it was, rising, falling ! Music ! Why did it
so move one even when, as now, it was the voice of
insult ! And suddenly she thought: " He will expect
me to go out there again and play for him. But I
will not, never !"

She put her baby down, went into her bedroom,
and changed hastily into a teagown for the evening,
ready to go down-stairs. A little shepherdess in china
on the mantel-shelf attracted her attention, and she
took it in her hand. She had bought it three and
more years ago, when she first came to London, at
the beginning of that time of girl-gaiety when all life
seemed a long cotillon, and she its leader. Its cool
daintiness made it seem the symbol of another world,
a world without depths or shadows, a world that did
not feel — a happy world !

She had not long to wait before he tapped on the
drawing-room window. She got up from the tea-

BEYOND 165

table to let him in. Why do faces gazing in through
glass from darkness always look hungry — searching,
appealing for what you have and they have not ?
And while she was undoing the latch she thought:
' What am I going to say ? I feel nothing !' The
ardour of his gaze, voice, hands seemed to her so false
as to be almost comic; even more comically false his
look of disappointment when she said:

" Please take care; I'm still brittle !" Then she sat
down again and asked:

" Will you have some tea ?"

" Tea ! I have you back, and you ask me if I will
have tea ! Gyp • Do you know what I have felt
like all this time ? No; you don't know. You know
nothing of me — do you ?"

A smile of sheer irony formed on her lips — without
her knowing it was there. She said:

" Have you had a good time at Count Rosek's ?"
And, without her will, against her will, the words
slipped out: " I'm afraid you've missed the music-
room !"

His stare wavered; he began to walk up and down.

" Missed ! Missed everything ! I have been very
miserable. Gyp. You've no idea how miserable.
Yes, miserable, miserable, miserable !" With each
repetition of that word, his voice grew gayer. And
kneeling down in front of her, he stretched his long
arms round her till they met behind her waist: " Ah,
my Gyp ! I shaU be a different being, now."

And Gyp went on smiling. Between that, and
stabbing these false raptures to the heart, there seemed
to be nothing she could do. The moment his hands
relaxed, she got up and said:

" You know there's a baby in the house ?"

i66 BEYOND

He laughed.

" Ah, the baby ! I'd forgotten. Let's go up and
see it."

Gyp answered:

" You go."

She could feel him thinking : ' Perhaps it will make
her nice to me !' He turned suddenly and went.

She stood with her eyes shut, seeing the divan in
the music-room and the girl's arm shivering. Then,
going to the piano, she began with all her might to
play a Chopin polonaise.

That evening they dined out, and went to "The
Tales of Hoffmann." By such devices it was possible
to put off a little longer what she was going to do.
During the drive home in the dark cab, she shrank
away into her corner, pretending that his arm would
hurt her dress; her exasperated nerves were already
overstrung. Twice she was on the very point of crying
out : "I am not Daphne Wing !" But each time
pride strangled the words in her throat. And yet
they would have to come. What other reason could
she find to keep him from her room ?

But when in her mirror she saw him standing
behind her— he had crept into the bedroom like a cat
— fierceness came into her. She could see the blood
rush up in her own white face, and, turning round she
said:

" No, Gustav, go out to the music-room if you want
a companion."

He recoiled against the foot of the bed and stared
at her haggardly, and Gyp, turning back to her mirror,
went on quietly taking the pins out of her hair. For
fully a minute she could see him leaning there, moving
his head and hands as though in pain. Then, to her

BEYOND 167

surprise, he went. And a vague feeling of compunc-
tion mingled with her sense of deliverance. She lay
awake a long time, watching the fire-glow brighten
and darken on the ceiling, tunes from " The Tales
of Hoffmann" running in her head; thoughts and
fancies crisscrossing in her excited brain. Falling
asleep at last, she dreamed she was feeding doves out
of her hand, and one of them was Daphne Wing.
She woke with a start. The fire still burned, and by
its light she saw him crouching at the foot of the bed,
just as he had on their wedding-night — the same hungry
yearning in his face, and an arm outstretched. Before
she could speak, he began:

" Oh, Gyp, you don't understand ! All that is
nothing — it is only you I want — always. I am a fool
who cannot control himself. Think ! It's a long
time since you went away from me."

Gyp said, in a hard voice:

" I didn't want to have a child."

He said quickly:

" No; but now you have it you are glad. Don't be
unmerciful, my Gyp ! It is like you to be merciful.
That girl — it is all over — I swear — I promise."

His hand touched her foot through the soft eider-
down. Gyp thought: ' Why does he come and whine
to me like this ? He has no dignity — none !' And
she said:

" How can you promise ? You have made the girl
love you. I saw her face."

He drew his hand back.

" You saw her ?"

" Yes."

He was silent, staring at her. Presently he began
again :

i68 BEYOND

" She is a little fool. I do not care for the whole
of her as much as I care for your one finger. What
does it matter what one does in that way if one does
not care ? The soul, not the body, is faithful. A
man satisfies appetite — it is nothing."
Gyp said:

" Perhaps not; but it is something when it makes
others miserable."

" Has it made you miserable, my Gyp ?"
His voice had a ring of hope. She answered,
startled :

" I ? No — her."

" Her ? Ho ! It is an experience for her — it is life.
It will do her no harm."

" No; nothing will do anybody harm if it gives you
pleasure."

At that bitter retort, he kept silence a long time,
now and then heaving a long sigh. His words kept
sounding in her heart: "The soul, not the body, is
faithful." Was he, after all, more faithful to her than
she had ever been, could ever be — who did not love,
had never loved him ? What right had she to talk,
who had married him out of vanity, out of — what ?
And suddenly he said:
" Gyp ! Forgive !"

She uttered a sigh, and turned away her face.
He bent down against the eider-down. She could
hear him drawing long, sobbing breaths, and, in the
midst of her lassitude and hopelessness, a sort of pity
stirred her. What did it matter ? She said, in a
choked voice:

" Very well, I forgive."

XIV

The human creature has wonderful power of putting
up with things. Gyp never really believed that
Daphne Wing was of the past. Her sceptical instinct
told her that what Fiorsen might honestly mean to
do was very different from what he would do under
stress of opportunity carefully put within his reach.

Since her return, Rosek had begun to come again,
very careful not to repeat his mistake, but not de-
ceiving her at all. Though his self-control was as
great as Fiorsen's was small, she felt he had not given
up his pursuit of her, and would take very good care
that Daphne Wing was afforded every chance of being
with her husband. But pride never let her allude to
the girl. Besides, what good to speak of her ? They
would both lie — Rosek, because he obviously saw the
mistaken line of his first attack; Fiorsen, because his
temperament did not permit him to suffer by speaking
the truth.

Having set herself to endure, she found she must
live in the moment, never think of the future, never
think much of anything. Fortunately, nothing so
conduces to vacuity as a baby. She gave herself up
to it with desperation. It was a good baby, silent,
somewhat understanding. In watching its face, and
feeling it warm against her, Gyp succeeded daily in
getting away into the hypnotic state of mothers, and
cows that chew the cud. But the baby slept a great
deal, and much of its time was claimed by Betty.

i6q

170 BEYOND

Those hours, and they were many, Gyp found difficult.
She had lost interest in dress and household elegance,
keeping just enough to satisfy her fastidiousness;
money, too, was scarce, under the drain of Fiorsen's
irregular requirements. If she read, she began almost
at once to brood. She was cut off from the music-
room, had not crossed its threshold since her discovery.
Aunt Rosamund's efforts to take her into society were
fruitless — all the effervescence was out of that, and,
though her father came, he never stayed long for fear
of meeting Fiorsen. In this condition of affairs, she
turned more and more to her own music, and one
morning, after she had come across some compositions
of her girlhood, she made a resolution. That after-
noon she dressed herself with pleasure, for the first
time for months, and sallied forth into the February
frost.

Monsieur Edouard Harmost inhabited the ground
floor of a house in the Marylebone Road. He received
his pupils in a large back room overlooking a little
sooty garden. A Walloon by extraction, and of great
vitality, he grew old with difficulty, having a soft
comer in his heart for women, and a passion for
novelty, even for new music, that was unappeasable.
Any fresh discovery would bring a tear rolling down
his mahogany cheeks into his clipped grey beard, the
while he played, singing wheezily to elucidate the
wondrous novelty, or moved his head up and down,
as if pumping.

When Gyp was shown into this well-remembered
room he was seated, his yellow fingers buried in his
stiff grey hair, grieving over a pupil who had just gone
out. He did not immediately rise, but stared hard
at Gyp.

BEYOND 171

" Ah," he said, at last, " my little old friend ! She
has come back ! Now that is good !" And, patting
her hand he looked into her face, which had a warmth
and brilliance rare to her in these days. Then, making
for the mantelpiece, he took therefrom a bunch of
Parma violets, evidently brought by his last pupil,
and thrust them under her nose. " Take them, take
them — they were meant for me. Now — how much
have you forgotten ? Come !" And, seizing her by
the elbow, he almost forced her to the piano. " Take
off your furs. Sit down !"

And while Gyp was taking off her coat, he fixed on
her his prominent brown eyes that rolled easily in their
slightly blood-shot whites, under squared eyelids and
cliffs of brow. She had on what Fiorsen called her
" humming-bird " blouse — dark blue, shot with pea-
cock and old rose, and looked very warm and soft
under her fur cap. Monsieur Harmost's stare seemed
to drink her in; yet that stare was not unpleasant,
having in it only the rather sad yearning of old men
who love beauty and know that their time for seeing
it is getting short.

" Play me the ' Carnival,' " he said. " We shall
soon see !"

Gyp played. Twice he nodded; once he tapped his
fingers on his teeth, and showed her the whites of his
eyes — which meant: "That will have to be very
different !" And once he grunted. When she had
finished, he sat down beside her, took her hand in his,
and, examining the fingers, began:

" Yes, yes, soon again ! Spoiling yourself, playing
for that fiddler ! Trop sympathique ! The back-bone,
the back-bone — we shall improve that. Now, four
hours a day for six weeks — and we shall have something
again."

172 BEYOND

Gyp said softly:

" I have a baby, Monsieur Harmost."

Monsieur Harmost bounded.

" What ! That is a tragedy 1" Gyp shook her
head. "You Uke it ? A baby ! Does it not
squall ?"

" Very little."

" Mon Dieu ! Well, well, you are still as beautiful
as ever. That is something. Now, what can you do
with this baby ? Could you get rid of it a little ?
This is serious. This is a talent in danger. A fiddler,
and a baby ! C'est beaucotip ! C'est trop I"

Gyp smiled. And Monsieur Harmost, whose ex-
terior covered much sensibility, stroked her hand.

" You have grown up, my little friend," he said
gravely. " Never mind; nothing is wasted. But a
baby!" And he chirruped his lips. " Well ; courage !
We shall do things yet 1"

Gyp turned her head away to hide the quiver of her
lips. The scent of latakia tobacco that had soaked
into things, and of old books and music, a dark smell,
like Monsieur Harmost's complexion; the old brown
curtains, the sooty little back garden beyond, with its
cat-runs, and its one stunted sumach tree; the dark-
brown stare of Monsieur Harmost's rolling eyes brought
back that time of happiness, when she used to come
week after week, full of gaiety and importance, and
chatter away, basking in his brusque admiration and
in music, all with the glamourous feeling that she was
making him happy, and herself happy, and going to
play very finely some day.

The voice of Monsieur Harmost, softly gruff, as if
he knew what she was feeling, increased her emotion;
her breast heaved under the humming-bird blouse,

BEYOND 173

water came into her eyes, and more than ever her lips
quivered. He was saying:

" Come, come ! The only thing we cannot cure is
age. You were right to come, my child. Music is
your proper air. If things are not all what they ought
to be, you shall soon forget. In music — in music, we
can get away. After all, my little friend, they cannot
take our dreams from us — not even a wife, not even
a husband can do that. Come, we shall have good
times yet !"

And Gyp, with a violent effort, threw off that sudden
weakness. From those who serve art devotedly there
radiates a kind of glamour. She left Monsieur Har-
most that afternoon, infected by his passion for music.
Poetic justice — on which all homeopathy is founded —
was at work to try and cure her life by a dose of what
had spoiled it. To music, she now gave all the hours
she could spare. She went to him twice a week,
determining to get on, but uneasy at the expense, for
monetary conditions were ever more embarrassed.
At home, she practised steadily and worked hard at
composition. She finished several songs and studies
during the spring and summer, and left still more
unfinished. Monsieur Harmost was tolerant of these
efforts, seeming to know that harsh criticism or dis-
approval would cut her impulse down, as frost cuts
the life of flowers. Besides, there was always some-
thing fresh and individual in her things. He asked
her one day:

" What does your husband think of these ?"

Gyp was silent a moment.

" I don't show them to him."

She never had; she instinctively kept back the
knowledge that she composed, dreading his ruthless-

174 BEYOND

ness when anything grated on his nerves, and knowing
that a breath of mockery would wither her behef in
herself, frail enough plant already. The only person,
besides her master, to whom she confided her efforts
was — strangely enough — Rosek. But he had surprised
her one day copying out some music, and said at
once: " I knew. I was certain you composed. Ah,
do play it to me ! I am sure you have talent." The
warmth with which he praised that little " caprice "
was surely genuine; and she felt so grateful that she
even played him others, and then a song for him to
sing. From that day, he no longer seemed to her
odious; she even began to have for him a certain
friendliness, to be a little sorry, watching him, pale,
trim, and sphinxlike, in her drawing-room or garden,
getting no nearer to the fulfilment of his desire. He
had never again made love to her, but she knew that
at the least sign he would. His face and his invincible
patience made him pathetic to her. Women such as
Gyp cannot actively dislike those who admire them
greatly. She consulted him about Fiorsen's debts.
There were hundreds of pounds owing, it seemed, and,
in addition, much to Rosek himself. The thought of
these debts weighed unbearably on her. Why did
he, how did he get into debt like this ? What became
of the money he earned ? His fees, this summer,
were good enough. There was such a feeling of
degradation about debt. It was, somehow, so under-
bred to owe money to all sorts of people. Was it on
that girl, on other women, that he spent it all ? Or
was it simply that his nature had holes in every
pocket ?

Watching Fiorsen closely, that spring and early
summer, she was conscious of a change, a sort of

BEYOND 175

loosening, something in him had given way — as when,
in winding a watch, the key turns on and on, the
ratchet being broken. Yet he was certainly working
hard — perhaps harder than ever. She would hear
him, across the garden, going over and over a passage,
as if he never would be satisfied. But his playing
seemed to her to have lost its fire and sweep; to be
stale, and as if disillusioned. It was all as though he
had said to himself: " What's the use ?" In his face,
too, there was a change. She knew — she was certain
that he was drinking secretly. Was it his failure with
her ? Was it the girl ? Was it simply heredity from
a hard-drinking ancestry ?

Gyp never faced these questions. To face them
would mean useless discussion, useless admission that
she could not love him, useless asseveration from him
about the girl, which she would not believe, useless
denials of all sorts. Hopeless !

He was very irritable, and seemed especially to
resent her music lessons, alluding to them with a sort
of sneering impatience. She felt that he despised
them as amateurish, and secretly resented it. He
was often impatient, too, of the time she gave to the
baby. His own conduct with the little creature was
like all the rest of him. He would go to the nursery,
much to Betty's alarm, and take up the baby; be
charming with it for about ten minutes, then suddenly
dump it back into its cradle, stare at it gloomily or
utter a laugh, and go out. Sometimes, he would come
up when Gyp was there, and after watching her a little
in silence, almost drag her away.

Suffering always from the guilty consciousness of
having no love for him, and ever more and more from
her sense that, instead of saving him she was, as it

176 BEYOND

were, pushing him down-hill — ironical nemesis for
vanity! — Gyp was ever more and more compliant to
his whims, trying to make up. But this compliance,
when all the time she felt further and further away,
was straining her to breaking-point. Hers was a
nature that goes on passively enduring till something
snaps; after that — no more.

Those months of spring and summer were like a
long spell of drought, when moisture gathers far away,
coming nearer, nearer, till, at last, the deluge bursts
and sweeps the garden.

XV

The tenth of July that year was as the first day of
summer. There had been much fine weather, but
always easterly or northerly; now, after a broken,
rainy fortnight, the sun had come in full summer
warmth with a gentle breeze, drifting here and there
scent of the opening lime blossom. In the garden,
under the trees at the far end, Betty sewed at a gar-
ment, and the baby in her perambulator had her
seventh morning sleep. Gyp stood before a bed of
pansies and sweet peas. How monkeyish the pansies'
faces ! The sweet peas, too, were like tiny bright
birds fastened to green perches swaying with the wind.
And their little green tridents, growing out from the
queer, flat stems, resembled the antennae of insects.
Each of these bright frail, growing things had life and
individuality like herself !

The sound of footsteps on the gravel made her turn.
Rosek was coming from the drawing-room window.
Rather startled, Gyp looked at him over her shoulder.
What had brought him at eleven o'clock in the morn-
ing ? He came up to her, bowed, and said:

" I came to see Gustav. He's not up yet, it seems.
I thought I would speak to you first. Can we talk ?"

Hesitating just a second. Gyp drew off h^r gardening-
gloves :

" Of course ! Here ? Or in the drawing-room ?"

Rosek answered:

" In the drawing-room, please."

177 12

178 BEYOND

A faint tremor passed through her, but she led the
way, and seated herself where she could see Betty
and the baby. Rosek stood looking down at her;
his stillness, the sweetish gravity of his well-cut lips,
his spotless dandyism stirred in Gyp a kind of un-
willing admiration.

"What is it?" she said.

" Bad business, I'm afraid. Something must be
done at once. I have been trying to arrange things,
but they will not wait. They are even threatening to
sell up this house."

With a sense of outrage, Gyp cried:

" Nearly everything here is mine."

Rosek shook his head.

" The lease is in his name — you are his wife. They
can do it, I assure you." A sort of shadow passed
over his face, and he added: " I cannot help him any
more — just now."

Gyp shook her head quickly.

" No — of course ! You ought not to have helped

him at all. I can't bear " He bowed, and she

stopped, ashamed. " How much does he owe
altogether ?"

" About thirteen hundred pounds. It isn't much,
of course. But there is something else "

" Worse ?"

Rosek nodded.

" I am afraid to tell you; you will think again per-
haps that I am trying to make capital out of it. I
can read your thoughts, you see. I cannot afford that
you should think that, this time."

Gyp made a little movement as though putting away
his words.

" No; tell me, please."

BEYOND 179

Rosek shrugged his shoulders.

" There is a man called Wagge, an undertaker — the
father of someone you know "

" Daphne Wing ?"

" Yes. A child is coming. They have made her
tell. It means the cancelling of her engagements, of
course — and other things."

Gyp uttered a little laugh; then she said slowly:

" Can you tell me, please, what this Mr. — Wa'gge
can do ?"

Again Rosek shrugged his shoulders.

" He is rabid — a rabid man of his class is dangerous.
A lot of money will be wanted, I should think — some
blood, perhaps."

He moved swiftly to her, and said very low:

" Gyp, it is a year since I told you of this. You
did not believe me then. I told you, too, that I loved
you. I love you more, now, a hundred times ! Don't
move ! I am going up to Gustav."

He turned, and Gyp thought he was really going;
but he stopped and came back past the line of the
window. The expression of his face was quite changed,
so hungry that, for a moment, she felt sorry for him.
And that must have shown in her face, for he suddenly
caught at her, and tried to kiss her lips; she wrenched
back, and he could only reach her throat, but that he
kissed furiously. Letting her go as suddenly, he bent
his head and went out without a look.

Gyp stood wiping his kisses off her throat with the
back of her hand, dumbly, mechanically thinking:
" What have I done to be treated like this ? What
have I done ?" No answer came. And such rage
against men flared up that she just stood there, twist-
ing her garden-gloves in her hands, and biting the lips

i8o BEYOND

he would have kissed. Then, going to her bureau,
she took up her address book and looked for the name ;
Wing, 88, Frankland Street, Fulham. Unhooking her
little bag from off the back of the chair, she put her
cheque-book into it. Then, taking care to make no
sound, she passed into the hall, caught up her sun-
shade, and went out, closing the door without noise.

She walked quickly toward Baker Street. Her
gardening-hat was right enough, but she had come out
without gloves, and must go into the first shop and
buy a pair. In the choosing of them, she forgot her
emotions for a minute. Out in the street again, they
came back as bitterly as ever. And the day was so
beautiful— the sun bright, the sky blue, the clouds
dazzling white; from the top of her 'bus she could see
all its brilliance. There rose up before her the memory
of the man who had kissed her arm at the first baU.
And now — this ! But, mixed with her rage, a sort of
unwilling compassion and fellow feeling kept rising for
that girl, that silly, sugar-plum girl, brought to such
a pass by — her husband. These feelings sustained her
through that voyage to Fulham. She got down at
the nearest corner, walked up a widish street of narrow
grey houses till she came to number eighty-eight. On
that newly scrubbed step, waiting for the door to
open, she very nearly turned and fled. What exactly
had she come to do ?

The door was opened by a servant in an untidy
frock. Mutton ! The smell of mutton — there it was,
just as the girl had said !

"Is Miss — Miss Daphne Wing at home ?"

In that peculiar " I've given it up " voice of
domestics in small households, the servant an-
swered :

BEYOND i8i

"Yes; Miss Disey's in. D'you want to see 'er ?
What nyme ?"

Gyp produced her card. The maid looked at it, at
Gyp, and at two brown-painted doors, as much as to
say, " Where will you have it ?" Then, opening the
first of them, she said:

" Tyke a seat, please; I'll fetch her."

Gyp went in. In the middle of what was clearly
the dining-room, she tried to subdue the tremor of her
limbs and a sense of nausea. The table against which
her hand rested was covered with red baize, no doubt
to keep the stains of mutton from penetrating to the
wood. On the mahogany sideboard reposed a cruet-
stand and a green dish of very red apples. A bamboo-
framed talc screen painted with white and yellow
marguerites stood before a fireplace filled with pampas-
grass dyed red. The chairs were of red morocco, the
curtains a brownish-red, the walls green, and on them
hung a set of Landseer prints. The peculiar sensation
which red and green in juxtaposition produce on the
sensitive was added to Gyp's distress. And, suddenly,
her eyes lighted on a httle deep-blue china bowl. It
stood on a black stand on the mantel-piece, with
nothing in it. To Gyp, in this room of red and green,
with the smell of mutton creeping in, that bowl was
like the crystallized whiff of another world. Daphne
Wing — not Daisy Wagge — had surely put it there !
And, somehow, it touched her — emblem of stifled
beauty, emblem of all that the girl had tried to pour
out to her that August afternoon in her garden nearly
a year ago. Thin Eastern china, good and really
beautiful ! A wonder they allowed it to pollute this
room !

A sigh made her turn round With her back against

i82 BEYOND

tlie door and a white, scared face, the girl was stand-
ing. Gyp thought: ' She has suffered horribly.' And,
going impulsively up to her, she held out her hand.

Daphne Wing sighed out: " Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen !" and,
bending over that hand, kissed it. Gyp saw that her
new glove was wet. Then the girl relapsed, her feet
a little forward, her head a little forward, her back
against the door. Gyp, who knew why she stood thus,
was swept again by those two emotions — rage against
men, and fellow feeling for one about to go through
what she herself had just endured.

" It's all right," she said, gently; " only, what's to
be done ?"

Daphne Wing put her hands up over her white face
and sobbed. She sobbed so quietly but so terribly
deeply that Gyp herself had the utmost difficulty not
to cry. It was the sobbing of real despair by a creature
bereft of hope and strength, above all, of love — the
sort of weeping which is drawn from desolate, suffering
souls only by the touch of fellow feeling. And,
instead of making Gyp glad or satisfying her sense of
justice, it filled her with more rage against her husband
— that he had taken this girl's infatuation for his
pleasure and then thrown her away. She seemed to
see him discarding that clinging, dove-fair girl, for
cloying his senses and getting on his nerves, discarding
her with caustic words, to abide alone the consequences
of her infatuation. She put her hand timidly on that
shaking shoulder, and stroked it. For a moment the
sobbing stopped, and the girl said brokenly:

" Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I do love him so !" At those
naive words, a painful wish to laugh seized on
Gyp, making her shiver from head to foot. Daphne
Wing saw it, and went on: "I know — I know — it's

BEYOND 183

awful; but I do — and now he — he " Her quiet

but really dreadful sobbing broke out again. And
again Gyp began stroking and stroking her shoulder.
" And I have been so awful to you ! Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen,
do forgive me, please \"

All Gyp could find to answer, was:

" Yes, yes; that's nothing ! Don't cry — don't cry !"

Very slowly the sobbing died away, till it was just
a long shivering, but still the girl held her hands over
her face and her face down. Gyp felt paralyzed.
The unhappy girl, the red and green room, the smell
of mutton — creeping !

At last, a little of that white face showed; the lips,
no longer craving for sugar-plums, murmured:

" It's you he — he — really loves all the time. And
you don't love him — that's what's so funny — and —
and — I can't understand it. Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, if I
could see him — just see him ! He told me never to
come again; and I haven't dared. I haven't seen him
for three weeks — not since I told him about it. What
shall I do ? What shall I do ?"

His being her own husband seemed as nothing to
Gyp at that moment. She felt such pity and yet such
violent revolt that any girl should want to crawl back
to a man who had spurned her. Unconsciously, she
had drawn herself up and pressed her lips together.
The girl, who followed every movement, said piteously :

" I don't seem to have any pride. I don't mind
what he does to me, or what he says, if only I can
see him."

Gyp's revolt yielded to her pity. She said:

" How long before ?"

" Three months."

Three months — and in this state of misery !

i84 BEYOND

" I think I shall do something desperate. Now
that I can't dance, and they know, it's too awful !
If I could see him, I wouldn't mind anything. But
I know — I know he'll never want me again. Oh,
Mrs. Fiorsen, I wish I was dead ! I do !"

A heavy sigh escaped Gyp, and, bending suddenly,
she kissed the girl's forehead. Still that scent of
orange blossom about her skin or hair, as when she
asked whether she ought to love or not; as when she
came, moth-like, from the tree-shade into the moon-
light, spun, and fluttered, with her shadow spinning
and fluttering before her. Gyp turned away, feeling
that she must relieve the strain, and pointing to the
bowl, said:

" You put that there, I'm sure. It's beautiful."

The girl answered, with piteous eagerness:

" Oh, would you like it ? Do take it. Count
Rosek gave it me." She started away from the door.
" Oh, that's papa. He'll be coming in !"

Gyp heard a man clear his throat, and the rattle
of an umbrella falling into a stand; the sight of the
girl wilting and shrinking against the sideboard
steadied her. Then the door opened, and Mr. Wagge
entered. Short and thick, in black frock coat and
trousers, and a greyish beard, he stared from one to
the other. He looked what he was, an Englishman
and a chapelgoer, nourished on sherry and mutton,
who could and did make his own way in the world.
His features, coloured, as from a deep liverishness,
were thick, like his body, and not ill-natured, except
for a sort of anger in his small, rather piggy grey eyes.
He said in a voice permanently gruff, but impregnated
with a species of professional ingratiation :

" Ye-es ? Whom 'ave I ?"

BEYOND 185

" Mrs. Fiorsen."

" Ow !" The sound of his breathing could be heard
distinctly; he twisted a chair round and said:

" Take a seat, won't you ?"

Gyp shook her head.

In Mr, Wagge's face a kind of deference seemed to
struggle with some more primitive emotion. Taking
out a large, black-edged handkerchief, he blew his
nose, passed it freely over his visage, and turning to
his daughter, muttered:

" Go upstairs."

The girl turned quickly, and the last glimpse of her
white face whipped up Gyp's rage against men. When
the door was shut, Mr. Wagge cleared his throat; the
grating sound carried with it the suggestion of enor-
mously thick linings.

He said more gruffly than ever:

" May I ask what 'as given us the honour ?"

" I came to see your daughter."

His little piggy eyes travelled from her face to her
feet, to the walls of the room, to his own watch-chain
to his hands that had begun to rub themselves together,
back to her breast, higher than which they dared not
mount. Their infinite embarrassment struck Gyp.
She could almost hear him thinking: ' Now, how can
I discuss it with this attractive young female, wife of
the scoundrel who's ruined my daughter ? Delicate —
that's what it is !' Then the words burst hoarsely
from him,

" This is an unpleasant business, ma'am. I don't
know what to say. Reelly I don't. It's awkward;
it's very awkward."

Gyp said quietly:

" Your daughter is desperately unhappy; and that
can't be good for her just now."

i86 BEYOND

Miu Wagge's thick figure seemed to writhe.

" Pardon me, ma'am," he spluttered, " but I must
call your husband a scoundrel. I'm sorry to be
impolite, but I must do it. If I had 'im 'ere, I don't
know that I should be able to control myself — I don't
indeed." Gyp made a movement of her gloved hands,
which he seemed to interpret as sympathy, for he went
on in a stream of husky utterance: " It's a delicate
thing before a lady, and she the injured party; but
one has feelings. From the first I said this dancin'
was in the face of Providence; but women have no
more sense than an egg. Her mother she would have
it ; and now she's got it ! Career, indeed ! Pretty
career ! Daughter of mine ! I tell you, ma'am, I'm
angry; there's no other word for it — ^I'm angry. If
that scoundrel comes within reach of me, I shall mark
'im — I'm not a young man, but I shall mark 'im.
An' what to say to you, I'm sure I don't know. That
my daughter should be'ave like that ! Well, it's made
a difference to me. An' now I suppose her name'U
be dragged in the mud. I tell you frankly I 'oped
you wouldn't hear of it, because after all the girl's
got her punishment. And this divorce-court — it's not
nice — ^it's a horrible thing for respectable people.
And, mind you, I won't see my girl married to that
scoundrel, not if you do divorce 'im. No; she'll have
her disgrace for nothing."

Gyp, who had listened with her head a little bent,
raised it suddenly, and said:

" There'll be no pubhc disgrace, Mr. Wagge, unless
you make it yourself. If you send Daphne— Daisy —
quietly away somewhere tiU her trouble's over, no one
need know anything,"

Mr. Wagge, whose mouth had opened slightly, and

BEYOND 187

whose breathing could certainly have been heard in
the street, took a step forward and said:

" Do I understand you to say that you're not goin'
to take proceedings, ma'am ?"

Gyp shuddered, and shook her head.

Mr. Wagge stood silent, slightly moving his face up
and down.

" Well," he said, at length, " it's more than she
deserves; but I don't disguise it's a rehef to me. And
I must say, in a young lady like you, and — and hand-
some, it shows a Christian spirit." Again Gyp shivered,
and shook her head. " It does. You'll allow me to
say so, as a man old enough to be your father — and a
regular attendant."

He held out his hand. Gyp put her gloved hand
into it.

" I'm very, very sorry. Please be nice to her."

Mr. Wagge recoiled a little, and for some seconds
stood ruefuUy rubbing his hands together and looking
from side to side.

"I'm a domestic man," he said suddenly. " A
domestic man in a serious line of life; and I never
thought to have anything like this in my family —
never ! It's been — well, I can't tell you what it's
been !"

Gyp took up her sunshade. She felt that she must
get away; at any moment he might say something
she could not bear — and the smell of mutton rising
fast!

"I am sorry," she said again; "good-bye;" and
moved past him to the door. She heard him breathing
hard as he followed her to open it, and thought: ' If
only — oh ! please let him be silent till I get outside !'
Mr. Wagge passed her and put his hand on the latch

i88 BEYOND

of the front door. His little piggy eyes scanned her
almost timidly.

" Well," he said, "I'm very glad to have the privilege
of your acquaintance; and, if I may say so, you 'ave
— you 'ave my 'earty sympathy. Good-day."

The door once shut behind her, Gyp took a long
breath and walked swiftly away. Her cheeks were
burning; and, with a craving for protection, she put
up her sunshade. But the girl's white face came up
again before her, and the sound of her words:

" Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I wish I was dead ! I do !"

XVI

Gyp walked on beneath her sunshade, making uncon-
sciously for the peace of trees. Her mind was a whirl
of impressions — Daphne Wing's figure against the
door, Mr. Wagge's puggy grey-bearded countenance,
the red pampas-grass, the blue bowl, Rosek's face
swooping at her, her last glimpse of her baby asleep
under the trees !

She reached Kensington Gardens, turned into that
walk renowned for the beauty of its flowers and the
plainness of the people who frequent it, and sat down
on a bench. It was near the luncheon-hour; nurse-
maids, dogs, perambulators, old gentlemen — all were
hurrying a little toward their food. They glanced
with critical surprise at this pretty young woman,
leisured and lonely at such an hour, trying to find out
what was wrong with her, as one naturally does with
beauty — bow legs or something, for sure, to balance
a face like that ! But Gyp noticed none of them,
except now and again a dog which sniffed her knees in
passing. For months she had resolutely cultivated
insensibilit}^ resolutely refused to face reality; the
barrier was forced now, and the flood had swept her
away. " Proceedings !" Mr. Wagge had said. To
those who shrink from letting their secret affairs be
known even by their nearest friends, the notion of a
public exhibition of troubles simpl}^ never comes, and
it had certainly never come to Gyp. With a bitter
smile she thought: 'I'm better off than she is, after

189

igo BEYOND

all ! Suppose I loved him, too ? No, I never — never
— want to love. Women who love suffer too much.'

She sat on that bench a long time before it came
into her mind that she was due at Monsieur Harmost's
for a music lesson at three o'clock. It was well past
two already; and she set out across the grass. The
summer day was full of murmurings of bees and flies,
cooings of blissful pigeons, the soft swish and stir of
leaves, and the scent of lime blossom under a sky so
blue, with few white clouds, slow, and calm, and full.
Why be unhappy ? And one of those spotty spaniel
dogs, that have broad heads, with frizzy topknots, and
are always rascals, smelt at her frock and moved
round and round her, hoping that she would throw
her sunshade on the water for him to fetch, this being in
his view the only reason why anything was carried in
the hand.

She found Monsieur Harmost fidgeting up and down
the room, whose opened windows could not rid it of
the smell of latakia.

" Ah," he said, " I thought you were not coming !
You look pale ; are you not well ? Is it the heat ?
Or" — he looked hard into her face — "has someone
hurt you, my little friend ?" Gyp shook her head.
" Ah, yes," he went on irritably; " you tell me nothing;
you tell nobody nothing ! You close up your pretty
face like a flower at night. At your age, my child,
one should make confidences; a secret grief is to music
as the east wind to the stomach. Put off your mask
for once." He came close to her. " Tell me your
troubles. It is a long time since I have been meaning
to ask. Come ! We are only once young; I want to
see you happy."

But Gyp stood looking down. Would it be relief

BEYOND 191

to pour her soul out ? Would it ? His brown eyes
questioned her like an old dog's. She did not want
to hurt one so kind. And yet — impossible !

Monsieur Harmost suddenly sat down at the piano.
Resting his hands on the keys, he looked round at her,
and said:

" I am in love with you, you know. Old men can
be very much in love, but they know it is no good —
that makes them endurable. Still, we like to feel of
use to youth and beauty; it gives us a little warmth.
Come; tell me your grief!" He waited a moment,
then said irritably: " Well, well, we go to music then !"

It was his habit to sit by her at the piano corner,
but to-day he stood as if prepared to be exceptionally
severe. And Gyp played, whether from over-excited
nerves or from not having had any lunch, better than
she had ever played. The Chopin polonaise in A fiat,
that song of revolution, which had always seemed so
unattainable, went as if her fingers were being worked
for her. When she had finished, Monsieur Harmost,
bending forward, lifted one of her hands and put his
lips to it. She felt the scrub of his little bristly beard,
and raised her face with a deep sigh of satisfaction.
A voice behind them said mockingly :

" Bravo !"

There, by the door, stood Fiorsen.

" Congratulations, madame ! I have long wanted
to see you under the inspiration of your — master !"

Gyp's heart began to beat desperately. Monsieur
Harmost had not moved. A faint grin slowly settled
in his beard, but his eyes were startled,

Fiorsen kissed the back of his own hand.

" To this old Pantaloon you come to give your heart.
Ho — what a lover !"

192 BEYOND

Gyp saw the old man quiver; she sprang up and
cried:

" You brute !"

Fiorsen ran forward, stretching out his arms
toward Monsieur Harmost, as if to take him by
the throat.

The old man drew himself up. " Monsieur," he
said, " you are certainly drunk."

Gyp slipped between, right up to those outstretched
hands till she could feel their knuckles against her.
Had he gone mad ? Would he strangle her ? But
her eyes never moved from his, and his began to waver;
his hands dropped, and, with a kind of moan, he made
for the door.

Monsieur Harmost's voice behind her said:

" Before you go, monsieur, give me some explanation
of this imbecilit}'' !"

Fiorsen spun round, shook his fist, and went out
muttering. They heard the front door slam. Gyp
turned abruptly to the window, and there, in her
agitation, she noticed little outside things as one does
in moments of bewildered anger. Even into that back
yard, summer had crept. The leaves of the sumach-
tree were ghstening ; in a three-cornered little patch of
sunlight, a black cat with a blue ribbon round its neck
was basking. The voice of one hawking strawberries
drifted melancholy from a side street. She was con-
scious that Monsieur Harmost was standing very still,
with a hand pressed to his mouth, and she felt a perfect
passion of compunction and anger. That kind and
harmless old man — to be so insulted ! This was
indeed the culmination of all Gustav's outrages ! She
would never forgive him this ! For he had insulted
her as well, beyond what pride or meekness could put

BEYOND 193

up with. She turned, and, running up to the old man,
put both her hands into his.

"I'm so awfully sorry. Good-bye, dear, dear
Monsieur Harmost; I shall come on Friday!" And,
before he could stop her, she was gone.

She dived into the traffic; but, just as she reached
the pavement on the other side, felt her dress plucked
and saw Fiorsen just behind her. She shook herself
free and walked swiftly on. Was he going to make
a scene in the street ? Again he caught her arm.
She stopped dead, faced round on him, and said, in an
icy voice:

" Please don't make scenes in the street, and don't
follow me like this. If you want to talk to me, you
can — at home."

Then, very calmly, she turned and walked on. But
he was still following her, some paces off. She did not
quicken her steps, and to the first taxi-cab driver that
passed she made a sign, and saying:

" Bury Street — quick !" got in. She saw Fiorsen
rush forward, too late to stop her. He threw up his
hand and stood still, his face deadly white under his
broad-brimmed hat. She was far too angry and
upset to care.

From the moment she turned to the window at
Monsieur Harmost's, she had determined to go to her
father's. She would not go back to Fiorsen; and the
one thought that filled her mind was how to get Betty
and her baby. Nearly four ! Dad was almost sure
to be at his club. And leaning out, she said: "No;
Hyde Park Corner, please."

The hall porter, who knew her, after caUing to a
page-boy: "Major Winton — sharp, now!" came speci-
ally out of his box to offer her a seat and The Times.

13

.194 BEYOND

Gyp sat with it on her knee, vaguely taking in her
surroundings— a thin old gentleman anxiously weigh-
ing himself in a corner, a white-calved footman crossing
with a tea-tray; a number of hats on pegs; the green
baize board with its white rows of tapelike paper, and
three members standing before it. One of them, a
tall, stout, good-humoured-looking man in pince-nez
and a white waistcoat, becoming conscious, removed
his straw hat and took up a position whence, without
staring, he could gaze at her; and Gyp knew, without
ever seeming to glance at him, that he found her to
his liking. She saw her father's unhurried figure
passing that little group, all of whom were conscious
now, and, eager to get away out of this sanctum of
masculinity, she met him at the top of the low steps,
and said:

" I want to talk to you. Dad."

He gave her a quick look, selected his hat, and
followed to the door. In the cab, he put his hand on
hers and said:

" Now, my dear ?"

But all she could get out was :

" I want to come back to you. I can't go on there.
It's — ^it's — I've come to an end."

His hand pressed hers tightly, as if he were trying
to save her the need for saying more. Gyp went on:

"I must get baby; I'm terrified that he'll try to
keep her, to get me back."

" Is he at home ?"

" I don't know. I haven't told him that I'm going
to leave him."

Winton looked at his watch and asked:

" Does the baby ever go out as late as this ?"

"Yes; after tea. It's cooler."

BEYOND 195

" I'll take this cab on, then. You stay and get the
room ready for her. Don't worry, and don't go out
till I return."

And Gyp thought: ' How wonderful of him not to
have asked a single question.'

The cab stopped at the Bury Street door. She
took his hand, put it to her cheek, and got out. He
said quietly:

" Do you want the dogs ?"

" Yes — oh, yes ! He doesn't care for them."

" All right. There'll be time to get you in some
things for the night after I come back. I shan't run
any risks to-day. Make Mrs. Markey give you tea."

Gyp watched the cab gather way again, saw him
wave his hand; then, with a deep sigh, half anxiety,
half relief, she rang the bell.

XVII

When the cab debouched again into St. James' Street,
Winton gave the order: " Quick as you can !" One
could think better going fast ! A httle red had come
into his brown cheeks ; his eyes under their half-drawn
Uds had a keener light; his lips were tightly closed;
he looked as he did when a fox was breaking cover.
Gyp could do no wrong, or, if she could, he would
stand by her in it as a matter of course. But he was
going to take no risks — make no frontal attack. Time
for that later, if necessary. He had better nerves
than most people, and that kind of steely determination
and resource which makes many Englishmen of his
class formidable in small operations. He kept his
cab at the door, rang, and asked for Gyp, with a
kind of pleasure in his ruse.

" She's not in yet, sir. Mr. Fiorsen's in."

"Ah! And baby?"

" Yes, sir."

" I'll come in and see her. In the garden :

" Yes, sir."

" Dogs there, too ?"

" Yes, sir. And will you have tea, please, sir ?"

" No, thanks." How to effect this withdrawal
without causing gossip, and yet avoid suspicion of
collusion with Gyp? And he added: "Unless Mrs.
Fiorsen comes in."

Passing out into the garden, he became aware that
Fiorsen was at the dining-room window watching

196

BEYOND 197

him, and decided to make no sign that he knew this.
The baby was under the trees at the far end, and the
dogs came rushing thence with a fury which lasted
till they came within scent of him. Winton went
leisurely up to the perambulator, and, saluting Betty,
looked down at his grandchild. She lay under an
awning of muslin, for fear of flies, and was awake.
Her solemn, large brown eyes, already like Gyp's,
regarded him with gravity. Clucking to her once or
twice, as is the custom, he moved so as to face the
house. In this position, he had Betty with her back
to it. And he said quietly:

"I'm here with a message from your mistress,
Betty. Keep your head; don't look round, but listen
to me. She's at Bury Street and going to stay there;
she wants you and baby and the dogs." The stout
woman's eyes grew round and her mouth opened.
Winton put his hand on the perambulator. " Steady,
now ! Go out as usual with this thing. It's about
your time; and wait for me at the turning to Regent's
Park. I'll come on in my cab and pick you all up.
Don't get flurried; don't take anything; do exactly
as you usually would. Understand ?"

It is not in the nature of stout women with babies
in their charge to receive such an order without
question. Her colour, and the heaving of that billowy
bosom made Winton add quickly:

" Now, Betty, pull yourself together; Gyp wants
you. I'll tell you all about it in the cab."

The poor woman, stiU heaving vaguely, could only
stammer :

" Yes, sir. Poor little thing ! What about its
night-things ? And Miss Gyp's ?"

Conscious of that figure still at the window, Winton

igS BEYOND

made some passes with his fingers at the baby, and
said:

" Never mind them. As soon as you see me at the
draMdng-room window, get ready and go. Eyes front,
Betty; don't look round; 111 cover your retreat !
Don't fail Gyp now. Pull yourself together."

With a sigh that could have been heard in Ken-
sington, Betty murmured: " Very well, sir; oh dear !"
and began to adjust the strings of her bonnet. With
nods, as if he had been the recipient of some sage
remarks about the baby, Winton saluted, and began
his march again towards the house. He carefully
kept his eyes to this side and to that, as if examining
the flowers, but noted all the same that Fiorsen had
receded from the window. Rapid thought told him
that the fellow would come back there to see if he
were gone, and he placed himself before a rose-bush,
where, at that reappearance, he could make a sign of
recognition. Sure enough, he came; and Winton
quietly raising his hand to the salute passed on through
the drawing-room window. He went quickly into the
hall, listened a second, and opened the dining-room
door. Fiorsen was pacing up and down, pale and
restless. He came to a standstill and stared haggardly
at Winton, who said:

" How are you ? Gyp not in ?"

" No."

Something in the sound of that " No " touched
Winton with a vague — a very vague — compunction.
To be left by Gyp ! Then his heart hardened again.
The fellow was a rotter — he was sure of it, had always
been sure.

" Baby looks well," he said.

Fiorsen turned and began to pace up and down again.

BEYOND 199

" Where is Gyp ? I want her to come in. I want
her."

Winton took out his watch.

" It's not late." And suddenly he felt a great aver-
sion from the part he was playing. To get the baby;
to make Gyp safe — yes ! But, somehow, not this
pretence that he knew nothing about it. He turned
on his heel and walked out. It imperilled everything;
but he couldn't help it. He could not stay and go on
prevaricating like this. Had that woman got clear ?
He went back into the drawing-room. There they were
— just passing the side of the house. Five minutes,
and they would be down at the turning. He stood at
the window, waiting. If only that fellow did not come
in ! Through the partition wall he could hear him
still tramping up and down the dining-room. What
a long time a minute was ! Three had gone when he
heard the dining-room door opened, and Fiorsen
crossing the hall to the front door. What was he after,
standing there as if listening ? And suddenly he heard
him sigh. It was just such a sound as many times,
in the long-past days, had escaped himself, waiting,
listening for footsteps, in parched and sickening
anxiety. Did this fellow then really love — almost as
he had loved ? And in revolt at spying on him like
this, he advanced and said:

" Well, I won't wait any longer."

Fiorsen started; he had evidently supposed himself
alone. And Winton thought : ' By Jove ! he does
look bad !'

"Good-bye!" he said; but the words: "Give my
love to Gyp," perished on their way up to his lips.

" Good-bye !" Fiorsen echoed. And Winton went
out under the trellis, conscious of that forlorn figure

200 BEYOND

still standing at the half-opened door. Betty was
nowhere in sight; she must have reached the turning.
His mission had succeeded, but he felt no elation.
Round the corner, he picked up his convoy, and, with
the perambulator hoisted on to the taxi, journeyed
on at speed. He had said he would explain in the cab,
but the only remark he made was :

" You'll all go down to Mildenham to-morrow."
And Betty, who had feared him ever since their
encounter so many years ago, eyed his profile, without
daring to ask questions. Before he reached home,
Winton stopped at a post-office, and sent this
telegram :

" Gyp and the baby are with me letter follows. —
Winton."

It salved a conscience on which that fellow's figure in
the doorway weighed; besides, it was necessary, lest
Fiorsen should go to the police. The rest must wait
till he had talked with Gyp.

There was much to do, and it was late before they
dined, and not till Markey had withdrawn could they
begin their talk.

Close to the open windows where Markey had placed
two hydrangea plants — just bought on his own re-
sponsibility, in token of silent satisfaction — Gyp
began. She kept nothing back, recounting the whole
miserable fiasco of her marriage. When she came to
Daphne Wing and her discovery in the music-room,
she could see the glowing end of her father's cigar
move convulsively. That insult to his adored one
seemed to Winton so inconceivable that, for a moment,
he stopped her recital by getting up to pace the room.
In her own house — her own house ! And — after that,

BEYOND 201

she had gone on with him ! He came back to his chair
and did not interrupt again, but his stillness almost
frightened her.

Coming to the incidents of the day itself, she hesi-
tated. Must she tell him, too, of Rosek — was it wise,
or necessary ? The all-or-nothing candour that was
part of her nature prevailed, and she went straight
on, and, save for the feverish jerking of his evening
shoe, Winton made no sign. When she had finished,
he got up and slowly extinguished the end of his cigar
against the window-sill ; then looking at her lying back
in her chair as if exhausted, he said: " By God !" and
turned his face away to the window.

At that hour before the theatres rose, a lull brooded
in the London streets; in this quiet narrow one, the
town's hum was only broken by the clack of a half-
drunken woman bickering at her man as they lurched
along for home, and the strains of a street musician's
fiddle, trying to make up for a blank day. The sound
vaguely irritated Winton, reminding him of those
two damnable foreigners by whom she had been so
treated. To have them at the point of a sword or
pistol — to teach them a lesson ! He heard her say:

" Dad, I should like to pay his debts. Then things
would be as they were when I married him."

He emitted an exasperated sound. He did not
believe in heaping coals of fire.

" I want to make sure, too, that the girl is all right
till she's over her trouble. Perhaps I could use some
of that — that other money, if mine is all tied up ? "

It was sheer anger, not disapproval of her impulse,
that made him hesitate; money and revenge would
never be associated in his mind. Gyp went on :

" I want to feel as if I'd never let him marry me.

202 BEYOND

Perhaps his debts are all part of that — who knows ?
Please !"

Winton looked at her. How like — when she said
that " Please !" How like — her figure sunk back
in the old chair, and the face lifted in shadow ! A sort
of exultation came to him. He had got her back —
had got her back !

XVIII

Fiorsen's bedroom was — as the maid would remark —
" a proper pigsty " — until he was out of it and it could
be renovated each day. He had a talent for disorder, so
that the room looked as if three instead of one man had
gone to bed in it. Clothes and shoes, brushes, water,
tumblers, breakfast-tray, newspapers, French novels,
and cigarette-ends — none were ever where they should
have been ; and the stale fumes from the many cigarettes
he smoked before getting up incommoded anyone
whose duty it was to take him tea and shaving-water.
When, on that first real summer day, the maid had
brought Rosek up to him, he had been lying a long
time on his back, dreamily watching the smoke from
his cigarette, and four flies waltzing in the sunlight that
filtered through the green sun-blinds. This hour,
before he rose, was his creative moment, when he could
best see the form of music and feel inspiration for its
rendering. Of late, he had been stale and wretched,
all that side of him dull ; but this morning he felt again
the delicious stir of fancy, that vibrating, half-dreamy
state when emotion seems so easily to iind shape and
the mind pierces through to new expression. Hearing
the maid's knock, and her murmured: " Count Rosek
to see you, sir," he thought: ' What the devil does he
want ?' A larger nature, drifting without control,
in contact with a smaller one, who knows his own mind
exactly, will instinctively be irritable, though he may
fail to grasp what his friend is after.

203

204 BEYOND

And pushing the cigarette-box toward Rosek, he
turned away his head. It would be money he had come
about, or — that girl ! That girl — he wished she was
dead ! Soft, clinging creature ! A baby ! God !
What a fool he had been — ah, what a fool ! Such
absurdity ! Unheard of ! First Gyp — then her ! He
had tried to shake the girl off. As well try to shake off
a burr ! How she clung ! He had been patient —
oh, yes — patient and kind, but how go on when one
was tired — tired of her — and wanting only Gyp,
only his own wife ? That was a funny thing ! And
now, when, for an hour or two, he had shaken free of
worry, had been feeling happy — yes, happy — this fellow
must come, and stand there with his face of a sphinx !
And he said pettishly :

" Well, Paul ! sit down. What troubles have you
brought ?"

Rosek lit a cigarette but did not sit down. He
struck even Fiorsen by his unsmiling pallor.

" You had better look out for Mr. Wagge, Gustav;
he came to me yesterday. He has no music in his
soul."

Fiorsen sat up.

" Satan take Mr. Wagge ! \^Tiat can he do ?"

" I am not a lawyer, but I imagine he can be un-
pleasant— the girl is young."

Fiorsen glared at him, and said:

" Why did you throw me that cursed girl ?"

Rosek answered, a little too steadily :

" I did not, my friend."

" What ! You did. What was your game ? You
never do anything without a game. You know you
did. Come; what was your game ?"

" You like pleasure, I believe."

BEYOND 205

Fiorsen said violently :

"Look here: I have done with your friendship —
you are no friend to me. I have never really known
you, and I should not wish to. It is finished. Leave
me in peace."

Rosek smiled.

" My dear, that is all very well, but friendships are
not finished like that. Moreover, you owe me a thou-
sand pounds."

" Well, I will pay it." Rosek's eyebrows mounted.
" I will. Gyp will lend it to me."

" Oh ! Is Gyp so fond of you as that ? I thought
she only loved her music-lessons."

Crouching forward with his knees drawn up, Fiorsen
hissed out:

" Don't talk of Gyp ! Get out of this ! I will
pay you your thousand pounds."

Rosek, still smiling, answered:

" Gustav, don't be a fool ! With a violin to your
shoulder, you are a man. Without — you are a child.
Lie quiet, my friend, and think of Mr. Wagge. But
you had better come and talk it over with me. Good-
bye for the moment. Calm yourself." And, flipping
the ash off his cigarette on to the tray by Fiorsen's
elbow, he nodded and went.

Fiorsen, who had leaped out of bed, put his hand
to his head. The cursed fellow ! Cursed be every
one of them — the father and the girl, Rosek and aU
the other sharks ! He went out on to the landing.
The house was quite still below. Rosek had gone —
good riddance ! He called, " Gyp !" No answer.
He went into her room. Its superlative daintiness
struck his fancy. A scent of cyclamen ! He looked
out into the garden. There was the baby at the end.

206 BEYOND

and that fat woman. No Gyp ! Never in when she
was wanted. Wagge ! He shivered; and, going back
into his bedroom, took a brandy-bottle from a locked
cupboard and drank some. It steadied him; he locked
up the cupboard again, and dressed.

Going out to the music-room, he stopped under the
trees to make passes with his fingers at the baby.
Sometimes he felt that it was an adorable little creature,
with its big, dark eyes so like Gyp's. Sometimes it
excited his disgust — a discoloured brat. This morning,
while looking at it, he thought suddenly of the other
that was coming — and grimaced. Catching Betty's
stare of horrified amazement at the face he was making
at her darling, he burst into a laugh and turned away
into the music-room.

While he was keying up his violin, Gyp's conduct
in never having come there for so long struck him as
bitterly unjust. The girl — who cared about the
wretched girl ? As if she made any real difference !
It was all so much deeper than that. Gyp had never
loved him, never given him what he wanted, never
quenched his thirst of her ! That was the heart of
it. No other woman he had ever had to do with had
been like that — -kept his thirst unquenched. No; he
had always tired of them before they tired of him.
She gave him nothing really — nothing ! Had she no
heart or did she give it elsewhere ? What was it
Paul had said about her music-lessons ? And suddenly
it struck him that he knew nothing, absolutely nothing,
of where she went or what she did. She never told
him anything. Music-lessons ? Every day, nearly,
she went out, was away for hours. The thought that
she might go to the arms of another man made him
put down his violin with a feeling of actual sickness.

BEYOND 207

Why not ? That deep and fearful whipping of the
sexual instinct which makes the ache of jealousy so
truly terrible was at its full in such a nature as Fiorsen's
He drew a long breath and shuddered. The remem-
brance of her fastidious pride, her candour, above all
her passivity cut in across his fear. No, not Gyp !

He went to a little table whereon stood a tantalus,
tumblers, and a syphon, and pouring out some brandy,
drank. It steadied him. And he began to practise.
He took a passage from Brahms' violin concerto and
began to play it over and over. Suddenly, he found
he was repeating the same flaws each time ; he was not
attending. The fingering of that thing was ghastly !
Music-lessons ! Why did she take them ? Waste of
time and money — she would never be anything but
an amateur ! Ugh ! Unconsciously, he had stopped
playing. Had she gone there to-day ? It was past
lunch-time. Perhaps she had come in.

He put down his violin and went back to the house.
No sign of her ! The maid came to ask if he would
lunch. No ! Was the mistress to be in ? She had not
said. He went into the dining-room, ate a biscuit,
and drank a brandy and soda. It steadied him.
Lighting a cigarette, he came back to the drawing-room
and sat down at Gyp's bureau. How tidy ! On the
little calendar, a pencil-cross was set against to-day —
Wednesday, another against Friday. What for ?
Music-lessons ! He reached to a pigeon-hole, and
took out her address-book. " H — Harmost, 305 A,
Marylebone Road," and against it the words in pencil,
" 3 P.M."

Three o'clock. So that was her hour ! His eyes
rested idly on a little old coloured print of a Bacchante,
with flowing green scarf, shaking a tambourine at

2o8 BEYOND

a naked Cupid, who with a baby bow and arrow in
his hands, was gazing up at her. He turned it over;
on the back was written in a pointed, scriggly hand,
" To my Httle friend. — E. H." Fiorsen drew smoke
deep down into his lungs, expelled it slowly, and went
to the piano. He opened it and began to play, staring
vacantly before him, the cigarette burned nearly to-
his lips. He went on, scarcely knowing what he
played. At last he stopped, and sat dejected. A
great artist ? Often, nowadays, he did not care if
he never touched a violin again. Tired of standing
up before a sea of dull faces, seeing the blockheads
knock their silly hands one against the other ! Sick
of the sameness of it all ! Besides — besides, were his
powers beginning to fail ? What was happening to
him of late ?

He got up, went into the dining-room, and drank
some brandy. Gyp could not bear his drinking.
Well, she shouldn't be out so much — taking music-
lessons. Music-lessons ! Nearly three o'clock. If he

went for once and saw what she really did Went,

and offered her his escort home ! An attention. It
might please her. Better, anyway, than waiting here
until she chose to come in with her face all closed up.
He drank a little more brandy — ever so little — took
his hat and went. Not far to walk, but the sun was
hot, and he reached the house feeling rather dizzy.
A maid-servant opened the door to him.

" I am Mr. Fiorsen. Mrs. Fiorsen here ?"

" Yes, sir; will you wait ?"

Why did she look at him like that ? Ugly girl !
How hateful ugly people were ! When she was gone,
he reopened the door of the waiting-room, and listened.

Chopin ! The polonaise in A flat. Good ! Could

BEYOND 209

that be Gyp ? Very good ! He moved out, down
the passage, drawn on by her playing, and softly
turned the handle. The music stopped. He went in.

When vVinton had left him, an hour and a half later
that afternoon, Fiorsen continued to stand at the
front door, swaying his body to and fro. The brandy-
nurtured burst of jealousy which had made him insult
his wife and old Monsieur Harmost had died suddenly
when Gyp turned on him in the street and spoke in
that icy voice; since then he had felt fear, increasing
every minute. Would she forgive ? To one who
always acted on the impulse of the moment, so that he
rarely knew afterward exactly what he had done, or
whom hurt, Gyp's self-control had ever been mysterious
and a little frightening. Where had she gone ? Why
did she not come in ? Anxiety is like a ball that rolls
down-hill, gathering momentum. Suppose she did
not come back ! But she must — there was the baby
— their baby !

For the first time, the thought of it gave him un-
alloyed satisfaction. He left the door, and, after
drinking a glass to steady him, flung himself down on
the sofa in the drawing-room. And while he lay there,
the brandy warm within him, he thought: ' I will
turn over a new leaf; give up drink, give up every-
thing, send the baby into the country, take Gyp to
Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Rome — anywhere out of this
England, anywhere, away from that father of hers
and all these stiff, dull folk ! She will like that — she
loves travelling !' Yes, they would be happy !
Delicious nights — delicious days — air that did not
weigh you down and make you feel that you must
drink — real inspiration — real music ! The acrid wood-

14

210 BEYOND

smoke scent of Paris streets, the glistening cleanness
of the Thiergarten, a serenading song in a Florence
back street, fireflies in the summer dusk at Sorrento —
he had intoxicating memories of them all ! Slowly the
warmth of the brandy died away, and, despite the heat,
he felt chill and shuddery. He shut his eyes, thinking
to sleep till she came in. But very soon he opened
them, because — a thing usual with him of late — he saw
such ugly things^ — faces, vivid, changing as he looked,
growing ugly, uglier, becoming all holes — holes —

horrible holes Corruption — matted, twisted, dark

human-tree-roots of faces ! Horrible ! He opened his
eyes, for when he did that, they always went. It
was very silent. No sound from above. No sound
of the dogs. He would go up and see the baby.

While he was crossing the hall, there came a ring.
He opened the door himself. A telegram ! He tore
the envelope.

" Gyp and the baby are with me letter follows. —

WiNTON."

He gave a short laugh, shut the door in the boy's
face, and ran up-stairs ; why — heaven knew ! There
was nobody there now ! Nobody ! Did it mean that
she had really left him — was not coming back ? He
stopped by the side of Gyp's bed, and flinging himself
forward, lay across it, burying his face. And he
sobbed, as men will, unmanned by drink. Had he
lost her ? Never to see her eyes closing and press his
lips against them ! Never to soak his senses in her
loveliness ! He leaped up, with the tears still wet on
his face. Lost her ? Absurd ! That calm, prim,
devilish Englishman, her father — he was to blame —
he had worked it all — stealing the baby !

BEYOND 211

He went down-stairs and drank some brandy. It
steadied him a little. What should he do ? " Letter
follows." Drink, and wait ? Go to Bury Street ?
No. Drink ! Enjoy himself !

He laughed, and, catching up his hat, went out,
walking furiously at first, then slower and slower, for
his head began to whirl, and, taking a cab, was driven
to a restaurant in Soho. He had eaten nothing but
a biscuit since his breakfast, always a small matter,
and ordered soup and a flask of their best Chianti —
solids he could not face. More than two hours he sat,
white and silent, perspiration on his forehead, now
and then grinning and flourishing his fingers, to the
amusement and sometimes the alarm of those sitting
near. But for being known there, he would have been
regarded with suspicion. About half-past nine, there
being no more wine, he got up, put a piece of gold on
the table, and went out without waiting for his change.

In the streets, the lamps were lighted, but daylight
was not quite gone. He walked unsteadily, toward
Piccadilly. A girl of the town passed and looked up
at him. Staring hard, he hooked his arm in hers
without a word; it steadied him, and they walked
on thus together. Suddenly he said :

" Well, girl, are you happy ?" The girl stopped and
tried to disengage her arm; a rather frightened look
had come into her dark-eyed powdered face. Fiorsen
laughed, and held it firm. " \\'hen the unhappy meet,
they walk together. Come on ! You are just a little
like my wife. Will you have a drink ?"

The girl shook her head, and, with a sudden move-
ment, slipped her arm out of this madman's and dived
away like a swallow through the pavement traffic.
Fiorsen stood still and laughed with his head thrown

212 BEYOND

back. The second time to-day She had slipped from
his grasp. Passers looked at him, amazed. The
ugly devils ! And with a grimace, he turned out of
Piccadilly, past St. James's Church, making for Bury
Street. They wouldn't let him in, of course — not they !
But he would look at the windows; they had flower-
boxes — flower-boxes ! And, suddenly, he groaned
aloud — he had thought of Gyp's figure busy among the
flowers at home. Missing the right turning, he came
in at the bottom of the street. A fiddler in the gutter
was scraping away on an old vioUn. Fiorsen stopped
to listen. Poor devil ! " Pagliacci !" Going up to
the man — dark, lame, very shabby, he took out some
silver, and put his other hand on the man's shoulder.

" Brother," he said, " lend me your fiddle. Here's
money for you. Come; lend it to me. I am a great
iolinist."

" Vraiment, monsieur !"

" Ah ! Vraiment ! Voyons ! Donnez — un instant
— voiis verrez."

The fiddler, doubting but hypnotized, handed him
the fiddle; his dark face changed when he saw this
stranger fling it up to his shoulder and the ways of his
fingers with bow and strings. Fiorsen had begun to
walk up the street, his eyes searching for the flower-
boxes. He saw them, stopped, and began playing
" Che faro ?" He played it wonderfully on that poor
fiddle; and the fiddler, who had followed at his elbow,
stood watching him, uneasy, envious, but a little
entranced. Sapristi ! This tall, pale monsieur with
the strange face and the eyes that looked drunk and
the hollow chest, played like an angel ! Ah, but it
was not so easy as all that to make money in the streets
of this sacred town ! You might play like forty angels

BEYOND 213

and not a copper ! He had begun another tune — like
little pluckings at your heart — trcs joli — tout a fait
ecosurant ! Ah, there it was — a monsieur as usual
closing the window, drawing the curtains ! Always
same thing ! The violin and the bow were thrust
back into his hands; and the tall strange monsieur
was off as if devils were after him — not badly drunk,
that one ! And not a sou thrown down ! With an
uneasy feeling that he had been involved in something
that he did not understand, the lame, dark fiddler
limped his way round the nearest corner, and for two
streets at least did not stop. Then, counting the
silver Fiorsen had put into his hand and carefully
examining his fiddle, he used the word, " Bigre !"
and started for home.

XIX

Gyp hardly slept at all. Three times she got up, and,
stealing to the door, looked in at her sleeping baby,
whose face in its new bed she could just see by the
night-light's glow. The afternoon had shaken her
nerves. Nor was Betty's method of breathing while
asleep conducive to the slumber of anything but
babies. It was so hot, too, and the sound of the
violin still in her ears. By that little air of Poise, she
had known for certain it was Fiorsen; and her father's
abrupt drawing of the curtains had clinched that
certainty. If she had gone to the window and seen
him, she would not have been half so deeply disturbed
as she was by that echo of an old emotion. The link
which yesterday she thought broken for good was
reforged in some mysterious way. The sobbing of
that old fiddle had been his way of saying, " Forgive
me; forgive !" To leave him would have been so
much easier if she had really hated him; but she did
not. However difficult it may be to live with an
artist, to hate him is quite as difficult. An artist is
so flexible — only the rigid can be hated. She hated
the things he did, and him when he was doing them;
but afterward again could hate him no more than she
could love him, and that was — not at all. Resolution
and a sense of the practical began to come back with
dayhght. When things were hopeless, it was far better
to recognize it and harden one's heart.

Winton, whose night had been almost as sleepless —

214

BEYOND 215

to play like a beggar in the street, under his windows,
had seemed to him the limit ! — announced at breakfast
that he must see his lawyer, make arrangements for
the payment of Fiorsen's debts, and find out what could
be done to secure Gyp against persecution. Some deed
was probably necessary; he was vague on all such
matters. In the meantime, neither Gyp nor the baby
must go out. Gyp spent the morning writing and
rewriting to Monsieur Harmost, trying to express her
chagrin, but not saying that she had left Fiorsen.

Her father came back from Westminster quiet and
angry. He had with difficulty been made to under-
stand that the baby was Fiorsen's property, so that,
if the fellow claimed it, legally they would be unable to
resist. The point opened the old wound, forced him
to remember that his own daughter had once belonged
to another — father. He had told the lawyer in a
measured voice that he would see the fellow damned
first, and had directed a deed of separation to be
prepared, which should provide for the complete
payment of Fiorsen's existing debts on condition that
he left Gyp and the baby in peace. After telling Gyp
this, he took an opportunity of going to the extempore
nursery and standing by the baby's cradle. Until
then, the little creature had only been of interest as
part of Gyp; now it had for him an existence of its
own — this tiny, dark-eyed creature, lying there,
watching him so gravely, clutching his finger. Suddenly
the baby smiled — not a beautiful smile, but it made
on Winton an indelible impression.

Wishing first to settle this matter of the deed, he
put off going down to Mildenham; but " not trusting
those two scoundrels a yard "' — for he never failed to
bracket Rosek and Fiorsen — he insisted that the baby

2i6 BEYOND

should not go out without two attendants, and that
Gyp should not go out alone. He carried precaution
to the point of accompanying her to Monsieur Har-
most's on the Friday afternoon, and expressed a wish
to go in and shake hands with the old fellow. It was
a queer meeting. Those two had as great difficulty
in finding anything to say as though they were denizens
of different planets. And indeed, there are two planets
on this earth ! When, after a minute or so of the
friendliest embarrassment, he had retired to wait for
her, Gyp sat down to her lesson.

Monsieur Harmost said quietly:

" Your letter was very kind, my little friend — and
your father is very kind. But, after all, it was a
compliment your husband paid me." His smile smote
Gyp; it seemed to sum up so many resignations.
"So you stay again with your father!" And,
looking at her very hard with his melancholy brown
eyes : " When will you find your fate, I wonder ?"

"Never!"

Monsieur Harmost's eyebrows rose.

"Ah," he said, "you think! No, that is im-
possible ! " He walked twice very quickly up and down
the room ; then spinning round on his heel, said sharply :
" Well, we must not waste your father's time. To
work."

Winton's simple comment in the cab on the way
home was:

" Nice old chap !"

At Bury Street, they found Gyp's agitated parlour-
maid. Going to do the music-room that morning, she
had " found the master sitting on the sofa, holding
his head, and groaning awful. He's not been at
home, ma'am, since you — you went on your visit,

BEYOND 217

so I didn't know what to do. I ran for cook and we
got him up to bed, and not knowing where you'd be,
ma'am, I telephoned to Count Rosek, and he came — I
hope I didn't do wrong — and he sent me down to see
you. The doctor says his brain's on the touch and go,
and he keeps askin' for you, ma'am. So I didn't
know what to do. ' '

Gyp, pale to the lips, said :

" Wait here a minute, Ellen," and went into the
dining-room. Winton followed. She turned to him
at once, and said :

" Oh, Dad, what am I to do ? His brain ! It
would be too awful to feel I'd brought that about."

Winton grunted. Gyp went on :

" I must go and see. If it's really that, I couldn't
bear it. I'm afraid I must go. Dad."

Winton nodded.

" Well, I'll come too," he said. " The girl can go
back in the cab and say we're on the way."

Taking a parting look at her baby, Gyp thought
bitterly: ' My fate ? This is my fate, and no getting
out of it !' On the journey, she and Winton were quite
silent — but she held his hand tight. While the cook
was taking up to Rosek the news of their arrival,
Gyp stood looking out at her garden. Two days and
six hours only since she had stood there above her
pansies; since, at this very spot, Rosek had kissed her
throat ! Slipping her hand through Win,ton's arm,
she said:

" Dad, please don't make anything of that kiss.
He couldn't help himself, I suppose. What does it
matter, too ?"

A moment later Rosek entered. Before she could
speak, Winton was saying:

2i8 BEYOND

" Thank you for letting us know, sir. But now
that my daughter is here, there will be no further need
for your kind services. Good-day !"

At the cruel curtness of those words. Gyp gave the
tiniest start forward. She had seen them go through
Rosek's armour as a sword through brown paper.
He recovered himself with a sickly smile, bowed, and
went out. Winton followed — precisely as if he did not
trust him with the hats in the hall. When the outer
door was shut, he said:

" I don't think he'll trouble you again."

Gyp's gratitude was qualified by a queer compassion.
After all, his offence had only been that of loving her.

Fiorsen had been taken to her room, which was
larger and cooler than his own; and the maid was
standing by the side of the bed with a scared face.
Gyp signed to her to go. He opened his eyes presently :

" Gyp ! Oh ! Gyp ! Is it you ? The devilish,
awful things I see — don't go away again ! Oh, Gyp !"
With a sob he raised himself and rested his forehead
against her. And Gyp felt — as on the first night he
came home drunk — a merging of all other emotions
in the desire to protect and heal.

" It's all right, all right," she murmured. " I'm
going to stay. Don't worry about anything. Keep
quite quiet, and you'll soon be well."

In a quarter of an hour, he was asleep. His wasted
look went to her heart, and that expression of terror
which had been coming and going until he fell asleep !
Anything to do with the brain was so horrible ! Only
too clear that she must stay — that his recovery de-
pended on her. She was still sitting there, motionless,
when the doctor came, and, seeing him asleep, beckoned
her out. He looked a kindly man, with two waist-

BEYOND 219

coats, the top one unbuttoned ; and while he talked, he
winked at Gyp involuntarily, and, with each wink,
Gyp felt that he ripped the veil off one more domestic
secret. Sleep was the ticket — the very ticket for him !
Had something on his mind — yes ! And — er — a little
given to — brandy ? Ah ! all that must stop ! Stomach
as well as nerves affected. Seeing things — nasty
things — sure sign. Perhaps not a very careful life
before marriage. And married — how long ? His
kindly appreciative eyes swept Gyp from top to toe.
Year and a half ! Quite so ! Hard worker at his
violin, too ? No doubt ! Musicians always a little
inclined to be immoderate — too much sense of beauty
— burn the candle at both ends ! She must see to
that. She had been away, had she not — staying with
her father ? Yes. But — no one like a wife for nursing.
As to treatment ? Well ! One would shove in a dash
of what he would prescribe, night and morning. Perfect
quiet. No stimulant. A little cup of strong coffee
without milk, if he seemed low. Keep him in bed at
present. No worry; no excitement. Young man still.
Plenty of vitality. As to herself, no undue anxiety.
To-morrow they would see whether a night nurse
would be necessary. Above all, no violin for a month,
no alcohol — in every way the strictest moderation !
And with a last and friendliest wink, leaning heavily
on that word " moderation," he took out a stylographic
pen, scratched on a leaf of his note-book, shook Gyp's
hand, smiled whimsically, buttoned his upper waist-
coat, and departed.

Gyp went back to her se&t by the bed. Irony !
She whose only desire was to be let go free, was mainly
responsible for his breakdown ! But for her, there
would be nothing on his mind, for he would not be

220 BEYOND

married ! Brooding morbidly, she asked herself — his
drinking, debts, even the girl — had she caused them,
too ? And when she tried to free him and herself —
this was the result ! Was there something fatal about
her that must destroy the men she had to do with ?
She had made her father unhappy. Monsieur Harmost
• — Rosek, and her husband ! Even before she married,
how many had tried for her love, and gone away
unhappy ! And, getting up, she went to a mirror and
looked at herself long and sadly.

XX

Three days after her abortive attempt to break away,
Gyp, with much heart-searching, wrote to Daphne
Wing, telling her of Fiorsen's illness, and mentioning
a cottage near Mildenham, where — if she liked to go —
she would be quite comfortable and safe from all
curiosity, and finally begging to be allowed to make
good the losses from any broken dance-contracts.

Next morning, she found Mr. Wagge with a tall,
crape-banded hat in his black-gloved hands, standing
in the very centre of her drawing-room. He was star-
ing into the garden, as if he had been vouchsafed a
vision of that warm night when the moonlight shed
its ghostly glamour on the sunflowers, and his daughter
had danced out there. She had a perfect view of
his thick red neck in its turn-down collar, crossed by
a black bow over a shiny white shirt. And, holding
out her hand, she said :

" How do you do, Mr. Wagge ? It was kind of you
to come."

Mr. W'agge turned. His pug face wore a downcast
expression.

" I hope I see you well, ma'am. Pretty place you
'ave 'ere. I'm fond of flov/ers myself. They've
always been my 'obby."

" They're a great comfort in London, aren't they ?"

" Ye-es; I should think you might grow the dahha
here." And having thus obeyed the obscure instincts
of savoir faire, satisfied some obscurer desire to flatter,

221

222 BEYOND

he went on: "My girl showed me your letter. I
didn't like to write; in such a delicate matter I'd rather
be vivey vocey. Very kind, in your position; I'm
sure I appreciate it. I always try to do the Christian
thing myself. Flesh passes ; you never know when you
may have to take your turn. I said to my girl I'd
come and see you."

"I'm very glad. I hoped perhaps you would."

Mr. Wagge cleared his throat, and went on, in a
hoarser voice :

" I don't want to say anything harsh about a certain
party in your presence, especially as I read he's in-
disposed, but really I hardly know how to bear the
situation. I can't bring myself to think of money in
relation to that matter; all the same, it's a serious
loss to my daughter, very serious loss. I've got my
family pride to think of. My daughter's name, well —
it's my own; and, though I say it, I'm respected — a
regular attendant — I think I told you. Sometimes, I
assure you, I feel I can't control myself, and it's only
that — and you, if I may say so, that keeps me in
check. ' '

During this speech, his black-gloved hands were
clenching and unclenching, and he shifted his broad,
shining boots. Gyp gazed at them, not daring to
look up at his eyes thus turning and turning from
Christianity to shekels, from his honour to the world,
from his anger to herself. And she said :

" Please let me do what I ask, Mr. Wagge. I should
be so unhappy if I mightn't do that little something."

Mr. Wagge blew his nose.

" It's a delicate matter," he said. " I don't know
where my duty lays. I don't, reelly."

Gyp looked up then.

BEYOND 223

" The great thing is to save Daisy suffering, isn't
it?"

Mr. Wagge's face wore for a moment an expression
of affront, as if from the thought : ' Sufferin' ! You
must leave that to her father !' Then it wavered; the
curious, furtive warmth of the attracted male came
for a moment into his little eyes ; he averted them, and
coughed. Gyp said softly:

" To please me."

Mr. Wagge's readjusted glance stopped in confusion
at her waist. He answered, in a voice that he strove
to make bland :

" 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 gentle-
man at Campden Hill. He starts at twelve. I'm
never late. Goo^-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

224 BEYOND

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 thoroughl}'-
frightened, and such terror is not easily forgotten.
They stayed in a farmhouse, where he was at his best
with the simple 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, li 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,

BEYOND 225

were 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 naive 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. I try not to think
about things, but of course I can't help it; and I don'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

15

226 BEYOND

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 :

BEYOND 227

" 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 Mildenhara, 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."

" Yes ! For all you care, she might be. Tm going,
but you needn't be afraid that I shan't come back.
I shall be back to-day week; I promise."

He looked at her hxedly.

" Yes. You don't break your promises; you will
not break it." But, suddenly, he said again: " Gyp,
don't go !"

" I must."

He got up and caught her in his arms.

" Say you love me, then !"

But she could not. It was one thing to put up with
embraces, quite another to pretend that. When at
last he was gone, she sat smoothing her hair, staring
before her with hard eyes, thinking: " Here — where
I saw him with that girl ! What animals men are !"

Late that afternoon, she reached Mildenham. Winton
met her at the station. And on the drive up, they
passed the cottage where Daphne Wing was staying.
It stood in front of a small coppice, a creepered, plain-
fronted, little brick house, with a garden still full of
sunflowers, tenanted by the old jockey, Pettance, his
widowed daughter, and her three small children.
" That talkative old scoundrel," as Winton always

228 BEYOND

called him, was still employed in the Mildenham
stables, and his daughter was laundress to the estab-
lishment. Gyp had secured for Daphne Wing the
same free, independent, economic agent who had
watched over her own event ; the same old doctor, too,
was to be the presiding deity. There were no signs
of life about the cottage, and she would not stop, too
eager to be at home again, to see the old rooms, and
smell the old savour of the house, to get to her old
mare, and feel its nose nuzzling her for sugar. It was
so good to be back once more, feeling strong and well
and able to ride. The smile of the inscrutable Markey
at the front door was a joy to her, even the darkness
of the hall, where a gleam of last sunlight fell across
the skin of Winton's first tiger, on which she had so
often sunk down dead tired after hunting. Ah, it was
nice to be at home !

In her mare's box, old Pettance was putting a last
touch to cleanliness. His shaven, skin-tight, wicked
old face, smiled deeply. He said in honeyed
tones :

" Good-evenin', miss; beautiful evenin', ma'am!"
And his little burning brown eyes, just touched by
age, regarded her lovingly.

" Well, Pettance, how are you ? And how's Annie,
and how are the children ? And how's this old
darling?"

" Wonderful, miss; artful as a kitten. Carry you
like a bird to-morrow, if you're goin' out."

" How are her legs ?"

And while Gyp passed her hand down those iron
legs, the old mare examined her down the back of her
neck.

" They 'aven't filled not once since she come in —

BEYOND 229

she was out all July and August; but I've kept 'er
well at it since, in 'opes you might be comin'."

" They feel splendid." And, still bending down. Gyp
asked: " x\nd how is your lodger — the young lady I
sent you ? ' '

" Well, ma'am, she's very young, and these very
young ladies they get a bit excited, you know, at

such times; I should say she've never been "

with obvious diilficulty he checked the words, "to an
'orse before !" " Well, you must expect it. And her
mother, she's a dreadful funny one, miss. She do
needle me ! Oh, she puts my back up properly !
No class, of course — that's where it is. But this 'ere
nurse — well, you know, miss, she won't 'ave no non-
sense ; so there we are. And, of course, you're bound
to 'ave 'ighsteria, a bit — losin' her 'usband as young
as that."

Gyp could feel his wicked old smile even before she
raised herself. But what did it matter if he did guess ?
She knew he would keep a stable secret.

" Oh, we've 'ad some pretty flirts-up and cryin',
dear me ! I sleeps in the next room — oh, yes, at night-
time— when you're a widder at that age, you can't
expect nothin' else. I remember when I was ridin'
in Ireland for Captain O'Neill, there was a young
woman ' '

Gyp thought: ' I mustn't let him get off — or I shall
be late for dinner,' and she said:

" Oh, Pettance, who bought the young brown
horse ?"

" Mr. Bryn Summer'ay, ma'am, over at Widrington,
for an 'unter, and 'ack in town, miss."

" Summerhay ? Ah !" With a touch of the whip
to her memory, Gyp recalled the young man with the

j?30 BEYOND

clear eyes and teasing smile, on the chestnut mare,
the bold young man who reminded her of somebody,
and she added:

" That'll be a good home for him, I should think."

" Oh, yes, miss; good 'ome — nice gentleman, too.
He come over here to see it, and asked after you. I
told 'im you was a married lady now, miss. ' Ah,' he
said ; ' she rode beautiful ! ' And he remembered the
'orse well. The major, he wasn't 'ere just then, so I
let him try the young un; he popped 'im over a fence
or two, and when he come back he says, ' Well, I'm
goin' to have 'im.' Speaks very pleasant, an' don't
waste no time — 'orse was away before the end of the
week. Carry 'im well; 'e's a strong rider, too, and a
good plucked one but bad 'ands, I should say."

" Yes, Pettance; I must go in now. Will you tell
Annie I shall be round to-morrow, to see her ?"

" Very good, miss. 'Ounds meets at Filly Cross,
seven-thirty. You'll be goin' out ?"

" Rather. Good-night."

Flying back across the yard, Gyp thought: " ' She
rode beautiful!' How jolly! I'm glad he's got my
horse."

XXI

Still glowing from her morning in the saddle, Gyp
started out next day at noon on her visit to the " old
scoundrel's " cottage. It was one of those lingering
meUow mornings of late September, when the air, just
warmed through, lifts off the stubbles, and the hedge-
rows are not yet dried of dew. The short cut led across
two fields, a narrow strip of village common, where
linen was drying on gorse bushes coming into bloom,
and one field beyond; she met no one. Crossing the
road, she passed into the cottage-garden, where sun-
flowers and Michaelmas daisies in great profusion
were tangled along the low red-brick garden-walls,
under some poplar trees yellow-flecked already. A
single empty chair, with a book turned face downward,
stood outside an open window. Smoke wreathing
from one chimney was the only sign of life. But,
standing undecided before the half-open door, Gyp
was conscious, as it were, of too much stillness, of
something unnatural about the silence. She was
raising her hand to knock when she heard the sound
of smothered sobbing. Peeping through the window,
she could just see a woman dressed in green, evidently
Mrs. Wagge, seated at a table, crying into her hand-
kerchief. At that very moment, too, a low moaning
came from the room above. Gyp recoiled; then,
making up her mind, she went in and knocked at the
room where the woman in green was sitting. After
fully half a minute, it was opened, and Mrs. Wagge

231

232 BEYOND

stood there. The nose and eyes and cheeks of that
thinnish, acid face were red, and in her green dress,
and with her greenish hair (for it was going grey and
she put on it a yellow lotion smelling of cantharides),
she seemed to Gyp just like one of those green apples
that turn reddish so unnaturally in the sun. She
had rubbed over her face, which shone in streaks, and
her handkerchief was still crumpled in her hand. It
was horrible to come, so fresh and glowing, into the
presence of this poor woman, evidently in bitter
sorrow. And a desperate desire came over Gyp to
fly. It seemed dreadful for anyone connected with
him who had caused this trouble to be coming here at
all. But she said as softly as she could:

" Mrs. Wagge ? Please forgive me — but is there

any news ? I am It was I who got Daphne

down here."

The woman before her was evidently being torn this
way and that, but at last she answered, with a sniff:

" It — it — was born this morning — dead."

Gyp gasped. To have gone through it all for that !
Every bit of mother-feeling in her rebelled and sor-
rowed ; but her reason said : Better so ! Much better !
And she murmured:

" How is she ?"

Mrs. Wagge answered, with profound dejection:

" Bad — very bad. I don't know I'm sure what to
say — my feelings are all anyhow, and that's the truth.
It's so dreadfully upsetting altogether."

"Is my nurse with her ?"

" Yes; she's there. She's a very headstrong woman,
but capable, I don't deny. Daisy's very weak. Oh,
it is upsetting ! And now I suppose there'll have to
be a burial. There really seems no end to it. And

BEYOND , 233

all because of — of that man." And Mrs. Wagge turned
away again to cry into her handkerchief.

Feeling she could never say or do the right thing to
the poor lady, Gyp stole out. At the bottom of the
stairs, she hesitated whether to go up or no. At last,
she mounted softly. It must be in the front room
that the bereaved girl was lying — the girl who, but a
year ago, had debated with such naive self-importance
whether or not it was her duty to take a lover. Gyp
summoned courage to tap gently. The economic agent
opened the door an inch, but, seeing who it was, slipped
her robust and handsome person through into the
corridor.

" You, my dear !" she said in a whisper. " That's
nice !"

" How is she ?"

" Fairly well — considering. You know about it."

" Yes; can I see her ?"

" I hardly think so. I can't make her out. She's
got no spirit, not an ounce. She doesn't want to get
well, I believe. It's the man, I expect." And, looking
at Gyp with her fine blue eyes, she asked: " Is that it ?
Is he tired of her ?"

Gyp met her gaze better than she had believed
possible.

" Yes, nurse."

The economic agent swept her up and down.

" It's a pleasure to look at you. You've got quite
a colour, for you. After all, I believe it might do her
good to see you. Come in !"

Gyp passed in behind her, and stood gazing, not
daring to step forward. What a white face, with eyes
closed, with fair hair still damp on the forehead, with
one white hand lying on the sheet above her heart !

234 BEYOND

What a frail madonna of the sugar- plums ! On the
whole of that bed the only colour seemed the gold
hoop round the wedding-finger.

The economic agent said very quietly:

" Look, my dear; I've brought you a nice visitor."

Daphne Wing's eyes and lips opened and closed
again. And the awful thought went through Gyp:
' Poor thing ! She thought it was going to be him,
and it's only me !' Then the white lips said:

" Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, it's you — it is kind of you !"
And the eyes opened again, but very little, and
differently.

The economic agent slipped away. Gyp sat down
by the bed and timidly touched the hand.

Daphne \\ ing looked at her, and two tears slowly
ran down her cheeks.

" It's over," she said just audibly, " and there's
nothing now — it was dead, you know. I don't want
to live. Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, why can't they let me
die, too ?"

Gyp bent over and kissed the hand, unable to bear
the sight of those two slowly rolling tears. Daphne
Wing went on:

" You are good to me. I wish my poor little baby
hadn't "

Gyp, knowing her own tears were wetting that
hand, raised herself and managed to get out the words :

" Bear up ! Think of your work !"

" Dancing ! Ho !" She gave the least laugh ever
heard. " It seems so long ago."

" Yes; but now it'll all come back to you again,
better than ever.

Daphne Wing answered by a feeble sigh.

There was silence. Gyp thought: 'She's failing
asleep. '

BEYOND 235

With eyes and mouth closed like that, and all
alabaster white, the face was perfect, purged of its
little commonnesses. Strange freak that this white
flower of a face could ever have been produced by Mr.
and Mrs. Wagge !

Daphne Wing opened her eyes and said :

" Oh ! Mrs. Fiorsen, I feel so weak. And I feel
much more lonely now. There's nothing anywhere."

Gyp got up; she felt herself being carried into the
mood of the girl's heart, and was afraid it would be
seen. Daphne Wing went on :

" Do you know, when nurse said she'd brought a
visitor, I thought it was him; but I'm glad now. If
he had looked at me like he used — I couldn't have
borne it."

Gyp bent down and put her lips to the damp fore-
head. Faint, very faint, there was still the scent of
orange-blossom.

When she was once more in the garden, she hurried
away; but instead of crossing the fields again, turned
past the side of the cottage into the coppice behind.
And, sitting down on a log, her hands pressed to her
cheeks and her elbows to her breast, she stared at the
sunlit bracken and the flies chasing each other over it.
Love ! Was it always something hateful and tragic
that spoiled lives ? Criss-cross ! One darting on
another, taking her almost before she knew she was
seized, then darting away and leaving her wanting to
be seized again. Or darting on her, who, when seized,
was fatal to the darter, yet had never wanted to be
seized. Or darting one on the other for a moment,
then both breaking away too soon. Did never two
dart at each other, seize, and cling, and ever after
be one ? Love ! It had spoiled her father's life, and

236 BEYOND

Daphne Wing's; never came when it was wanted;
always came when it was not. Malevolent Vk^anderer,
alighting here, there; tiring of the spirit before it tired
of the body ; or of the body before it tired of the spirit.
Better to have nothing to do with it — far better ! If
one never loved, one would never feel lonely — like
that poor girl. And yet ! No — there was no " and
yet." Who that was free would wish to become a
slave ? A slave — like Daphne Wing ! A slave — like
her own husband to his want of a wife who did not
love him. A slave like her father had been — still was,
to a memory. And watching the sunlight on the
bracken, Gyp thought : ' Love ! Keep far from me.
I don't want you. I shall never want you !'

Every morning that week she made her way to the
cottage, and every morning had to pass through the
hands of Mrs. Wagge. The good lady had got over
the upsetting fact that Gyp was the wife of that villain,
and had taken a fancy to her, confiding to the economic
agent, who confided it to Gyp, that she was " very
distangey — and such pretty eyes, quite Italian." She
was one of those numberless persons whose passion for
distinction was just a little too much for their
passionate propriety. It was that worship of distinc-
tion which had caused her to have her young daughter's
talent for dancing fostered. Who knew to what it
might lead in these days ? At great length she ex-
plained to Gyp the infinite care with which she had
always " brought Daisy up like a lady — and now this
is the result." And she would look piercingly at Gyp's
hair or ears, at her hands or her instep, to see how it
was done. The burial worried her dreadfully. "I'm
using the name of Daisy Wing; she was christened

BEYOND 237

' Daisy,' and the Wing's professional, so that takes
them both in, and it's quite the truth. But I don't
think anyone would connect it, would they ? About
the father's name, do you think I might say the late
Mr. Joseph Wing, this once ? You see, it never was
alive, and I must put something if they're not to guess
the truth, and that I couldn't bear; Mr. Wagge would
be so distressed. It's in his own line, you see. Oh,
it is upsetting !"

Gyp murmured desperately :

" Oh ! yes, anything."

Though the girl was so deathly white and spiritless,
it soon became clear that she was going to pull through.
With each day, a little more colour and a little more
commonness came back to her. And Gyp felt in-
stinctively that she would, in the end, return to Fulham
purged of her infatuation, rather harder, perhaps rather
deeper.

Late one afternoon toward the end of her week at
Mildenham, Gyp wandered again into the coppice,
and sat down on that same log. An hour before sun-
set, the light shone level on the yellowing leaves all
round her; a startled rabbit pelted out of the bracken
and pelted back again, and, from the far edge of the
little wood, a jay cackled harshly, shifting its perch
from tree to tree. Gyp thought of her baby, and of
that which would have been its half-brother; and now
that she was so near having to go back to Fiorsen, she
knew that she had not been wise to come here. To
have been in contact with the girl, to have touched,
as it were, that trouble, had made the thought of life
with him less tolerable even than it was before. Only
the longing to see her baby made return seem possible.
Ah, well — she would get used to it all again ! But

238 BEYOND

the anticipation of his eyes fixed on her, then sliding
away from the meeting with her eyes, of all — of all
that would begin again, suddenly made her shiver.
She was very near to loathing at that moment. He,
the father of her baby ! The thought was ridiculous
and strange. That little creature seemed to bind him
to her no more than if it were the offspring of some
chance encounter, some pursuit of nymph by faun.
No ! It was hers alone. And a sudden feverish
longing to get back to it overpowered all other thought.
This longing grew in her so all night that at breakfast
she told her father. Swallowing down whatever his
feeling may have been, he said :

" Very well, my child; I'll come up with you."
Putting her into the cab in London, he asked :
" Have you still got your key of Bury Street ?
Good ! Remember, Gyp — any time day or night —
there it is for you."

She had wired to Fiorsen from Mildenham that she
was coming, and she reached home soon after three.
He was not in, and what was evidently her telegram
lay unopened in the hall. Tremulous with expectation,
she ran up to the nursery. The pathetic sound of
some small creature that cannot tell what is hurting
it, or why, met her ears. She went in, disturbed, yet
with the half-triumphant thought: ' Perhaps that's
for me !'

Betty, very flushed, was rocking the cradle, and
examining the baby's face with a perplexed frown.
Seeing Gyp, she put her hand to her side, and gasped :
" Oh, be joyful ! Oh, my dear ! I am glad. I
can't do anything with baby since the morning. When-
ever she wakes up, she cries like that. And till to-day
she's been a little model. Hasn't she ! There, there !"

BEYOND 239

Gyp took up the baby, whose black eyes fixed them-
selves on her mother in a momentary contentment;
but, at the first movement, she began again her fretful
plaint. Betty went on :

" She's been like that ever since this morning. Mr.
Fiorsen's been in more than once, ma'am, and the fact
is, baby don't like it. He stares at her so. But this
morning I thought — well — I thought: ' You're her
father. It's time she was getting used to you.' So I
let them be a minute; and when I came back — I was
only just across to the bathroom — he was comin' out
lookin' quite fierce and white, and baby — oh, screamin' !
And except for sleepin', she's hardly stopped cryin'
since."

Pressing the baby to her breast. Gyp sat very still,
and queer thoughts went through her mind.

" How has he been, Betty ?" she said.

Betty plaited her apron; her moon-face was
troubled.

" Well," she said, " I think he's been drinkin'.
Oh, I'm sure he has — I've smelt it about him. The
third day it began. And night before last he came
in dreadfully late — I could hear him staggerin' about,
abusing the stairs as he was comin' up. Oh dear — it
IS a pity !"

The baby, who had been still enough since she lay
in her mother's lap, suddenly raised her little voice
again. Gyp said:

" Betty, I believe something hurts her arm. She
cries the moment she's touched there. Is there a pin
or anything ? Just see. Take her things off. Oh —
look !"

Both the tiny arms above the elbow were circled
with dark marks, as if they had been squeezed by

240 BEYOND

ruthless fingers. The two women looked at each other
in horror; and under her breath Gyp said: " He !"

She had flushed crimson; her eyes filled but dried
again almost at once. And, looking at her face, now
gone very pale, and those lips tightened to a line,
Betty stopped in her outburst of ejaculation. When
they had wrapped the baby's arms in remedies and
cotton-wool. Gyp went into her bedroom, and, throw-
ing herself down on her bed, burst into a passion of
weeping, smothering it deep in her pillow.

It was the crying of sheer rage. The brute ! Not
to have control enough to stop short of digging his
claws into that precious mite ! Just because the poor
little thing cried at that cat's stare of his ! The brute !
The devil ! And he would come to her and whine
about it, and say: "My Gyp, I never meant — how

should I know I was hurting ? Her crying was so

Why should she cry at me ? I was upset ! I wasn't
thinking !" She could hear him pleading and sighing
to her to forgive him. But she would not — not this
time ! He had hurt a helpless thing once too often.
Her fit of crying ceased, and she lay listening to the
tick of the clock, and marshalling in her mind a hundred
little evidences of his malevolence toward her baby —
his own baby. How was it possible ? Was he really
going mad ? And a fit of such chilly shuddering
seized her that she crept under the eiderdown to regain
warmth. In her rage, she retained enough sense of
proportion to understand that he had done this, just
as he had insulted Monsieur Harmost and her father —
and others — in an ungovernable access of nerve-
irritation; just as, perhaps, one day he would kill
someone. But to understand this did not lessen her
feeling. Her baby ! Such a tiny thing ! She hated

BEYOND 241

him at last; and she lay thinking out the coldest, the
cruellest, the most cutting things to say. She had
been too long-suffering.

But he did not come in that evening; and, too upset
to eat or do anything, she went up to bed at ten o'clock.
When she had undressed, she stole across to the
nursery ; she had a longing to have the baby with her —
a feeling that to leave her was not safe. She carried
her off, still sleeping, and, locking her doors, got into
bed. Having warmed a nest with her body for the
little creature, she laid it there; and then for a long
time lay awake, expecting every minute to hear him
return. She fell asleep at last, and woke with a start.
There were vague noises down below or on the stairs.
It must be he ! She had left the light on in her room,
and she leaned over to look at the baby's face. It
was still sleeping, drawing its tiny breaths peacefully,
little dog-shivers passing every now and then over its
face. Gyp, shaking back her dark plaits of hair, sat
up by its side, straining her ears.

Yes ; he was coming up, and, by the sounds, he was
not sober. She heard a loud creak, and then a thud,
as if he had clutched at the banisters and fallen; she
heard muttering, too, and the noise of boots dropped.
Swiftly the thought went through her: ' If he were
quite drunk, he would not have taken them off at all ;
— nor if he were quite sober. Does he know I'm back ? '
Then came another creak, as if he were raising himself
by support of the banisters, and then — or was it fancy ?
— she could hear him creeping and breathing behind
the door. Then — no fancy this time — he fumbled at
the door and turned the handle. In spite of his state,
he must know that she was back, had noticed her
travelling-coat or seen the telegram. The handle was

16

242 BEYOND

tried again, then, after a pause, the handle of the door
between his room and hers was fiercely shaken. She
could hear his voice, too, as she knew it when he was
flown with drink, thick, a little drawling.

" Gyp — ^^^ ^^ ^^ — Gyp '"

The blood burned up in her cheeks, and she thought :
' No, my friend; you're not coming in !'

After that, sounds were more confused, as if he were
now at one door, now at the other; then creakings,
as if on the stairs again, and after that, no sound
at all.

For fully half an hour, Gyp continued to sit up,
straining her ears. Where was he ? What doing ?
On her over-excited nerves, all sorts of possibilities
came crowding. He must have gone downstairs
again. In that half-drunken state, where would his
baffled frenzies lead him ? And, suddenly, she thought
that she smelled burning. It went, and came again;
she got up, crept to the door, noiselessly turned the
key, and pulling it open a few inches, sniffed.

All was dark on the landing. There was no smell of
burning out there. Suddenly, a hand clutched her
ankle. All the blood rushed from her heart ; she stifled
a scream, and tried to pull the door to. But his arm
and her leg were caught between, and she saw the
black mass of his figure lying full-length on its face.
Like a vice, his hand held her; he drew himself up on
to his knees, on to his feet, and forced his way through.
Panting, but in utter silence, Gyp struggled to drive
him out. His drunken strength seemed to come and
go in gusts, but hers was continuous, greater than she
had ever thought she had, and she panted :

" Go ! go out of my room — you — you — wretch !"

Then her heart stood still with horror, for he had

BEYOND 243

slued round to the bed and was stretching his hands
out above the baby. She heard him mutter:

" Ah-h-h ! — you — in my place — you !"

Gyp flung herself on him from behind, dragging his
arms down, and, clasping her hands together, held
him fast. He twisted round in her arms and sat down
on the bed. In that moment of his collapse. Gyp
snatched up her baby and fled out, down the dark
stairs, hearing him stumbling, groping in pursuit. She
fled into the dining-room and locked the door. She
heard him run against it and fall down. Snuggling
her baby, who was crying now, inside her nightgown,
next to her skin for warmth, she stood rocking and
hushing it, trying to listen. There was no more
sound. By the hearth, whence a little heat still came
forth from the ashes, she cowered down. With
cushions and the thick white felt from the dining-table,
she made the baby snug, and wrapping her shivering
self in the table-cloth, sat staring wide-eyed before her
— and always listening. There were sounds at first,
then none. A long, long time she stayed like that,
before she stole to the door. She did not mean to
make a second mistake. She could hear the sound
of heavy breathing. And she listened to it, till she
was quite certain that it was really the breathing of
sleep. Then stealthily she opened, and looked. He
was over there, lying against the bottom stair, in a
heavy, drunken slumber. She knew that sleep so well ;
he would not wake from it.

It gave her a sort of evil pleasure that they would
find him like that in the morning when she was gone.
She went back to her baby and, with infinite precaution,
lifted it, still sleeping, cushion and all, and stole past
him up the stairs that, under her bare feet, made no

244 BEYOND

sound. Once more in her locked room, she went to
the window and looked out. It was just before dawn;
her garden was grey and ghostly, and she thought:
* The last time I shall see you. Good-bye !'

Then, with the utmost speed, she did her hair and
dressed. She was very cold and shivery, and put on
her fur coat and cap. She hunted out two jerseys for
the baby, and a certain old camel's-hair shawl. She
took a few little things she was fondest of and slipped
them into her wrist-bag with her purse, put on her
hat and a pair of gloves. She did everything very
swiftly, wondering, all the time, at her own power of
knowing what to take. WTien she was quite ready, she
scribbled a note to Betty to follow with the dogs to
Bury Street, and pushed it under the nursery door.
Then, wrapping the baby in the jerseys and shawl,
she went downstairs. The dawn had broken, and,
from the long narrow window above the door with
spikes of iron across it, grey light was striking into the
hall. Gyp passed Fiorsen's sleeping figure safely, and,
for one moment, stopped for breath. He was lying
with his back against the wall, his head in the hollow
of an arm raised against a stair, and his face turned a
little upward. That face which, hundreds of times,
had been so close to her own, and something about this
crumpled body, about his tumbled hair, those cheek-
bones, and the hollows beneath the pale lips just parted
under the dirt-gold of his moustache — something of
lost divinity in all that inert figure — clutched for a
second at Gyp's heart. Only for a second. It was
over, this time ! No more — never again ! And, turn-
ing very stealthily, she slipped her shoes on, undid
the chain, opened the front door, took up her burden,
closed the door softly behind her, and walked away.

PART III

Gyp was going up to town. She sat in the corner of a
first-class carriage, alone. Her father had gone up by
an earlier train, for the annual June dinner of his old
regiment, and she had stayed to consult the doctor
concerning " little Gyp," aged nearly nineteen months,
to whom teeth were making life a burden.

Her eyes wandered from window to window, obeying
the faint excitement within her. All the winter and
spring, she had been at Mildenham, very quiet, riding
much, and pursuing her music as best she could, seeing
hardly anyone except her father; and this departure
for a spell of London brought her the feeling that
comes on an April day, when the sky is blue, with
snow-white clouds, when in the fields the lambs are
leaping, and the grass is warm for the first time, so
that one would like to roll in it. At Widrington, a
porter entered, carrying a kit-bag, an overcoat, and
some golf-clubs; and round the door a little group,
such as may be seen at any English wayside station,
clustered, filling the air with their clean, slightly
drawling voices. Gyp noted a tall woman whose
blonde hair was going grey, a young girl with a fox-
terrier on a lead, a young man with a Scotch terrier
under his arm and his back to the carriage. The girl *»
was kissing the Scotch terrier's head.

245

246 BEYOND

" Good-bye, old Ossy ! Was he nice ! Tumbo,
keep down! You're not going !"

" Good-bye, dear boy ! Don't work too hard !"

The young man's answer was not audible, but it was
followed by irrepressible gurgles and a smothered :

" Oh, Bryan, you are Good-bye, dear Ossy !"

" Good-bye !" " Good-bye !" The young man who
had got in, made another unintelligible joke in a rather
high-pitched voice, which was somehow familiar, and
again the gurgles broke forth. Then the train moved.
Gyp caught a side view of him, waving his hat from
the carriage window. It was her acquaintance of the
hunting-field — the " Mr. Bryn Summer 'ay," as old
Pettance called him, who had bought her horse last
year. Seeing him pull down his overcoat, to bank up
the old Scotch terrier against the jolting of the journey,
she thought : ' I like men who think first of their dogs.'
His round head, with curly hair, broad brow, and those
clean-cut lips, gave her again the wonder : ' Where
have I seen someone like him ? ' He raised the window,
and turned round.

" How would you like Oh, how d'you do !

We met out hunting. You don't remember me, I
expect."

" Yes; perfectly. And you bought my horse last
summer. How is he ?"

" In great form. I forgot to ask what you called
him; I've named him Hotspur — he'll never be steady
at his fences. I remember how he pulled with you
that day."

They were silent, smiling, as people will in remem-
brance of a good run.

Then, looking at the dog. Gyp said softly:

" He looks rather a darling. How old ?"

BEYOND 247

" Twelve. Beastly when dogs get old !"

There was another little silence while he contem-
plated her steadily with his clear eyes.

" I came over to call once — with my mother;
November the year before last. Somebody was ill."

" Yes— I."

"Badly?"

Gyp shook her head.

" I heard you were married " The little drawl

in his voice had increased, as though covering the
abruptness of that remark. Gyp looked up.

" Yes; but my little daughter and I live with my
father again." What " came over " her — as they say
— to be so frank, she could not have told.

He said simply:

" Ah ! I've often thought it queer I've never seen
you since. What a run that was !"

" Perfect ! Was that your mother on the plat-
form ?"

" Yes — and my sister Edith. Extraordinary dead-
alive place, W^idrington; I expect Mildenham isn't
much better ?"

" It's very quiet, but I like it."

" By the way, I don't know your name now ?"

" Fiorsen."

" Oh, yes ! The violinist. Life's a bit of a gamble,
isn't it ?"

Gyp did not answer that odd remark, did not quite
know what to make of this audacious young man,
whose hazel eyes and lazy smile were queerly lovable,
but whose face in repose had such a broad gravity.
He took from his pocket a little red book.

" Do you know these ? I always take them travel-
ling. Finest things ever written, aren't they ?"

248 BEYOND

The book — Shakespeare's Sonnets — was open at that
which begins:

" Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove "

Gyp read on as far as the lines :

" Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come.
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks
But bears it out even to the edge of doom "

and looked out of the window. The train was passing
through a country of fields and dykes, where the sun,
far down in the west, shone almost level over wide,
whitish-green space, and the spotted cattle browsed
or stood by the ditches, lazily flicking their tufted tails.
A shaft of sunlight flowed into the carriage, filled with
dust motes; and, handing the little book back through
that streak of radiance, she said softly :

"Yes; that's wonderful. Do you read much
poetry ?"

" More law, Tm afraid. But it is about the finest
thing in the world, isn't it ?"

"No; I think music."

" Are you a musician ?"

" Only a little."

"You look as if you might be."

"What? A little?"

" No; I should think you had it badly."

" Thank you. And you haven't it at all ?"

" I like opera."

" The hybrid form — and the lowest !"

" That's why it suits me. Don't you like it,
though ?"

BEYOND 249

" Yes; that's why I'm going up to London."

" Really ? Are you a subscriber ?"

" This season."

"So am I. Jolly — I shall see you."

Gyp smiled. It was so long since she had talked
to a man of her own age, so long since she had seen
a face that roused her curiosity and admiration, so
long since she had been admired. The sun-shaft,
shifted by a westward trend of the train, bathed her
from the knees up ; and its warmth increased her light-
hearted sense of being in luck — above her fate, instead
of under it.

Astounding how much can be talked of in two or
three hours of a railway journey ! And what a friendly
after-warmth clings round those hours ! Does the
difficulty of making oneself heard provoke confidential
utterance ? Or is it the isolation or the continual
vibration that carries friendship faster and further
than will a spasmodic acquaintanceship of weeks ?
But in that long talk he was far the more voluble.
There was, too, much of which she could not speak.
Besides, she liked to listen. His slightly drawling
voice fascinated her — his audacious, often witty way
of putting things, and the irrepressible bubble of
laughter that would keep breaking from him. He
disclosed his past, such as it was, freely — public-school
and college life, efforts at the bar, ambitions, tastes,
even his scrapes. And in this spontaneous unfolding
there was perpetual flattery; Gyp felt through it all,
as pretty women will, a sort of subtle admiration.
Presently he asked her if she played piquet.

" Yes; I play with my father nearly every evening."

" Shall we have a game, then ?"

She knew he only wanted to play because he could

250 BEYOND

sit nearer, joined by the evening paper over their
knees, hand her the cards after deahng, touch her hand
by accident, look in her face. And this was not un-
pleasant; for she, in turn, liked looking at his face,
which had what is called " charm " — that something
light and unepiscopal, entirely lacking to so many
solid, handsome, admirable faces.

But even railway journeys come to an end; and
when he gripped her hand to say good-bye, she gave
his an involuntary little squeeze. Standing at her
cab window, with his hat raised, the old dog under his
arm, and a look of frank, rather wistful, admiration
on his face, he said :

" I shall see you at the opera, then, and in the Row
perhaps; and I may come along to Bury Street, some-
time, mayn't I ?"

Nodding to those friendly words. Gyp drove off
through the sultry London evening. Her father was
not back from the dinner, and she went straight to her
room. After so long in the country, it seemed very
close in Bury Street; she put on a wrapper and sat
down to brush the train-smoke out of her hair.

For months after leaving Fiorsen, she had felt
nothing but relief. Only of late had she begun to see
her new position, as it was — that of a woman married
yet not married, whose awakened senses have never
been gratified, whose spirit is still waiting for unfold-
ment in love, who, however disillusioned, is — even if
in secret from herself — more and more surely seeking
a real mate, with every hour that ripens her heart and
beauty. To-night — gazing at her face, reflected, intent
and mournful, in the mirror — she saw that position
more clearly, in all its aridity, than she had ever seen
it. What was the use of being pretty ? No longer

BEYOND 251

use to anyone ! Not yet twenty-six, and in a nunnery !
\Vith a shiver, but not of cold, she drew her wrapper
close. This time last year she had at least been in
the main current of life, not a mere derelict. And yet
— better far be like this than go back to him whom
memory painted always standing over her sleeping
baby, with his arms stretched out and his fingers
crooked like claws.

After that early-morning escape, Fiorsen had lurked
after her for weeks, in town, at Mildenham, followed
them even to Scotland, where Winton had carried her
off. But she had not weakened in her resolution a
second time, and suddenly he had given up pursuit,
and gone abroad. Since then — nothing had come
from him, save a few wild or maudlin letters, written
evidently during drinking-bouts. Even they had
ceased, and for four months she had heard no word.
He had " got over " her, it seemed, wherever he was —
Russia, Sweden — who knew — who cared ?

She let the brush rest on her knee, thinking again
of that walk with her baby through empty, silent
streets, in the early misty morning last October, of
waiting dead-tired outside here, on the pavement,
ringing till they let her in. Often, since, she had
wondered how fear could have worked her up to that
weird departm-e. She only knew that it had not been
unnatural at the time. Her father and Aunt Rosa-
mund had wanted her to try for a divorce, and no
doubt they had been right. But her instincts had
refused, still refused to let everyone know her secrets
and sufferings — still refused the hollow pretence
involved, that she had loved him when she never had.
No, it had been her fault for marrying him without
love —

252 BEYOND

" Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds !"

What irony — giving her that to read — if her fellow
traveller had only known !

She got up from before the mirror, and stood looking
round her room, the room she had always slept in as
a girl. So he had remembered her all this time ! It
had not seemed like meeting a stranger. They were
not strangers now, anyway. And, suddenly, on the
wall before her, she saw his face; or, if not, what was
so like that she gave a little gasp. Of course ! How
stupid of her not to have known at once ! There, in
a brown frame, hung a photograph of the celebrated
Botticelli or Masaccio " Head of a Young Man " in
the National Gallery. She had fallen in love with it
years ago, and on the wall of her room it had been ever
since. That broad face, the clear eyes, the bold,
clean-cut mouth, the audacity — only, the live face was
English, not Italian, had more humour, more " breed-
ing," less poetry — something " old Georgian " about
it. How he would laugh if she told him he was like
that peasant acolyte with fluffed-out hair, and a little
ruching round his neck ! And, smiling. Gyp plaited
her own hair and got into bed.

But she could not sleep; she heard her father come
in and go up to his room, heard the clocks strike
midnight, and one, and two, and always the dull roar
of Piccadilly. She had nothing over her but a sheet,
and still it was too hot. There was a scent in the
room, as of honeysuckle. Where could it come from ?
She got up at last, and went to the window. There,
on the window-sill, behind the curtains, was a bowl
of jessamine. Her father must have brought it up
for her' — just like him to think of that !

BEYOND 253

And, burying her nose in those white blossoms, she
was visited by a memory of her hrst ball — that evening
of such delight and disillusionment. Perhaps Bryan
Summerhay had been there — all that time ago ! If
he had been introduced to her then, if she had hap-
pened to dance with him instead of with that man
who had kissed her arm, might she not have felt
different toward all men ? And if he had admired her
— and had not everyone, that night — might she not
have liked, perhaps more than liked, him in return ?
Or would she have looked on him as on all her swains
before she met Fiorsen, so many moths fluttering
round a candle, foolish to singe themselves, not to be
taken seriously ? Perhaps she had been bound to
have her lesson, to be humbled and brought low !

Taking a sprig of jessamine and holding it to her
nose, she went up to that picture. In the dim light,
she could just see the outline of the face and the eyes
gazing at her. The scent of the blossom penetrated
her nerves; in her heart, something faintly stirred, as
a leaf turns over, as a wing flutters. And, blossom
and all, she clasped her hands over her breast, where
again her heart quivered with that faint, shy tremor.

It was late, no — early, when she fell asleep and had
a strange dream. She was riding her old mare through
a field of flowers. She had on a black dress, and
round her head a crown of bright, pointed crystals;
she sat without saddle, her knee curled up, perched so
lightly that she hardly felt the mare's back, and the
reins she held were long twisted stems of honeysuckle.
Singing as she rode, her eyes flying here and
there, over the field, up to the sky, she felt happier,
lighter than thistledown. WTiile they raced along, the
old mare kept turning her head and biting at the

254 BEYOND

honeysuckle flowers; and suddenly that chestnut face
became the face of Summerhay, looking back at her
with his smile. She awoke. Sunlight, through the
curtains where she had opened them to find the flowers,
was shining on her.

II

Very late that same night, Summerhay came out of
the little Chelsea house, which he inhabited, and walked
toward the river. In certain moods men turn in-
sensibly toward any space where nature rules a little
— downs, woods, waters — where the sky is free to the
eye and one feels the broad comradeship of primitive
forces. A man is alone when he loves, alone when he
dies; nobody cares for one so absorbed, and he cares
for nobody, no — not he ! Summerhay stood by the
river-wall and looked up at the stars through the
plane-tree branches. Every now and then he drew
a long breath of the warm, unstirring air, and smiled,
without knowing that he smiled. And he thought of
little, of nothing; but a sweetish sensation beset his
heart, a kind of quivering lightness his limbs. He sat
down on a bench and shut his eyes. He saw a face
— only a face. The lights went out one by one in the
houses opposite; no cabs passed now, and scarce a
passenger was afoot, but Summerhay sat like a man
in a trance, the smile coming and going on his lips;
and behind him the air that ever stirs above the river
faintly moved with the tide flowing up.

It was nearly three, just coming dawn, when he
went in, and, instead of going to bed, sat down to a
case in which he was junior on the morrow, and worked
right on till it was time to ride before his bath and
breakfast. He had one of those constitutions, not
uncommon among barristers — fostered perhaps by

255

256 BEYOND

ozone in the Courts of Law — that can do this sort of
thing and take no harm. Indeed, he worked best in
such long spurts of vigorous concentration. With real
capacity and a liking for his work, this young man
was certainly on his way to make a name; though,
in the intervals of energy, no one gave a more com-
plete impression of imperturbable drifting on the tides
of the moment. Altogether, he was rather a paradox.
He chose to live in that little Chelsea house which had
a scrap of garden rather than in the Temple or St.
James's, because he often preferred solitude; and yet
he was an excellent companion, with many friends,
who felt for him the affectionate distrust inspired by
those who are prone to fits and starts of work and play,
conviviality and loneliness. To women, he was almost
universally attractive. But if he had scorched his
wings a little once or twice, he had kept heart-free on
the whole. He was, it must be confessed, a bit of a
gambler, the sort of gambler who gets in deep, and
then, by a plucky, lucky plunge, gets out again, until
some day perhaps — he stays there. His father, a
diplomatist, had been dead fifteen years; his mother
was well known in the semi-intellectual circles of
society. 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.

When he started that morning for the Temple, he
had still a feeling of extraordinary lightness in his
limbs, and he still saw that face — its perfect regularity,
its warm pallor, and dark smiling eyes rather wide
apart, its fine, small, close-set ears, and the sweep of
the black-brown hair across the low brow. Or was it
something much less definite he saw — an emanation

BEYOND 257

or expression, a trick, a turn, an indwelling grace, a
something that appealed, that turned, and touched
him ? Whatever it was, it would not let him be, and
he did not desire that it should. For this was in his
character; if he saw a horse that he liked, he put his
money on it whenever it ran ; if charmed by an opera,
he went over and over again ; if by a poem, he almost
learned it by heart. And while he walked along the
river — his usual route — he had queer and unaccustomed
sensations, now melting, now pugnacious. And he felt
happy.

He was rather late, and went at once into court.
In wig and gown, that something " old Georgian "
about him was very visible. A beauty-spot or two,
a full-skirted velvet coat, a sword and snuff-box, with
that grey wig or its equivalent, and there would have
been a perfect eighteenth-century specimen of the less
bucolic stamp — the same strong, light build, breadth
of face, brown pallor, clean and unpinched cut of lips,
the same slight insolence and devil-may-caredom, the
same clear glance, and bubble of vitality. It was
almost a pity to have been born so late.

Except that once or twice he drew a face on blotting-
paper and smeared it over, he remained normally
attentive to his " lud " and the matters in hand all
day, conducted without error the examination of two
witnesses and with terror the cross-examination of
one; lunched at the Courts in perfect amity with the
sucking barrister on the other side of the case, for they
had neither, as yet, reached that maturity which
enables an advocate to call his enemy his " friend,"
and treat him with considerable asperity. Though
among his acquaintances Summerhay always provoked
badinage, in which he was scarcely ever defeated, yet

17

258 BEYOND

in chambers and court, on circuit, at his club, in society
or the hunting-field, he had an unfavourable effect on
the grosser sort of stories. There are men — by no
means strikingly moral — who exercise this blighting
influence. They are generally what the French call
" spirituel," and often have rather desperate love-
affairs which they keep very closely to themselves.

When at last in chambers, he had washed off that
special reek of clothes, and parchment, far-away
herrings, and distemper, which clings about the law,
dipping his whole curly head in water, and towelling
vigorously, he set forth alone along the Embankment,
his hat tilted up, smoking a cigar. It was nearly seven.
Just this time yesterday he had got into the train,
just this time yesterday turned and seen the face
which had refused to leave him since. Fever recurs
at certain hours, just so did the desire to see her
mount within him, becoming an obsession, because it
was impossible to gratify it. One could not call at
seven o'clock ! The idea of his club, where at this
time of day he usually went, seemed flat and stale,
until he remembered that he might pass up Bury
Street to get to it. But, near Charing Cross, a hand
smote him on the shoulder, and the voice of one of his
intimates said:

" Hallo, Bryan !"

Odd, that he had never noticed before how vacuous
this fellow was — with his talk of politics, and racing,
of this ass and that asS' — subjects hitherto of primary
importance ! And, stopping suddenly, he drawled out :

" Look here, old chap, you go on; see you at the
club — presently.

"Why? What's up?"

With his lazy smfle, Summerhay answered :

BEYOND 259

" ' There are more things in heaven and earth,
Horatio,' " and turned on his heel.

When his friend had disappeared, he resumed his
journey toward Bury Street. He passed his boot shop,
where, for some time, he had been meaning to order
two pairs, and went by thinking : ' I wonder where she
goes for things.' Her figure came to him so vividly —
sitting back in that corner, or standing by the cab,
her hand in his. The blood rushed up in his cheeks.
She had been scented like flowers, and — and a rainy
wind ! He stood still before a plate-glass window, in
confusion, and suddenly muttered aloud: " Damn it !
I believe I am !" An old gentleman, passing, turned
so suddenly, to see what he was, that he ricked his
neck.

But Summerhay still stood, not taking in at all the
reflected image of his frowning, rueful face, and of the
cigar extinct between his lips. Then he shook his
head vigorously and walked on. He walked faster,
his mind blank, as it is sometimes for a short space
after a piece of self-revelation that has come too soon
for adjustment or even quite for understanding. And
when he began to think, it was irritably and at random.
He had come to Bury Street, and, while he passed up
it, felt a queer, weak sensation down the back of his
legs. No flower-boxes this year broke the plain front
of Winton's house, and nothing whatever but its
number and the quickened beating of his heart marked
it out for Summerha}^ from any other dwelling. The
moment he turned into Jermyn Street, that beating
of the heart subsided, and he felt suddenly morose.
He entered his club at the top of St. James' Street
and passed at once into the least used room. This
was the library; and going to the French section, he

26o BEYOND

took down " The Three Musketeers " and seated him-
self in a window, with his back to anyone who might
come in. He had taken this — his favourite romance,
feehng in want of warmth and companionship; but
he did not read. From where he sat he could throw
a stone to where she was sitting perhaps; except for
walls he could almost reach her with his voice, could
certainly see her. This was imbecile ! A woman he
had only met twice. Imbecile ! He opened the book. . . .

" Oh, no; it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken.
It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown altho' its height be taken."

" Point of five ! Three queens — three knaves ! Do
you know that thing of Dowson's : ' I have been faith-
ful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion ' ? Better than any
Verlaine, except ' Les sanglots longs.' What have you
got?"

" Only quart to the queen. Do you like the name
' Cynara ' ? "

" Yes; don't you ?"

" Cynara ! Cynara ! Ye-es — an autumn, rose-petal,
whirling, dead-leaf sound."

" Good ! Pipped. Shut up, Ossy — don't snore !"

" Ah, poor old dog ! Let him. Shuffle for me,
please. Oh ! there goes another card !" Her knee
was touching his ! . . .

The book had dropped — Summerhay started.

Dash it ! Hopeless ! And, turning round in that
huge armchair, he snoozed down into its depths. In
a few minutes, he was asleep. He slept without a
dream.

It was two hours later when the same friend, seeking
distraction, came on him, and stood grinning down at

BEYOND 261

that curly head and face which just then had the sleepy
abandonment of a small boy's. Maliciously he gave
the chair a little kick.

Summerhay stirred, and thought : ' What ! Where
am I ?'

In front of the grinning face, above him, floated
another, filmy, charming. He shook himself, and sat
up. " Oh, damn you !"

" Sorry, old chap !"

"What time is it ?"

" Ten o'clock."

Summerhay uttered an unintelligible sound, and,
turning over on the other arm, pretended to snooze
down again. But he slept no more. Instead, he saw
her face, heard her voice, and felt again the touch of
her warm, gloved hand.

Ill

At the opera, that Friday evening, they were playing
" Cavalleria " and " Pagliacci " — works of which Gyp
tolerated the first and loved the second, while Winton
found them, with " Faust " and " Carmen," about
the only operas he could not sleep through.

Women's eyes, which must not stare, cover more
space than the eyes of men, which must not stare, but
do; women's eyes have less method, too, seeing all
things at once, instead of one thing at a time. Gyp
had seen Summerhay long before he saw her ; seen him
come in and fold his opera hat against his white waist-
coat, looking round, as if for — someone. Her eyes
criticized him in this new garb — his broad head, and
its crisp, dark, shining hair, his air of sturdy, lazy,
lovable audacity. He looked well in evening clothes.
When he sat down, she could still see just a little of
his profile; and, vaguely watching the stout Santuzza
and the stouter Turiddu, she wondered whether, by
fixing her eyes on him, she could make him turn and
see her. Just then he did see her, and his face lighted
up. She smiled back. Why not ? She had not so
many friends nowadays. But it was rather startling
to find, after that exchange of looks, that she at once
began to want another. Would he like her dress ?
Was her hair nice ? She wished she had not had it
washed that morning. But when the interval came,
she did not look round, until his voice said :

262

BEYOND 263

" How d'you do, Major Winton ? Oh, how d'you
do?"

Winton had been told of the meeting in the train.
He was pining for a cigarette, but had not liked to
desert his daughter. After a few remarks, he got up
and said:

" Take my pew a minute, Summerhay, I'm going
to have a smoke."

He went out, thinking, not for the first time by a
thousand : ' Poor child, she never sees a soul ! Twenty-
five, pretty as paint, and clean out of the running.
What the devil am I to do about her ?'

Summerhay sat down. Gyp had a queer feeling,
then, as if the house and people vanished, and they
two were back again in the railway-carriage — alone
together. Ten minutes to make the most of ! To
smile and talk, and enjoy the look in his eyes, the
sound of his voice and laugh. To laugh, too, and be
warm and nice to him. Why not ? They were
friends. And, presently, she said, smiling:

" Oh, by the way, there's a picture in the National
Gallery, I want you to look at."

" Yes ? Which ? Will you take me ?"
"If you like."

"To-morrow's Saturday; may I meet you there?
What time ? Three ?"

Gyp nodded. She knew she was flushing, and, at
that moment, with the warmth in her cheeks and the
smile in her eyes, she had the sensation, so rare and
pleasant, of feeling beautiful. Then he was gone !
Her father was slipping back into his stall ; and, afraid
of her own face , she touched his arm, and murmured :
" Dad, do look at that head-dress in the next row
but one; did you ever see anything so delicious !"

264 BEYOND

And while Winton was star-gazing, the orchestra
struck up the overture to " PagUacci." V/atching that
heart-breaking little plot unfold, Gyp had something
more than the old thrill, as if for the first time she
understood it with other than her aesthetic sense.
Poor Nedda ! and poor Canio ! Poor Silvio ! Her
breast heaved, and her eyes filled with tears. Within
those doubled figures of the tragi-comedy she seemed
to see, to feel that passionate love — too swift, too
strong, too violent, sweet and fearful within them.

" Thou hast my heart, and I am thine for ever —
To-night and for ever I am thine !

What is there left to me ? What have I but a heart that
is broken ?"

And the clear, heart-aching music mocking it all,
down to those last words:

La commedia e finita !

While she was putting on her cloak, her eyes caught
Summerhay's. She tried to smile — could not, gave
a shake of her head, slowly forced her gaze away from
his, and turned to follow Winton.

At the National Gallery, next day, she was not late
by coquetry, but because she had changed her dress
at the last minute, and because she was afraid of
letting him think her eager. She saw him at once
standing under the colonnade, looking by no means
imperturbable, and marked the change in his face
when he caught sight of her, with a little thrill. She
led him straight up into the first Italian room to
contemplate his counterfeit. A top hat and modem
collar did not improve the likeness, but it was there
still.

" Well ! Do you like it ?"

BEYOND 265

" Yes. What are you smiling at ?"
" I've had a photograph of that, ever since I was
fifteen; so you see I've known you a long time."
He stared.

"Great Scott! Am I like that ? All right ; I shall
try and find you now."
But Gyp shook her head.

" No. Come and look at my very favourite picture
'The Death of Procris.' What is it makes one love
it so ? Procris is out of drawing, and not beautiful;
the faun's queer and ugly. What is it — can you
tell?"

Summerhay looked not at the picture, but at her.
In aesthetic sense, he was not her equal. She said
softly :

" The wonder in the faun's face, Procris's closed
eyes; the dog, and the swans, and the pity for what
might have been !"

Summerhay repeated:

" Ah, for what might have been ! Did you enjoy
' Pagliacci ' ?"

Gyp shivered.

" I think I felt it too much."

" I thought you did. I watched you."

" Destruction by — love — seems such a terrible thing !
Now show me your favourites. I believe I can tell
you what they are, though."

"Well?"

" The ' Admiral,' for one."

" Yes. WTiat others ?"

" The two Bellini's."

" By Jove, you are uncanny !"

Gyp laughed.

" You want decision, clarity, colour, and fine

266 BEYOND

texture. Is that right ? Here's another of my
favourites."

On a screen was a tiny " Crucifixion " by da Messina
— the thinnest of high crosses, the thinnest of simple,
humble, suffering Christs, lonely, and actual in the
clear, darkened landscape.

" I think that touches one more than the big,
idealized sort. One feels it was like that. Oh ! And
look — the Francesca's ! Aren't they lovely ?"

He repeated :

"Yes; lovely!" But his eyes said: "And so are
you."

They spent two hours among those endless pictures,
talking a little of art and of much besides, almost as
alone as in the railway' carriage. But, when she had
refused to let him walk back with her, Summerhay
stood stock-still beneath the colonnade. The sun
streamed in under; the pigeons preened their feathers;
people passed behind him and down there in the
square, black and tiny against the lions and the great
column. He took in nothing of all that. What was
it in her ? She was like no one he had ever known —
not one ! Different from girls and women in society
as Simile failed. Still more different from any-
thing in the half-world he had met ! Not the new
sort — college, suffrage ! Like no one ! And he knew
so little of her ! Not even whether she had ever really
been in love. Her husband — where was he ; what was
he to her ? " The rare, the mute, the inexpressive
She !" When she smiled; when her eyes — but her
eyes were so quick, would drop before he could see
right into them ! How beautiful she had looked,
gazing at that picture — her favourite, so softly, her
lips just smiling ! If he could kiss them, would he not

BEYOND 267

go nearly mad ? With a deep sigh, he moved down
the wide, grey steps into the sunlight. And London,
throbbing, overflowing with the season's life, seemed
to him empty. To-morrow — yes, to-morrow he could
call!

IV

After that Sunday call, Gyp sat in the window at
Bury Street close to a bowl of heliotrope on the window-
siU. She was thinking over a passage of their con-
versation.

" Mrs. Fiorsen, tell me about yourself."

" Why ? What do you want to know ?"

" Your marriage ?"

" I made a fearful mistake — against my father's
wish. I haven't seen my husband for months; I shall
never see him again if I can help it. Is that
enough ?"

" And you love him ?"

" No."

" It must be like having your head in chancery.
Can't you get it out ?"

"No."

"Why?"

" Divorce-court ! Ugh ! I couldn't !"

" Yes, I know — it's hellish !"

W^as he, who gripped her hand so hard and said
that, really the same nonchalant young man who had
leaned out of the carriage window, gurgling with
laughter ? And what had made the difference ? She
buried her face in the heliotrope, whose perfume
seemed the memory of his visit; then, going to the
piano, began to play. She played Debussy, McDowell,
Ravel; the chords of modern music suited her
feelings just then. And she was still playing,

268

BEYOND 269

when her father came in. During these last nine
months of his daughter's society, he had regained a
distinct measure of youthfulness, an extra twist in his
little moustache, an extra touch of dandyism in his
clothes, and the gloss of his short hair. Gyp stopped
playing at once, and shut the piano.

" Mr. Summerhay's been here. Dad. He was sorry
to miss you."

There was an appreciable pause before Winton
answered :

" My dear, I doubt it."

And there passed through Gyp the thought that
she could never again be friends with a man without
giving that pause. Then, conscious that her father
was gazing at her, she turned and said :

" Well, was it nice in the Park ?"

"Thirty years ago they were all nobs and snobs;
now God himself doesn't know what they are !"

" But weren't the flowers nice ?"

" Ah — and the trees, and the birds — but, by Jove,
the humans do their best to dress the balance !"

" What a misanthrope you're getting !"

" I'd like to run a stud for two-leggers; they want
proper breeding. What sort of a fellow is young
Summerhay ? Not a bad face."

She answered impassively:

" Yes; it's so alive."

In spite of his self-control, she could always read
her father's thoughts quicker than he could read hers,
and knew that he was struggling between the wish
that she should have a good time and the desire to
convey some kind of warning. He said, with a sigh:

" What does a young man's fancy turn to in summer,
Gyp ?" But Gyp did not answer.

270 BEYOND

Women who have subtle instincts and some ex-
perience are able to impose their own restraint on those
who, at the lifting of a hand, would become their
lovers. From that afternoon on. Gyp knew that a
word from her would change everything ; but she was
far from speaking it. And yet, except at week-ends,
when she went back to her baby at Mildenham, she
saw Summerhay most days — in the Row, at the opera,
or at Bury Street. She had a habit of going to St.
James's Park in the late afternoon and sitting there
by the water. Was it by chance that he passed one
day on his way home from chambers, and that, after
this, they sat there together constantly ? Why make
her father uneasy — when there was nothing to be
uneasy about — by letting him come too often to Bury
Street ? It was so pleasant, too, out there, talking
calmly of many things, while in front of them the
small ragged children fished and put the fishes into
clear glass bottles, to eat, or watch on rainy days, as
is the custom of man with the minor works of God.

So, in nature, when the seasons are about to change,
the days pass, tranquil, waiting for the wind that brings
in the new. And was it not natural to sit under the
trees, by the flowers and the water, the pigeons and
the ducks, that wonderful July ? For all was peaceful
in Gyp's mind, except, now and then, when a sort of
remorse possessed her, a sort of terror, and a sort of
troubling sweetness.

V

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. All these weeks he had kept him-
self in hand; but to do so had cost him more than he
liked to reflect on. The only witness of his struggles
was his old Scotch terrier, whose dreams he had dis-
turbed night after night, tramping up and down the
long back-to-front sitting-room of his little house. She
knew — must know — what he was feeling. If she
wanted his love, she had but to raise her finger; and
she had not raised it. When he touched her, when her
dress disengaged its perfume or his eyes traced the
slow, soft movement of her breathing, his head would
go round, and to keep calm and friendly had been
torture.

While he could see her almost ever}' day, this control
had been just possible; but now that he was about
to lose her — for weeks — his heart felt sick within him.
He had been hard put to it before the world. A man
passionately in love craves solitude, in which to
alternate between fierce exercise and that trance-like
stillness when a lover simply aches or is busy con-
juring her face up out of darkness or the sunlight.

271

272 BEYOND

He had managed to do his work, had been grateful
for having it to do ; but to his friends he had not given
attention enough to prevent them saying: "What's
up with old Bryan ?" Always rather elusive in his
movements, he was now too elusive altogether for
those who had been accustomed to lunch, dine, dance.,
and sport with him. And yet he shunned his own
company — agoing wherever strange faces, life, anything
distracted him a little, without demanding real atten-
tion. It must be confessed that he had come un-
willingly to discovery of the depth of his passion,
aware that it meant giving up too much. But there
are women who inspire feeling so direct and simple
that reason does not come into play ; and he had never
asked himself whether Gyp was worth loving, whether
she had this or that quality, such or such virtue. He
wanted her exactly as she was ; and did not weigh her
in any sort of balance. It is possible for men to love
passionately, yet know that their passion is but desire,
possible for men to love for sheer spiritual worth,
feeling that the loved one lacks this or that charm.

Summerhay's love had no such divided conscious-
ness. About her past, too, he dismissed speculation.
He remembered having heard in the hunting-field that
she was Winton's natural daughter; even then it had
made him long to punch the head of that covertside
scandal-monger. The more there might be against
the desirability of loving her, the more he would love
her; even her wretched marriage only affected him in
so far as it affected her happiness. It did not matter
— nothing mattered except to see her and be with her
as much as she would let him. And now she was
going to the sea for a month, and he himself — curse it !
— ^was due in Perthshire to shoot grouse. A month !

BEYOND 273

He walked slowly along the river. Dared he speak ?
At times, her face was like a child's when it expects
some harsh or frightening word. One could not hurt
her — impossible ! But, at times, he had almost
thought she would like him to speak. Once or twice
he had caught a slow soft glance — gone the moment he
had sight of it.

He was before his time, and, leaning on the river
parapet, watched the tide run down. The sun shone
on the water, brightening its yellowish swirl, and little
black eddies — the same water that had flowed along
under the willows past Eynsham, past Oxford, under
the church at Clifton, past Moulsford, past Sonning.
And he thought : ' My God ! To have her to myself
one day on the river — one whole long day !' Why
had he been so pusillanimous all this time ? He
passed his hand over his face. Broad faces do not
easily grow thin, but his felt thin to him, and this
gave him a kind of morbid satisfaction. If she knew
how he was longing, how he suffered ! He turned
away, toward Whitehall. Two men he knew stopped
to bandy a jest. One of them was just married.
They, too, were off to Scotland for the twelfth. Pah !
How stale and fiat seemed that which till then had
been the acme of the whole year to him ! Ah, but if
he had been going to Scotland with her ! He drew
his breath in with a sigh, and walked on rapidly.

Oblivious of the gorgeous sentries at the Horse
Guards, oblivious of all beauty, he passed irresolute
along the water, making for their usual seat ; already,
in fancy, he was sitting there, prodding at the gravel,
a nervous twittering in his heart, and that eternal
question : Dare I speak ? asking itself within him.
And suddenly he saw that she was before him, sitting

274 BEYOND

there already. 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 ! 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. Do you want me to go, Gyp ?"

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 ?"

She turned her face away.

" Wait, please. Wait a little longer. W^hen we
come back I'll tell you: I promise !"

" So long ?"

" A month. Is that long ? Please ! It's not easy
for me." She smiled faintly, lifted her eyes to him
just for a second. " Please not any more now."

That evening at his club, through the bluish smoke
of cigarette after cigarette, he saw her face as she had
lifted it for that one second ; and now he was in heaven,
now in hell.

VI

The verandahed bimgalcrw on the South Coast, built
and inhabited by an artist friend of Aunt Rosamund's,
had a garden of which the chief feature was one pine-
tree which had strayed in advance of the wood behind.
The little house stood in solitude, just above a low
bank of cliff whence the beach sank in sandy ridges.
The verandah and thick pine wood gave ample
shade, and the beach all the sun and sea air needful
to tan little Gyp, a fat, tumbling soul, as her mother
had been at the same age, incurably fond and fearless
of dogs or any kind of beast, and speaking words already
that required a glossary.

At night, Gyp, looking from her bedroom through
the flat branches of the pine, would get a feeling of
being the only creature in the world. The crinkled,
silvery sea, that lonely pine-tree, the cold moon, the
sky dark corn-flower blue, the hiss and sucking rustle
of the surf over the beach pebbles, even the salt, chill
air, seemed lonely. By day, too — in the hazy heat
when the clouds merged, scarce drifting, into the blue,
and the coarse sea-grass tufts hardly quivered, and
sea-birds passed close above the water with chuckle
and cry — it all often seemed part of a dream. 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. V, hy had he spoken and

275

276 BEYOND

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. Only, how to know
whether to recoil and fly, or to pass beyond the dread
of letting herself go, of plunging deep into the un-
known depths of love — of that passion, whose nature
for the first time she had tremulously felt, watching
" Pagliacci " — and had ever since been feeling and
trembling at ! Must it really be neck or nothing ?
Did she care enough to break through all barriers,
fling herself into midstream ? When they could see
each other every day, it was so easy to live for the
next meeting — not think of what was coming after.
But now, with all else cut away, there was only the
future to think about — hers and his. But need she
trouble about his ? Would he not just love her as
long as he liked ?

Then she thought of her father — still faithful to a
memory — and felt ashamed. Some men loved on —
yes — even beyond death ! But, sometimes, she would
think: ' Am I a candle-flame again ? Is he just going
to burn himself ? What real good can I be to hira —
I, without freedom, and with my baby, who will grow
up ?' Yet all these thoughts were, in a way, unreal.
The struggle was in herself, so deep that she could
hardly understand it ; as might be an effort to subdue
the instinctive dread of a precipice. And she would
feel a kind of resentment against all the happy life
around her these summer days — the sea-birds, the
sunlight, and the waves; the white sails far out; the
calm sun-steeped pine-trees; her baby, tumbling and
smiling and softly twittering ; and Betty and the other
servants — all this life that seemed so simple and
untortured.

BEYOND 277

To the one post each day she looked forward terribly.
And yet his letters, which began like hers: " My dear
friend," might have been read by anyone — almost.
She spent a long time over her answers. She was not
sleeping well; and, lying awake, she could see his face
very distinct before her closed eyes — its teasing, lazy
smile, its sudden intent gravity. Once she had a
dream of him, rushing past her down into the sea.
She called, but, without turning his head, he swam
out further, further, till she lost sight of him, and
woke up suddenly with a pain in her heart. "If you
can't love me, I've got to break away !" His face,
his fiung-back head reminded her too sharply of those
words. Now that he was away from her, would he
not feel that it was best to break, and forget her ?
Up there, he would meet girls untouched by life — not
like herself. He had everything before him; could he
possibly go on wanting one who had nothing before
her ? Some blue-eyed girl with auburn hair — that
type so superior to her own — would sweep, perhaps
had already swept him, away from her ! What then ?
No worse than it used to be ? Ah, so much worse that
she dared not think of it !

Thon, for five days, no letter came. And, with each
blank morning, the ache in her grew — a sharp, definite
ache of longing and jealousy, utterly unlike the mere
feeling of outraged pride when she had surprised
Fiorsen and Daphne Wing in the music-room — a
hundred years ago, it seemed. When on the fifth day
the postman left nothing but a bill for little Gyp's
shoes, and a note from Aunt Rosamund at Harrogate,
where she had gone with Winton for the annual cure,
Gyp's heart sank to the depths. Was this the end ?
And, with a blind, numb feeling, she wandered out

278 BEYOND

into the wood, where the fall of the pine-needles,
season after season, had made of the ground one soft,
dark, dust-coloured bed, on which the sunlight traced
the pattern of the pine boughs, and ants rummaged
about their great heaped dwellings.

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 some-
where, 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

BEYOND 279

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 chff bank, by the side of the path. Summer-
hay 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 ? I thought 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 ?"

28o BEYOND

" 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 bom. 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 run-
ning 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. A new 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.

BEYOND 281

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 foot-
path 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
bumblebees 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 arch-
way, 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

282 BEYOND

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."

They scrambled up the low cliff and went along the
grassy top to a gate into a stubble field. He held it
open for her, but, as she passed, caught her in his
arms and kissed her lips as if he would never stop.
To her, who had been kissed a thousand times, it was
the first kiss. Deadly pale, she fell back from him
against the gate ; then, her lips still quivering, her eyes
very dark, she looked at him distraught with passion,
drunk on that kiss. And, suddenly turning round to
the gate, she laid her arms on the top bar and buried
her face on them. A sob came up in her throat that
seemed to tear her to bits, and she cried as if her heart
would break. His timid despairing touches, his voice
close to her ear :

" Gyp, Gyp ! My darling ! My love ! Oh, don't,
Gyp !" were not of the least avail; she could not stop.
That kiss had broken down something in her soul,
swept away her life up to that moment, done some-
thing terrible and wonderful. At last, she struggled
out:

" I'm sorry — so sorry ! Don't — don't look at me !
Go away a little, and Til — I'll be all right."

He obeyed without a word, and, passing through
the gate, sat down on the edge of the cliff with his
back to her, looking out over the sea.

Gripping the wood of the old grey gate till it hurt
her hands, Gyp gazed at the chicory flowers and
poppies that had grown up again in the stubble field,
at the butterflies chasing in the sunlight over the hedge
toward the crinkly foam edging the quiet sea till they
were but fluttering white specks in the blue.

BEYOND 283

But when she had rubbed her cheeks and smoothed
her face, she was no nearer to feeHng that she could
trust herself. What had happened in her was too
violent, too sweet, too terrifying. And going up to
him she said :

" Let me go home now by myself. Please, let me
go, dear. To-morrow !"

Summerhay looked up.

" Whatever you wish, Gyp — always !"

He pressed her hand against his cheek, then let it
go, and, folding his arms tight, resumed his meaning-
less stare at the sea. Gyp turned away. She crossed
back to the other side of the stream, but did not go
in for a long time, sitting in the pine wood till the
evening gathered and the stars crept out in a sky of
that mauve-blue which the psychic say is the soul-
garment colour of the good.

Late that night, when she had finished brushing her
hair, she opened her window and stepped out on to
the verandah. How warm ! How still ! Not a
sound from the sleeping house — not a breath of wind !
Her face, framed in her hair, her hands, and all her
body, felt as if on fire. The moon behind the pine-tree
branches was filling every cranny of her brain with
wakefulness. The soft shiver of the wellnigh surfless
sea on a rising tide, rose, fell, rose, fell. The sand
cliff shone like a bank of snow. And all was inhabited,
as a moonlit night is wont to be, by a magical Presence.
A big moth went past her face, so close that she felt
the flutter of its wings. A little night beast somewhere
was scruttling in bushes or the sand. Suddenly, across
the wan grass the shadow of the pine-trunk moved.
It moved — ever so little — moved ! And, petrified —
Gyp stared. There, joined to the trunk, Summerhay

284 BEYOND

was standing, his face just visible against the stem,
the moonlight on one cheek, a hand shading his eyes.
He moved that hand, held it out in supplication.
For long — how long — Gyp did not stir, looking straight
at that beseeching figure. Then, with a feeling she
had never known, she saw him coming. He came up
to the verandah and stood looking up at her. She
could see all the workings of his face — passion, rever-
ence, above all amazement; and she heard his awed
whisper :

" Is it you, Gyp ? Really you ? You look so
young — so young !"

VII

From the moment of surrender, Gyp passed straight
into a state the more enchanted because she had
never believed in it, had never thought that she could
love as she now loved. Days and nights went by in a
sort of dream, and when Summerhay was not with her,
she was simply waiting with a smile on her lips for the
next hour of meeting. Just as she had never felt it
possible to admit the world into the secrets of her
married life, so, now she did not consider the world
at all. Only the thought of her father weighed on
her conscience. He was back in town. And she felt
that she must tell him. When Summerhay heard
this he only said: " All right. Gyp, whatever you
think best."

And two days before her month at the bungalow
was up, she went, leaving Betty and little Gyp to
follow on the last day. Winton, pale and somewhat
languid, as men are when they have been cured, found
her when he came in from the club. She had put on
evening dress, and above the pallor of her shoulders,
her sunwarmed face and throat had almost the colour
of a nectarine. He had never seen her look like that,
never seen her eyes so full of light. And he uttered
a quiet grunt of satisfaction. It was as if a flower,
which he had last seen in close and elegant shape,
had bloomed in full perfection. She did not meet his
gaze quite steadily and all that evening kept putting

285

286 BEYOND

her confession off and off. It was not easy — far from
easy. At last, when he was smoking his " go-to-bed "
cigarette, she took a cushion and sank down on it
beside his chair, leaning against his knee, where her
face was hidden from him, as on that day after her
first ball, when she had listened to his confession.
And she began:

" Dad, do you remember my saying once that I
didn't understand what you and my mother felt for
each other ? ' ' Winton did not speak ; misgiving had
taken possession of him. Gyp went on: "I know
now how one would rather die than give some-
one up."

Winton drew his breath in sharply:

" \^'ho ? Summerhay?"

" Yes; I used to think I should never be in love, but
you knew better."

Better !

In disconsolate silence, he thought rapidly:
' What's to be done ? What can I do ? Get her a
divorce ?'

Perhaps because of the ring in her voice, or the
sheer seriousness of the position, he did not feel resent-
ment as when he lost her to Fiorsen. Love ! A
passion such as had overtaken her mother and himself !
And this young man ? A decent fellow, a good
rider — comprehensible ! Ah, if the course had only
been clear ! He put his hand on her shoulder and
said:

" Well, Gyp, we must go for the divorce, then,
after all."

She shook her head.

" It's too late. Let him divorce me, if he only
will !"

BEYOND 287

Winton needed all his self-control at that moment.
Too late ? Already ! Sudden recollection that he
had not the right to say a word alone kept him silent.
Gyp went on :

" I love him, with every bit of me. I don't care
what comes — whether it's open or secret. I don't care
what anybody thinks."

She had turned round now, and if Winton had doubt
of her feeling, he lost it. This was a Gyp he had never
seen ! A glowing, soft, quick-breathing creature, with
just that lithe watchful look of the mother cat or
lioness whose whelps are threatened. There flashed
through him a recollection of how, as a child, with face
very tense, she would ride at fences that were too big.
At last he said:

" Tm sorry you didn't tell me sooner."

" I couldn't. I didn't know. Oh, Dad, I'm always
hurting you ! Forgive me !"

She was pressing his hand to her cheek that felt
burning hot. And he thought : ' Forgive ! Of course
I forgive. That's not the point ; the point is '

And a vision of his loved one talked about, be-
smirched, bandied from mouth to mouth, or else — for
her what there had been for him, a hole-and-corner
life, an underground existence of stealthy meetings
kept dark, above all from her own little daughter.
Ah, not that ! And yet — was not even that better
than the other, which revolted to the soul his fastidious
pride in her, roused in advance his fury against tongues
that would wag, and eyes that would wink or be
uplifted in righteousness ? Summerhay's world was
more or less his world ; scandal, which — like all parasitic
growths — flourishes in enclosed spaces, would have
every chance. And, at once, his brain began to search

288 BEYOND

steely and quick, for some way out ; and the expression
as when a fox broke covert, came on his face.

" Nobody knows. Gyp ?"

" No; nobody."

That was something ! With an irritation that rose
from his very soul, he muttered:

" I can't stand it that you should suffer, and that
fellow Fiorsen go scot-free. Can you give up seeing
Summerhay while we get you a divorce ? We might do
it, if no one knows. I think you owe it to me, Gyp."

Gyp got up and stood by the window a long time
without answering. Winton watched her face. At
last she said:

" I couldn't. We might stop seeing each other; it
isn't that. It's what I should feel. I shouldn't
respect myself after; I should feel so mean. Oh,
Dad, don't you see ? He really loved me in his way.
And to pretend ! To make out a case for myself, tell
about Daphne Wing, about his drinking, and baby;
pretend that I wanted him to love me, when I got to
hate it and didn't care really whether he was faithful
or not — and knowing all the while that I've been
everything to someone else ! I couldn't. I'd much
rather let him know, and ask him to divorce me."

Winton replied:

" And suppose he won't ?"

"Then my mind would be clear, anyway; and we
would take what we could.

" And little Gyp ?"

Staring before her as if trying to see into the future,
she said slowly:

" Some day, she'll understand, as I do. Or perhaps
it will be all over before she knows. Does happiness
ever last ?"

BEYOND 289

And, going up to him, she bent over, kissed his
forehead, and went out. The warmth from her lips,
and the scent of her remained with Winton Hke a
sensation wafted from the past.

Was there then nothing to be done — nothing ?
Men of his stamp do not, as a general thing, see very
deep even into those who are nearest to them; but
to-night he saw his daughter's nature more fully
perhaps than ever before. No use to importune her
to act against her instincts — not a bit of use ! And
yet — how to sit and watch it all — watch his own
passion with its ecstasy and its heart-burnings re-
enacted with her — perhaps for many years ? And the
old vulgar saying passed through his mind: " What's
bred in the bone will come out in the meat." Now
she had given, she would give with both hands —
beyond measure — beyond ! — as he himself, as her
mother had given ! Ah, well, she was better off than
his own loved one had been. One must not go ahead
of trouble, or cry over spilled milk !

19

VIII

Gyp had a wakeful night. The question she herself
had raised, of telling Fiorsen, kept her thoughts in
turmoil. Was he likely to divorce her if she did ?
His contempt for what he called " these bourgeois
morals," his instability, the very unpleasantness, and
offence to his vanity — all this would prevent him.
No; he would not divorce her, she was sure, unless by
any chance he wanted legal freedom, and that was
quite unlikely. What then would be gained ? Ease
for her conscience ? But had she any right to
ease her conscience if it brought harm to her lover ?
And was it not ridiculous to think of conscience in
regard to one who, within a year of marriage, had
taken to himself a mistress, and not even spared the
home paid for and supported by his wife ? No; if
she told Fiorsen, it would only be to salve her pride,
wounded by doing what she did not avow. Besides,
where was he ? At the other end of the world for all
she knew.

She came down to breakfast, dark under the eyes
and no whit advanced toward decision. Neither of
them mentioned their last night's talk, and Gyp went
back to her room to busy herself with dress, after
those weeks away. It was past noon when, at a
muffled knock, she found Markey outside her door.

" Mr. Fiorsen, m'm."

Gyp beckoned him in, and closed the door.

290

BEYOND 291

" In the hall, m'm — slipped in when I answered the
bell; short of shoving, I couldn't keep him out."

Gyp stood full half a minute before she said :

" Is my father in ?"

" No, m'm; the major's gone to the fencin'-club."

" What did you say ?"

" Said I would see. So far as I was aware, nobody
was in. Shall I have a try to shift him, m'm ?"

With a faint smile Gyp shook her head.

" Say no one can see him."

Markey's woodcock eyes, under their thin, dark,
twisting brows, fastened on her dolefully; he opened
the door to go. Fiorsen was standing there, and,
with a quick movement, came in. She saw Markey
raise his arms as if to catch him round the waist, and
said quietly:

" Markey — wait outside, please."

When the door was shut, she retreated against her
dressing-table and stood gazing at her husband, while
her heart throbbed as if it would leap through its
coverings.

He had grown a short beard, his cheeks seemed
a little fatter, and his eyes surely more green ; other-
wise, he looked much as she remembered him.
And the first thought that passed through her was:
' Why did I ever pity him ? He'll never fret or drink
himself to death — he's got enough vitality for twenty
men.'

His face, which had worn a fixed, nervous smile,
grew suddenly grave as her own, and his eyes roved
round the room in the old half-fierce, half-furtive
way.

" Well, Gyp," he said, and his voice shook a little:
" At last ! Won't you kiss me ? "

292 BEYOND

The question seemed to Gyp idiotic; and suddenly
she felt quite cool.

" If you want to speak to my father, you must come
later; he's out."

Fiorsen gave one of his fierce shrugs.

"Is it likely ? Look, Gyp ! I returned from
Russia yesterday. I was a great success, made a lot
of money out there. Come back to me ! I will be
good — I swear it ! Now I have seen you again, I
can't be without you. Ah, Gyp, come back to me !
And see how good I will be. I will take you abroad,
you and the hambina. We will go to Rome — any-
where you like — live how you like. Only come back
to me !"

Gyp answered stonily :

" You are talking nonsense."

" Gyp, I swear to you I have not seen a woman —
not one fit to put beside you. Oh, Cryp, be good to
me once more. This time I will not fail. Try me !
Try me, my Gyp !"

Only at this moment of his pleading, whose tragic
tones seemed to her both false and childish, did Gyp
realize the strength of the new feeling in her heart.
And the more that feeling throbbed within her, the
harder her face and her voice grew. She said :

" If that is all you came to say — please go. I will
never come back to you. Once for all, understand,
please."

The silence in which he received her words, and his
expression, impressed her far more than his appeal;
with one of his stealthy movements he came quite
close, and, putting his face forward till it almost touched
her, said :

" You are my wife. I want you back. I must have

BEYOND 293

you back. If you do not come, I will kill either you
or myself."

And suddenly she felt his arms knotted behind her
back, crushing her to him. She stifled a scream; then,
very swiftly, took a resolve, and, rigid in his arms, said :

" Let go; you hurt me. Sit down quietly. I will
tell you something."

The tone of her voice made him loosen his grasp and
crane back to see her face. Gyp detached his arms
from her completely, sat down on an old oak chest,
and motioned him to the window-seat. Her heart
thumped pitifully; cold waves of almost physical
sickness passed through and through her. She had
smelt brandy in his breath when he was close to her.
It was like being in the cage of a wild beast; it was
like being with a madman ! The remembrance of
him with his fingers stretched out like claws above her
baby was so vivid at that moment that she could
scarcely see him as he was, sitting there quietly, waiting
for what she was going to say. And fixing her e3^es
on him, she said softly :

" You say you love me, Gustav. I tried to love you,
too, but I never could — never from the first. I tried
very hard. Surely you care what a woman feels, even
if she happens to be your wife."

She could see his face quiver ; and she went on :

" When I found I couldn't love you, I felt I had no
right over you. I didn't stand on my rights. Did I ?"

Again his face quivered, and again she hurried on :

" But you wouldn't expect me to go all through my
life without ever feeling love — you who've felt it so
many times ?" Then, clasping her hands tight, with
a sort of wonder at herself, she murmured: " I am in
love. I've given myself."

294 BEYOND

He made a queer, whining sound, covering his face.
And the beggar's tag: " 'i\ve a feelin' 'eart, gentle-
man— 'ave a feelin' 'eart !" passed idiotically through
Gyp's mind. Would he get up and strangle her ?
Should she dash to the door — escape ? For a long,
miserable moment, she watched him swaying on the
window-seat, with his face covered. Then, without
looking at her, he crammed a clenched hand up against
his mouth, and rushed out.

Through the open door, Gyp had a glimpse of
Markey's motionless figure, coming to life as Fiorsen
passed. She drew a long breath, locked the door,
and lay down on her bed. Her heart beat dreadfully.
For a moment, something had checked his jealous
rage. But if on this shock he began to drink, what
might not happen ? He had said something wild.
And she shuddered. But what right had he to feel
jealousy and rage against her ? What right ? She
got up and went to the glass, trembling, mechanically
tidying her hair. Miraculous that she had come
through unscathed !

Her thoughts flew to Summerhay. They were to
meet at three o'clock by the seat in St. James's Park.
But all was different, now; difficult and dangerous !
She must wait, take counsel with her father. And yet
if she did not keep that tryst, how anxious he would
be — thinking that all sorts of things had happened to
her; thinking perhaps — oh, foolish ! — that she had
forgotten, or even repented of her love. What would
she herself think, if he were to fail her at their first
tryst after those days of bliss ? Certainly that he
had changed his mind, seen she was not worth it, seen
that a woman who could give herself so soon, so easily,
was one to whom he could not sacrifice his life.

BEYOND 295

In this cruel uncertainty, she spent the next two
hours, till it was nearly three. If she did not go out,
he would come on to Bury Street, and that would be
stiU more dangerous. She put on her hat and walked
swiftly towards St. James's Palace. Once sure that
she was not being followed, her courage rose, and she
passed rapidly down toward the water. She was ten
minutes late, and seeing him there, walking up and
down, turning his head every few seconds so as not to
lose sight of the bench, she felt almost lightheaded
from joy. When they had greeted with that pathetic
casualness of lovers which deceives so few, they walked
on together past Buckingham Palace, up into the
Green Park, beneath the trees. During this progress,
she told him about her father; but only when they
were seated in that comparative refuge, and his hand
was holding hers under cover of the sunshade that lay
across her knee, did she speak of Fiorsen.

He tightened his grasp of her hand; then, suddenly
dropping it, said :

" Did he touch you, Gyp ?"

Gyp heard that question with a shock. Touch her !
Yes ! But what did it matter ?

He made a little shuddering sound; and, wondering,
mournful, she looked at him. His hands and teeth
were clenched. She said softly :

" Bryan ! Don't ! I wouldn't let him kiss me."

He seemed to have to force his eyes to look at her.

" It's all right," he said, and, staring before him, bit
his nails.

Gyp sat motionless, cut to the heart. She was
soiled, and spoiled for him ! Of course ! And yet a
sense of injustice burned in her. Her heart had never
been touched; it was his utterly. But that was not

296 BEYOND

enough for a man — he wanted an untouched body,
too. That she could not give; he should have thought
of that sooner, instead of only now. And, miserably,
she, too, stared before her, and her face hardened.

A little boy came and stood still in front of them,
regarding her with round, unmoving eyes. She was
conscious of a slice of bread and jam in his hand,
and that his mouth and cheeks were smeared with red.
A woman called out: " Jacky ! Come on, now !" and
he was hauled away, still looking back, and holding
out his bread and jam as though offering her a bite.
She felt Summerhay's arm slipping round her.

" It's over, darling. Never again — I promise you !"

Ai\, he might promise — might even keep that
promise. But he would suffer, always suffer, thinking
of that other. And she said :

" You can only have me as I am, Bryan. I can't
make myself new for you ; I wish I could — oh, I wish
I could !"

" I ought to have cut my tongue out first ! Don't
think of it ! Come home to me and have tea — there's
no one there. Ah, do, Gyp — come !"

He took her hands and puJled her up. And all else
left Gyp but the joy of being close to him, going to
happiness.

IX

FiORSEN, passing Markey like a blind man, made his
way out into the street, but had not gone a hundred
yards before he was hurrying back. He had left his
hat. The servant, still standing there, handed him
that wide-brimmed object and closed the door in his
face. Once more he moved away, going towards
Piccadilly. If it had not been for the expression on
Gyp's face, what might he not have done ? And,
mixed with sickening jealousy, he felt a sort of relief,
as if he had been saved from something horrible. So
she had never loved him ! Never at all ? Impossible !
Impossible that a woman on whom he had lavished
such passion should never have felt passion for him —
never any ! Innumerable images of her passed before
him — surrendering, always surrendering. It could not
all have been pretence ! He was not a common man
— she herself had said so; he had charm — or, other
women thought so ! She had lied ; she must have lied,
to excuse herself !

He went into a cafe and asked for a fine champagne.
They brought him a carafe, with the measures marked.
He sat there a long time. When he rose, he had
drunk nine, and he felt better, with a kind of ferocity
that was pleasant in his veins and a kind of nobility
that was pleasant in his soul. Let her love, and be
happy with her lover ! But let him get his fingers on
that fellow's throat ! Let her be happy, if she could
keep her lover from him ! And suddenly, he stopped

297

298 BEYOND

in his tracks, for there on a sandwich-boaKi just in
front of him were the words: " Daphne Wing. Pan-
theon. Daphne Wing. Plastic Danseuse. Poetry of
Motion. To-day at three o'clock. Pantheon. Daphne
Wing."

Ah, she had loved him — little Daphne ! It was past
three. Going in, he took his place in the stalls, close
to the stage, and stared before him, with a sort of
bitter amusement. This was irony indeed ! Ah —
and here she came ! A Pierrette — in short, diaphanous
muslin, her face whitened to match it ; a Pierrette who
stood slowly spinning on her toes, with arms raised
and hands joined in an arch above her glistening
hair.

Idiotic pose ! Idiotic ! But there was the old ex-
pression on her face, limpid, dovelike. And that
something of the divine about her dancing smote
Fiorsen through all the sheer imbecility of her pos-
turings. Across and across she flitted, pirouetting,
caught up at intervals by a Pierrot in black tights
with a face as whitened as her own, held upside down,
or right end up with one knee bent sideways, and the
toe of a foot pressed against the ankle of the other,
and arms arched above her. Then, with Pierrot's
hands grasping her waist, she would stand upon one
toe and slowly twiddle, lifting her other leg toward
the roof, while the trembling of her form manifested
cunningly to all how hard it was; then, off the toe,
she capered out to the wings, and capered back,
wearing on her face that divine, lost, dovelike look,
while her perfect legs gleamed white up to the very
thigh-joint. Yes; on the stage she was adorable !
And raising his hands high, Fiorsen clapped and called
out: " Brava !" He marked the sudden roundness of

BEYOND 299

her eyes, a tiny start — no more. She had seen him.
' xA.h ! Some don't forget me !' he thought.

And now she came on for her second dance, assisted
this time only by her own image reflected in a Httle
weedy pool about the middle of the stage. From the
programme Fiorsen read, " Ophelia's last dance," and
again he grinned. In a clinging sea-green gown, cut
here and there to show her inevitable legs, with mar-
guerites and corn-flowers in her unbound hair, she
circled her own reflection, languid, pale, desolate ; then
slowly gaining the abandon needful to a full display,
danced with frenzy till, in a gleam of limelight, she
sank into the apparent water and floated among paper
water-lilies on her back. Lovely she looked there,
with her eyes still open, her lips parted, her hair trailing
behind. And again Fiorsen raised his hands high to
clap, and again called out : ' Brava !' But the curtain
fell, and Ophelia did not reappear. Was it the sight
of him, or was she preserving the illusion that she
was drowned ? That " arty " touch would be just
like her.

Averting his eyes from two comedians in calico,
beating each other about the body, he rose with an
audible " Pish !" and made his way out. He stopped
in the street to scribble on his card, " Will you s^e
me ? — G. F." and took it round to the stage-door.
The answer came back :

" Miss Wing will see you in a minute, sir."

And leaning against the distempered wall of the
draughty corridor, a queer smile on his face, Fiorsen
wondered why the devil he was there, and what the
devil she would say.

When he was admitted, she was standing with her
hat on, while her " dresser " buttoned her patent-

300 BEYOND

leather shoes. Holding out her hand above the
woman's back, she said:

" Oh, Mr. Fiorsen, how do you do ?"

Fiorsen took the little moist hand; and his eyes
passed over her, avoiding a direct meeting with her eyes.
He received an impression of something harder, more
self-possessed, than he remembered. Her face was
the same, yet not the same; only her perfect, supple
little body was as it had been. The dresser rose,
murmured: "Good-afternoon, miss," and went.

Daphne Wing smiled faintly.

" I haven't seen you for a long time, have I ?"

" No; Fve been abroad. You dance as beautifully
as ever."

" Oh, yes; it hasn't hurt my dancing."

With an effort, he looked her in the face. Was this
really the same girl who had clung to him, cloyed him
with her kisses, her tears, her appeals for love — just
a little love ? Ah, but she was more desirable, much
more desirable than he had remembered ! And he
said:

" Give me a kiss, little Daphne !"

Daphne Wing did not stir; her white teeth rested
on her lower lip; she said:

" Oh, no, thank you ! How is Mrs. Fiorsen ?"

Fiorsen turned abruptly.

" There is none."

" Oh, has she divorced you ?"

" No. Stop talking of her; stop talking, I say !"

Daphne Wing, still motionless in the centre of her
little crowded dressing-room, said, in a matter-of-fact
voice :

" You are polite, aren't you ? It's funny ; I can't tell
whether I'm glad to see you. I had a bad time, you

BEYOND 301

know; and Mrs. Fiorsen was an angel. Why do you
come to see me now ?"

Exactly ! Why had he come ? The thought flashed
through him: ' She'll help me to forget.' And he
said:

" I was a great brute to you, Daphne. I came to
make up, if I can."

"Oh, no; you can't make up — thank you!" A
shudder ran through her, and she began drawing on
her gloves. " You taught me a lot, you know. I
ought to be quite grateful. Oh, you've grown a little
beard ! D'you think that improves you ? It makes
you look rather like Mephistopheles, I think."

Fiorsen stared fixedly at that perfectly shaped face,
where a faint, underdone pink mingled with the fair-
ness of the skin. Was she mocking him ? Impossible !
She looked too matter of fact.

" Where do you live now ?" he said.

" I'm on my own, in a studio. You can come and
see it, if you like."

" With pleasure."

" Only, you'd better understand. I've had enough
of love."

Fiorsen grinned.

" Even for another ?" he said.

Daphne Wing answered calmly :

" I wish you would treat me like a lady."

Fiorsen bit his lip, and bowed.

" May I have the pleasure of giving you some tea ?"

" Yes, thank you; I'm very hungry. I don't eat
lunch on matinee-days; I find it better not. Do you
like my Ophelia dance ?"

" It's artificial."

" Yes, it is artificial — it's done with mirrors and

302 BEYOND

wire netting, you know. But do I give you the
illusion of being mad?" Fiorsen nodded. "I'm so
glad. Shall we go ? I do want my tea."

She turned round, scrutinized herself in the glass,
touched her hat with both hands, revealing, for a
second, all the poised beauty of her figure, took a
little bag from the back of a chair, and said :

" I think, if you don't mind going on, it's less con-
spicuous. I'll meet you at Ruffel's — they have lovely
things there. Au revoir."

In a state of bewilderment, irritation, and queer
meekness, Fiorsen passed down Coventry Street, and
entering the empty Ruffel's, took a table near the
window. There he sat staring before him, for the
sudden vision of Gyp sitting on that oaken chest, at
the foot of her bed, had blotted the girl clean out.
The attendant coming to take his order, gazed at his
pale, furious face, and said mechanically:
" What can I get you, please ?"
Looking up, Fiorsen saw Daphne Wing outside,
gazing at the cakes in the window. She came in.

" Oh, here you are ! I should like iced coffee and
walnut cake, and some of those marzipan sweets — oh,
and some whipped cream with my cake. Do you
mind ?" And, sitting down, she fixed her eyes on his
face and asked :

" Where have you been abroad ?"
" Stockholm, Budapest, Moscow, other places."
" How perfect ! Do you think I should make a
success in Budapest or Moscow ?"

" You might; you are English enough."
" Oh ! Do you think I'm very English ?"

" Utterly. Your kind of " But even he was

not quite capable of finishing that sentence — " your

BEYOND 303

kind of vulgarity could not be produced anywhere
else." Daphne Wing finished it for him:

" My kind of beauty ?"

Fiorsen grinned and nodded.

" Oh, I think that's the nicest thing you ever said
to me ! Only, of course, I should like to think I'm
more of the Greek type — pagan, you know."

She fell silent, casting her eyes down. Her profile
at that moment, against the light, was very pure and
soft in line. And he said :

" I suppose you hate me, little Daphne ? You
ought to hate me."

Daphne Wing looked up; her round, blue-grey eyes
passed over him much as they Tiad been passing over
the marzipan.

"No; I don't hate you — now. Of course, if I had
any love left for you, I should. Oh, isn't that Irish ?
But one can think anybody a rotter without hating
them, can't one ?"

Fiorsen bit his lips.

" So you think me a ' rotter ' ? "

Daphne Wing's eyes grew rounder.

" But aren't you ? You couldn't be anything else
— could you ? — with the sort of things you did."

" And yet you don't mind, having tea with me ?"

Daphne Wing, who had begun to eat and drink,
said with her mouth full:

" You see, I'm independent now, and I know life.
That makes you harmless."

Fiorsen stretched out his hand and seized hers just
where her little warm pulse was beating very steadily.
She looked at it, changed her fork over, and went on
eating with the other hand. Fiorsen drew his hand
away as if he had been stung.

304 BEYOND •

" Ah, you have changed — that is certain !"

" Yes; you wouldn't expect anything else, would
you ? You see, one doesn't go through that for

nothing. I think I was a dreadful little fool "

She stopped, with her spoon on its way to her mouth —
" and yet "

" I love you still, little Daphne."

She slowly turned her head toward him, and a faint
sigh escaped her.

" Once I would have given a lot to hear that."

And turning her head away again, she picked a
large walnut out of her cake and put it in her mouth.

" Are you coming to see my studio ? I've got it
rather nice and new. I'm making twenty-five a week;
my next engagement, I'm going to get thirty. I

should like Mrs. Fiorsen to know Oh, I forgot;

you don't like me to speak of her ! Why not ? I
wish you'd tell me !" Gazing, as the attendant had,
at his furious face, she went on: "I don't know how
it is, but I'm not a bit afraid of you now. I used to
be. Oh, how is Count Rosek ? Is he as pale as ever ?
Aren't you going to have anything more ? You've
had hardly anything. D'you know what I should like
— a chocolate eclair and a raspberry ice-cream soda
with a slice of tangerine in it."

When she had slowly sucked up that beverage,
prodding the slice of tangerine with her straws, they
went out and took a cab. On that journey to her
studio, Fiorsen tried to possess himself of her hand,
but, folding her arms across her chest, she said quietly:
" It's very bad manners to take advantage of cabs."
And, withdrawing sullenly into his corner, he watched
her askance. Was she playing with him ? Or had
she really ceased to care the snap of a finger ? It

BEYOND 305

seemed incredible. The cab, which had been threading
the maze of the Soho streets, stopped. Daphne Wing
alighted, proceeded down a narrow passage to a green
door on the right, and, opening it with a latch-key,
paused to say :

" I like it's being in a little sordid street — it takes
away all amateurishness. It wasn't a studio, of
course; it was the back part of a paper- maker's. Any
space conquered for art is something, isn't it ?" She
led the way up a few green-carpeted stairs, into a
large room with a skylight, whose walls were covered
in Japanese silk the colour of yellow azaleas. Here
she stood for a minute without speaking, as though
lost in the beauty of her home : then, pointing to the
walls, she said:

" It took me ages, I did it all myself. And look at
my little Japanese trees; aren't they dickies?" Six
little dark abortions of trees were arranged scrupu-
lously on a lofty window-sill, whence the skylight
sloped. She added suddenly: " I think Count Rosek
would like this room. There's something bizarre
about it, isn't there ? I wanted to surround myself
with that, you know — to get the bizarre note into my
work. It's so important nowadays. But through
there I've got a bedroom and a bathroom and a little
kitchen with everything to hand, all quite domestic;
and hot water always on. My people are so funny
about this room. They come sometimes, and stand
about. But they can't get used to the neighbourhood ;
of course it is sordid, but I think an artist ought to be
superior to that."

Suddenly touched, Fiorsen answered gently:

" Yes, little Daphne."

She looked at him, and another tiny sigh escaped her.

3o6 BEYOND

" Why did you treat me like you did ?" she said.
" It's such a pity, because now I can't feel anything
at all." And turning, she suddenly passed the back
of her hand across her eyes. Really moved by that,
Fiorsen went towards her, but she had turned round
again, and putting out her hand to keep him off,
stood shaking her head, with half a tear glistening on
her eyelashes.

" Please sit down on the divan," she said. " Will
you smoke ? These are Russians," And she took a
white box of pink-coloured cigarettes from a little
golden birchwood table. " I have everything Russian
and Japanese so far as I can; I think they help more
than anything with atmosphere. I've got a balalaika;
you can't play on it, can you ? What a pity ! If
only I had a violin ! I should have liked to hear you
play again." She clasped her hands: "Do you re-
member when I danced to you before the fire ?"

Fiorsen remembered only too well. The pink
cigarette trembled in his fingers, and he said rather
hoarsely :

" Dance to me now, Daphne !"

She shook her head.

" I don't trust you a yard. Nobody would — would
they?"

Fiorsen started up.

" Then why did you ask me here ? W^hat are you

playing at, you little " At sight of her round,

unmoving eyes, he stopped. She said calmly :

" I thought you'd like to see that I'd mastered my
fate — that's all. But, of course, if you don't, you
needn't stop."

Fiorsen sank back on the divan. A conviction that
everything she said was literal had begun slowly to

BEYOND 307

sink into him. And taking a long pull at that pink
cigarette he puffed the smoke out with a laugh.

" What are you laughing at ?"

" I was thinking, little Daphne, that you are as
great an egoist as I."

" I want to be. It's the only thing, isn't it ?"

Fiorsen laughed again.

" You needn't worry. You always were."

She had seated herself on an Indian stool covered
with a bit of Turkish embroidery, and, joining her
hands on her lap, answered gravely :

"No; I think I wasn't, while I loved you. But it
didn't pay, did it ?"

Fiorsen stared at her.

" It has made a woman of you. Daphne. Your
face is different. Your mouth is prettier for my kisses
— or the want of them. All over, you are prettier."
Pink came up in Daphne Wing's cheeks. And, en-
couraged by that flush, he went on warmly: " If you
loved me now, I should not tire of you. Oh, you can
believe me ! I "

She shook her head.

" We won't talk about love, will we ? Did you
have a big triumph in Moscow and St. Petersburg ?
It must be wonderful to have reaUy great
triumphs !"

Fiorsen answered gloomily :

" Triumphs ? I made a lot of money."

Daphne Wing purred :

" Oh, I expect you're very happy."

Did she mean to be ironic ?

"I'm miserable."

He got up and went towards her. She looked up
in his face.

3o8 BEYOND

" I'm sorry if you're miserable. I know what it
feels like."

" You can help me not to be. Little Daphne, you
can help me to forget." He had stopped, and put his
hands on her shoulders. \Mthout moving Daphne
Wing answered:

" I suppose it's Mrs. Fiorsen you want to forget,
isn't it ?"

" As if she were dead. Ah, let it all be as it was,
Daphne ! You have grown up ; you are a woman, an
artist, and you "

Daphne Wing had turned her head toward the
stairs.

" That was the bell," she said. " Suppose it's my
people ? It's just their time ! Oh, isn't that
awkward ?"

Fiorsen dropped his grasp of her and recoiled against
the wall. There with his head touching one of the
little Japanese trees, he stood biting his fingers. She
was already moving toward the door.

" My mother's got a key, and it's no good putting
you anywhere, because she always has a good look
round. But perhaps it isn't them. Besides, I'm not
afraid now; it makes a wonderful difference being on
one's own."

She disappeared. Fiorsen could hear a woman's
acid voice, a man's, rather hoarse and greasy, the
sound of a smacking kiss. And, with a vicious shrug,
he stood at bay. Trapped ! The little devil ! The
little dovelike devil ! He saw a lady in a silk dress,
green shot with beetroot colour, a short, thick gentle-
man with a round, greyish beard, in a grey suit, having
a small dahlia in his buttonhole, and, behind them.
Daphne Wing, flushed, and very round-eyed. He

BEYOND 309

took a step, intending to escape without more ado.
The gentleman said:

" Introduce us, Daisy. I didn't quite catch — Mr.
Dawson ? How do you do, sir ? One of my daughter's
impresarios, I think. 'Appy to meet you, I'm sure."

Fiorsen took a long breath, and bowed. Mr.
Wagge's small piggy eyes had fixed themselves on the
little trees.

" She's got a nice little place here for her work —
quiet and unconventional. I hope you think well of
her talent, sir ? You might go further and fare worse,
I believe."

Again Fiorsen bowed.

" You may be proud of her," he said; " she is the
rising star."

Mr. Wagge cleared his throat.

" Ow," he said; " ye'es ! From a little thing, we
thought she had stuff in her. I've come to take a
great interest in her work. It's not in my line, but
I think she's a sticker; I like to see perseverance.
Where you've got that, you've got half the battle of
success. So many of these young people seem to
think life's all play. You must see a lot of that in
your profession, sir."

" Robert !"

A shiver ran down Fiorsen's spine.

" Ye-es ?"

" The name was not Dawson !"

There followed a long moment. On the one side
was that vinegary woman poking her head forward
like an angry hen, on the other. Daphne \\'ing, her
eyes rounder and rounder, her cheeks redder and redder,
her lips opening, her hands clasped to her perfect
breast, and, in the centre, that broad, grey-bearded

310 BEYOND

figure, with reddening face and angry eyes and hoarsen-
ing voice :

" You scoundrel ! You infernal scoundrel !" It
lurched forward, raising a pudgy fist. Fiorsen sprang
down the stairs and wrenched open the door. He
walked away in a whirl of mortification. Should he
go back and take that pug-faced vulgarian by the
throat ? As for that minx ! But his feelings about
her were too complicated for expression. And then —
so dark and random are the ways of the mind — his
thoughts darted back to Gyp, sitting on the oaken
chest, making her confession ; and the whips and stings
of it scored him worse than ever.

X

That same evening, standing at the corner of Bury
Street, Summerhay watched Gyp going swiftly to her
father's house. He could not bring himself to move
while there was still a chance to catch a glimpse of
her face, a sign from her hand. Gone ! He walked
away with his head down. The more blissful the
hours just spent, the greater the desolation when they
are over. Of such is the nature of love, as he was now
discerning. The longing to have her always with
him was growing fast. Since her husband knew —
why wait ? There would be no rest for either of them
in an existence of meetings and partings like this, with
the menace of that fellow. She must come away with
him at once — abroad — until things had declared
themselves; and then he must find a place where they
could live and she feel safe and happy. He must
show he was in dead earnest, set his affairs in order.
And he thought : ' No good doing things by halves.
Mother must know. The sooner the better. Get it
over — at once !' And, with a grimace of discomfort,
he set out for his aunt's house in Cadogan Gardens,
where his mother always stayed when she was in
town.

Lady Summerhay was in the boudoir, waiting for
dinner and reading a book on dreams. A red-shaded
lamp cast a mellow tinge over the grey frock, over one
reddish cheek and one white shoulder. She was a
striking person, tall and well built, her very blonde

311

312 BEYOND

hair only just turning grey, for she had married young
and been a widow fifteen years — one of those women
whose naturally free spirits have been netted by
association with people of public position. Bubbles
were still rising from her submerged soul, but it was
obvious that it would not again set eyes on the horizon.
With views neither narrow nor illiberal, as views in
society go, she judged everything now as people of
public position must — discussion, of course, but no
alteration in one's way of living. Speculation and
ideas did not affect social usage. The countless move-
ments in which she and her friends were interested for
the emancipation and benefit of others were, in fact,
only channels for letting off her superfluous good-will,
conduit-pipes, for the directing spirit bred in her. She
thought and acted in terms of the public good, regu-
lated by what people of position said at luncheon and
dinner. And it was surely not her fault that such
people must lunch and dine. WTien her son had bent
and kissed her, she held up the book to him and said :

" Well, Bryan, I think this man's book disgraceful;
he simply runs his sex-idea to death. Really, we aren't
all quite so obsessed as that. I do think he ought to
be put in his own lunatic asylum."

Summerhay, looking down at her gloomily, ans-
swered :

" I've got bad news for you, Mother."

Lady Summerhay closed the book and searched his
face with apprehension. She knew that expression.
She knew that poise of his head, as if butting at some-
thing. He looked like that when he came to her in
gambling scrapes. Was this another ? Bryan had
always been a pickle. His next words took her breath
away.

BEYOND 313

" The people at Mildenham, Major Winton and his
daughter — you know. Well, I'm in love with her —
I'm — I'm her lover."

Lady Summerhay uttered a gasp.

" But — but — Brj/an "

" That fellow she married drinks. He's impossible
She had to leave him a year ago, with her baby — other
reasons, too. Look here, Mother : This is hateful, but
you'd got to know. I can't talk of her. There's no
chance of a divorce." His voice grew higher. " Don't
try to persuade me out of it. It's no good."

Lady Summerhay, from whose comely face a frock,
as it were, had slipped, clasped her hands together on
the book.

Such a swift descent of " life " on one for whom it
had for so long been a series of " cases " was cruel,
and her son felt this without quite realizing why. 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. Is there — is
there going to be a scandal ?"

" I don't know. I hope not; but, anyway, he knows
about it."

" Society doesn't forgive."

Summerhay shrugged his shoulders.

" Awfully sorry for you, Mother."

" Oh, Bryan !"

314 BEYOND

This repetition of her plaint jaired his nerves.

" Don't run ahead of things. You needn't tell
Edith or Flo. You needn't tell anybody. We don't
know what '11 happen yet."

But in Lady Summerhay all was too sore and blank.
This woman she had never seen, whose origin was
doubtful, whose marriage must have soiled her, who
was some kind of a siren, no doubt. It really was too
hard ! She believed in her son, had dreamed of public
position for him, or, rather, felt he would attain it as
a matter of course. And she said feebly :

" This Major Winton is a man of breeding, isn't he ?"

" Rather !" And, stopping before her, as if he read
her thoughts, he added: " You think she's not good
enough for me ? She's good enough for anyone on
earth. And she's the proudest woman I've ever met.
If you're bothering as to what to do about her — don't !
She won't want anything of anybody — I can tell you
that. She won't accept any crumbs."

"That's lucky!" hovered on Lady Summerhay's
lips; but, gazing at her son, she became aware that
she stood on the brink of a downfall in his heart.
Then the bitterness of her disappointment rising up
again, she said coldly:

" Are you going to live together openly ?"

" Yes; if she will."

" You don't know yet ?"

" I shall — soon."

Lady Summerhay got up, and the book on dreams
slipped off her lap with a thump. She went to the fire-
place, and stood there looking at her son. He had
altered. His merry look was gone; his face was
strange to her. She remembered it like that, once in
the park at Widrington, when he lost his temper with

a pony and came galloping past her, sitting back, his
curly hair stivered up like a little demon's. And she
said sadly :

" You can hardly expect me to like it for you, Bryan,
even if she is what you say. And isn't there some
story about "

" My dear mother, the more there is against her,
the more I shall love her — that's obvious."

Lady Summerhay sighed again.

" What is this man going to do ? I heard him play
once."

" I don't know. Nothing, I dare say. Morally and
legally, he's out of court. I only wish to God he
would bring a case, and I could marry her; but Gyp
says he won't."

Lady Summerhay murmured :

" Gyp ? Is that her name ?" And a sudden wish,
almost a longing, not a friendly one, to see this woman
seized her. " Will you bring her to see me ? I'm alone
here till Wednesday."

" I'll ask her, but I don't think she'll come." He
turned his head away. " Mother, she's wonderful !"

An unhappy smile twisted Lady Summerhay's lips.
No doubt ! Aphrodite herself had visited her boy.
Aphrodite ! And — afterward ? She asked desolately :

" Does Major Winton know ?"

" Yes."

" W^iat 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.

\

3i6 BEYOND

" Oh, my dear, can't you pull up ? I've seen so
many of these affairs go wrong. It realty is not for
nothing that law and conventions are what they are —
believe me ! Really, Bryan, experience does show
that the pressure's too great. It's only once in a way
— very exceptional people, very exceptional circum-
stances. You mayn't think now it'll hamper you, but
you'll find it will — most fearfully. It's not as if you
Were a writer or an artist, who can take his work
where he likes and live in a desert if he wants. You've
got to do yours in London, your whole career is bound
up with society. Do think, before you go butting
up against it ! It's all very well to say it's no affair
of anyone's, but you'll find it is, Bryan. And then,
can you — can you possibly make her happy in the
long-run ?"

She stopped at the expression on his face. It was
as if he were sajdng: " 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 !"
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. The lamps were
brightening in the early-autumn dusk, and a draughty,
ruffling wind flicked a yellow leaf here and there from
off the plane trees. It was just the moment when
evening blue comes into the colouring of the town —
that hour of fusion when day's hard and staring shapes
are softening, growing dark, mysterious, and all that
broods behind the lives of men and trees and houses
comes down on the wings of illusion to repossess the
world — the hour when any poetry in a man wells up.
But Summerhay still heard his mother's 5 " Oh,
Bryan !" and, for the first time, knew the feeling that
his hand was against everyone's. There was a differ-
ence already, or so it seemed to him, in the expression
of each passer-by. Nothing any more would be a
matter of course ; and he was of a class to whom every-
thing has always been a matter of course. Perhaps
he did not realize this clearly yet; but he had begun
to take what the nurses call " notice," as do those
only who are forced on to the defensive against society.

Putting his latch-key into the lock, he recalled the
sensation with which, that afternoon, he had opened
to Gyp for the first time — half furtive, half defiant.
It would be all defiance now. This was the end of
the old order ! And, lighting a fire in his sitting-room,
he began pulling out drawers, sorting and destroying.
He worked for hours, burning, making lists, packing
papers and photographs. Finishing at last, he drank
a stiff whisky and soda, and sat down to smoke. Now
that the room was quiet. Gyp seemed to fill it again
with her presence. Closing his eyes, he could see her
there by the hearth, just as she stood before they left,
turning her face up to him, murmuring: " You won't
stop loving me, now you're so sure I love you ?"

3i8 BEYOND

Stop loving her ! The more she loved him, the more
he would love her. And he said aloud: " By God!
I won't !" 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.

XI

Though Gyp had never seemed to look round, she
had been quite conscious of Summerhay still standing
where they had parted, watching her into the house
in Bury Street. The strength of her own feeling
surprised her, as a bather in the sea is surprised,
finding her feet will not touch bottom, that she is
carried away helpless — only, these were the waters of
ecstasy.

For the second night running, she hardly slept,
hearing the clocks of St. James's strike, and Big Ben
boom, hour after hour. At breakfast, she told her
father of Fiorsen's reappearance. He received the
news with a frown and a shrewd glance.

"Well, Gyp?"

"I told him."

His feelings, at that moment, were perhaps as mixed
as they had ever been — curiosity, parental disap-
proval, to which he knew he was not entitled, admira-
tion of her pluck in letting that fellow know, fears for
the consequences of this confession, and, more than
all, his profound disturbance at knowing her at last
launched into the deep waters of love. It was the
least of these feelings that found expression.

" How did he take it ?"

" Rushed away. The only thing I feel sure of is
that he won't divorce me."

" No^ by George; I don't suppose even he would
have that impudence !" And Winton was silent,

319

320 BEYOND

trying to penetrate the future. " Well," he said
suddenly, "it's on the knees of the gods then. But
be careful. Gyp."

About noon, Betty returned from the sea, with a
solemn, dark-eyed, cooing little Gyp, brown as a
roasted coffee-berry. When she had been given all
that she could wisely eat after the journey. Gyp carried
her off to her own room, undressed her for sheer delight
of kissing her from head to foot, and admiring her
plump brown legs, then cuddled her up in a shawl and
lay down with her on the bed. A few sleepy cooes and
strokings, and little Gyp had left for the land of Nod,
while her mother lay gazing at her black lashes with
a kind of passion. She was not a child-lover by
nature ; but this child of her own, with her dark soft-
ness, plump delicacy, giving disposition, her cooing
voice, and constant adjurations to " dear mum," was
adorable. There was something about her insidiously
seductive. She had developed so quickly, with the
graceful roundness of a little animal, the perfection of
a flower. The Italian blood of her great great-grand-
mother was evidently prepotent in her as yet; and,
though she was not yet two years old, her hair, which
had lost its baby darkness, was already curving round
her neck and waving on her forehead. One of her
tiny brown hands had escaped the shawl and grasped its
edge with determined softness. And while Gyp gazed
at the pinkish nails and their absurdly wee half-moons,
at the sleeping tranquillity stirred by breathing no
more than a rose-leaf on a windless day, her lips grew
fuller, trembled, reached toward the dark lashes, till
she had to rein her neck back with a jerk to stop such
self-indulgence. Soothed, hypnotized, almost in a
dream, she lay there beside her baby.

That evening, at dinner, Winton said calmly :
" Well, I've been to see Fiorsen, and warned him
off. Found him at that fellow Rosek's." Gyp re-
ceived the news with a vague sensation of alarm.
" And I met that girl, the dancer, coming out of the
house as I was going in — made it plain I'd seen her,
so I don't think he'll trouble you."
An irresistible impulse made her ask:
" How was she looking. Dad ?"
Winton smiled grimly. How to convey his im-
pression of the figure he had seen coming down the
steps — of those eyes growing rounder and rounder at
sight of him, of that mouth opening in an: " Oh !"

" Much the same. Rather flabbergasted at seeing
me, I think. A white hat — very smart. Attractive
in her way, but common, of course. Those two were
playing the piano and fiddle when I went up. They
tried not to let me in, but I wasn't to be put off.
Queer place, that !"

Gyp smiled. She could see it all so well. The black
walls, the silver statuettes, Rops drawings, scent of
dead rose-leaves and pastilles and cigarettes — and
those two by the piano — and her father so cool and
dry!

" One can't stand on ceremony with fellows like
that. I hadn't forgotten that Polish chap's behaviour
to you, my dear."

Through Gyp passed a quiver of dread, a vague
return of the feelings once inspired by Rosek.

"I'm almost sorry you went, Dad. Did you say

anything very "

" Did I ? Let's see ! No; I think I was quite
polite." He added, with a grim, little smile: " I
won't swear I didn't caU one of them a ruffian. I know

322 BEYOND

they said something about my presuming on being a
cripple."

" Oh, darling !"

" Yes; it was that Polish chap — and so he is !"

Gyp murmured:

"I'd almost rather it had been — the other. ' ' Rosek's
pale, suave face, with the eyes behind which there
were such hidden things, and the lips sweetish and
restrained and sensual — he would never forgive ! But
Winton only smiled again, patting her arm. He was
pleased with an encounter which had relieved his
feelings.

Gyp spent all that evening writing her first real love-
letter. But when, next afternoon at six, in fulfilment
of its wording, she came to Summerhay's little house,
her heart sank; for the blinds were down and it had a
deserted look. If he had been there, he would have
been at the window, waiting. Had he, then, not got
her letter, not been home since yesterday ? And that
chill fear which besets lovers' hearts at failure of a
tryst smote her for the first time. In the three-
cornered garden stood a decayed statue of a naked
boy with a broken bow — a sparrow was perching on
his greenish shoulder ; sooty, heart-shaped lilac leaves
hung round his head, and at his legs the old Scotch
terrier was sniffing. Gyp called: " Ossian ! Ossy !"
and the old dog came, wagging his tail feebly.

" Master ! Wliere is your master, dear ?"

Ossian poked his long nose into her calf, and that
gave her a little comfort. She passed, perforce, away
from the deserted house and returned home; but all
manner of frightened thoughts beset her. Where had
he gone ? Why had he gone ? Why had he not let
her know ? Doubts — those hasty attendants on

BEYOND 323

passion — came thronging, and scepticism ran riot.
What did she know of his life, of his interests, of him,
except that he said he loved her ? Where had he
gone ? To Widrington, to some smart house-party,
or even back to Scotland ? The jealous feelings that
had so besieged her at the bungalow when his letters
ceased came again now with redoubled force. There
must be some woman who, before their love began,
had claim on him, or some girl that he admired. He
never told her of any such — of course, he would not !
She was amazed and hurt by her capacity for jealousy.
She had always thought she would be too proud to
feel jealousy— a sensation so dark and wretched
and undignified, but — alas ! — so horribly real and
clinging.

She had said she was not dining at home ; so Winton
had gone to his club, and she was obliged to partake
of a little trumped-up lonely meal. She went up to
her room after it, but there came on her such restless-
ness that presently she put on her things and slipped
out. She went past St. James's Church into Picca-
dilly, to the further, crowded side, and began to walk
toward the park. This was foolish ; but to do a foolish
thing was some relief, and she went along with a faint
smile, mocking her own recklessness. Several women
of the town — ships of night with sails set — came
rounding out of side streets or down the main stream,
with their skilled, rapid-seeming slowness. And at the
discomfited, half-hostile stares on their rouged and
powdered faces, Gyp felt a wicked glee. She was
disturbing, hurting them — and she wanted to hurt.

Presently, a man, in evening dress, with overcoat
thrown open, gazed pointblank into her face, and,
raising his hat, ranged up beside her. She walked

324 BEYOND

straight on, still with that half-smile, knowing him
puzzled and fearfully attracted. Then an insensate
wish to stab him to the heart made her turn her head
and look at him. At the expression on her face, he
wilted away from her, and again she felt that wicked
glee at having hurt him.

She crossed out into the traffic, to the park side,
and turned back toward St. James's; and now she
was possessed by profound, black sadness. If only
her lover were beside her that beautiful evening,
among the lights and shadows of the trees, in the
warm air ! Why was he not among these passers-by ?
She who could bring any casual man to her side by a
smile could not conjure up the only one she wanted
from this great desert of a town ! She hurried along,
to get in and hide her longing. But at the corner of
St. James's Street, she stopped. That was his club,
nearly opposite. Perhaps he was there, playing cards
or billiards, a few yards away, and yet as in another
world. Presently he would come out, go to some
music-hall, or stroll home thinking of her — perhaps
not even thinking of her ! Another woman passed,
giving her a furtive glance. But Gyp felt no glee
now. And, crossing over, close under the windows of
the club, she hurried home. When she reached her
room, she broke into a storm of tears. How could
she have liked hurting those poor women, hurting that
man — who was only paying her a man's compliment,
after all ? And with these tears, her jealous, wild
feelings passed, leaving only her longing.

Next morning brought a letter. Summerhay wrote
from an inn on the river, asking her to come down by
the eleven o'clock train, and he would meet her at
the station. He wanted to show her a house that he

BEYOND 325

had seen; and they could have the afternoon on the
river ! Gyp received this letter, which began : * ' My
darling !" with an ecstasy that she could not quite
conceal. And Winton, who had watched her face, said
presently :

" I think I shall go to Newmarket, Gyp. Home
to-morrow evening."

In the train on the way down, she sat with closed
eyes, in a sort of trance. If her lover had been there
holding her in his arms, he could not have seemed
nearer.

She saw him as the train ran in; but they met
without a hand-clasp, without a word, simply looking
at each other and breaking into smiles.

A little victoria " dug up " — as Summerhay said —
" horse, driver and all," carried them slowly upward.
Under cover of the light rugs their hands were clasped,
and they never ceased to look into each other's faces,
except for those formal glances of propriety which
deceive no one.

The day was beautiful, as only early September days
can be — when the sun is hot, yet not too hot, and its
light falls in a silken radiance on trees just losing the
opulent monotony of summer, on silvery-gold reaped
fields, silvery-green uplands, golden mustard; when
shots ring out in the distance, and, as one gazes, a
leaf falls, without reason, as it would seem. Presently
they branched off the main road by a lane past a clump
of beeches and drew up at the gate of a lonely house,
built of very old red brick, and covered by Virginia
creeper just turning — a house with an ingle-nook and
low, broad chimneys. Before it was a walled, neglected
lawn, with poplars and one large walnut-tree. The
sunUght seemed to have collected in that garden, and

326 BEYOND

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 Hke a child's
" pretending " — to imagine they were going to live
there together, to sort out the rooms and consecrate
each. She would not spoil this perfect day by argu-
ment 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. To him, who had
been a rowing man at Oxford, the river was known
from Lechlade to Richmond; but Gyp had never in
her life been on it, and its placid magic, unlike that
of any other river in the world, almost overwhelmed
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 fullilment of felicity. There
is a degree of happiness known to the human heart
which seems to belong to some enchanted World — a
bright maze into which, for a moment now and then,
we escape and wander. To-day, he was more than ever
like her Botticelli " Young Man," with his neck bare,
and his face so clear-eyed and broad and brown.

BEYOND 327

Had she really had a life with another man ? x\nd only
a year ago ? It seemed inconceivable !

But when, in the last backwater, he tied the boat
up and came to sit with her once more, it was already
getting late, and the vague melancholy of the now
shadowy river was stealing into her. And, with a sort
of sinking in her heart, she heard him begin :

" Gyp, we must go away together. We can never
stand it, going on apart, snatching hours here and
there."

Pressing his hand to her cheeks, she murmured :

" Why not, darling ? Hasn't this been perfect ?
What could we ever have more perfect ? It's been
paradise itself !"

"Yes; but to be thrown out every day! To be
whole days and nights without you ! Gyp, you must
— you must ! What is there against it ? Don't you
love me enough ? ' '

She looked at him, and then away into the
shadows.

" Too much, I think. It's tempting Providence to
change. Let's go on as we are, Bryan. No; don't
look like that — don't be angry !"

" Why are you afraid ? Are you sorry for our
love ?"

" No; but let it be like this. Don't let's risk any-
thing."

" Risk ? Is it people — society — you're afraid of ?
I thought you wouldn't care."

Gyp smiled.

" Society ? No; I'm not afraid of that."

"What, then? Of me ?"

" I don't know. Men soon get tired. I'm a doubter,
Bryan; I can't help it."

328 BEYOND

"As if anyone could get tired of you ! Are you
afraid of yourself ?"

Again Gyp smiled.

" Not of loving too little, I told you."

" How can one love too much ?"

She drew his head down to her. But when that
kiss was over, she only said again :

" No, Bryan; let's go on as we are. I'll make up
to you when I'm with you. If you were to tire of me,
I couldn't bear it."

For a long time more he pleaded — now with anger,
now with kisses, now with reasonings; but, to all, she
opposed that same tender, half-mournful " No," and,
at last, he gave it up, and, in dogged silence, rowed
her to the village, whence she was to take train back.
It was dusk when they left the boat, and dew was
falling. Just before they reached the station, she
caught his hand and pressed it to her breast.

" Darling, don't be angry with me ! Perhaps I will
— some day."

And, in the train, she tried to think herself once more
in the boat, among the shadows and the whispering
reeds and aU the quiet wonder of the river.

XII

On reaching home she let herself in stealthily, and,
though she had not had dinner, went up at once to
her room. She was just taking off her blouse when
Betty entered, her round face splotched with red, and
tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Betty! What is it ?"

" Oh, my dear, where have you been ? Such a
dreadful piece of news ! They've stolen her ! That
wicked man — your husband — he took her right out of
her pram — and went off with her in a great car — he
and that other one ! I've been half out of my mind !"
Gyp stared aghast. " I hollered to a policeman.

* He's stolen her — her father ! Catch them !' I said.

* However shall I face my mistress ?' " She stopped
for breath, then burst out again. " ' He's a bad one,'
I said. ' A foreigner ! They're both foreigners !'
'Her father?' he said. 'Well, why shouldn't he?
He's only givin' her a joy ride. He'll bring her back,
never you fear,' And I ran home — I didn't know
where you were. Oh dear ! The major away and all
— what was I to do ? I'd just turned round to shut
the gate of the square gardens, and I never saw him
till he'd put his great long arm over the pram and
snatched her out." And, sitting on the bed, she gave
way utterly.

Gyp stood still. Nemesis for her happiness ? That
vengeful wretch, Rosek ! This was his doing. And
she said:

329

330 BEYOND

" Oh, Betty, she must be crying !"

A fresh outburst of moans was the only answer.
Gyp remembered suddenly what the lawyer had said
over a year ago — it had struck her with terror at the
time. In law, Fiorsen owned and could claim her
child. She could have got her back, then, by bringing
a horrible case against him, but now, perhaps, she had
no chance. Was it her return to Fiorsen that they
aimed at — or the giving up of her lover ? She went
over to her mirror, saying :

" We'll go at once, Betty, and get her back some-
how. W'ash your face."

While she made ready, she fought down those two
horrible fears — of losing her child, of losing her lover ;
the less she feared, the better she could act, the more
subtly, the swifter. She remembered that she had
somewhere a little stiletto, given her a long time ago.
She hunted it out, took off its red leather sheath,
and, stabbing the point into a tiny cork, slipped it
beneath her blouse. If they could steal her baby,
they were capable of anything. She wrote a note to
her father, telling him what had happened, and saying
where she had gone. Then, in a taxi, they set forth.
Cold water and the calmness of her mistress had re-
moved from Betty the main traces of emotion; but
she clasped Gyp's hand hard and gave vent to heavy
sighs.

Gyp would not think. 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

BEYOND 331

care for each other. They've stolen her so as to make
me do anything they Uke."

A profound sigh answered her.

Behind that moon-face with the troubled eyes,
what conflict was in progress — between unquestioning
morality and unquestioning belief in Gyp, between
fears for her and wishes for her happiness, between
the loyal retainer's habit of accepting and the old
nurse's feeling of being in charge ? She said
faintly :

" Oh dear ! He's a nice gentleman, too !" And
suddenly, wheezing it out with unexpected force:
" To say truth, I never did hold you was rightly
married to that foreigner in that horrible registry
place — no music, no flowers, no blessin' asked, nor
nothing. I cried me eyes out at the time."

Gyp said quietly:

" No; Betty, I never was. I only thqjight I was
in love." A convulsive squeeze and creaking, whiffling
sounds heralded a fresh outburst. " Don't cry; we're
just there. Think of our darling !"

The cab stopped. Feeling for her little weapon, she
got out, and with her hand slipped firmly under
Betty's arm, led the way upstairs. Chilly shudders
ran down her spine — memories of Daphne Wing and
Rosek, of that large woman — what was her name ? —
of many other faces, of unholy hours spent up there,
in a queer state, never quite present, never comfort-
able in soul; memories of late returnings down these
wide stairs out to their cab, of Fiorsen beside her in
the darkness, his dim, broad-cheekboned face moody
in the corner or pressed close to hers. Once they had
walked a long way homeward in the dawn, Rosek
with them, Fiorsen playing on his muted violin, to

332 BEYOND

the scandal of the poHcemen and the cats. Dim,
unreal memories ! Grasping Betty's arm more firmly,
she rang the bell. When the man servant, whom she
remembered well, opened the door, her lips were so
dry that they could hardly form the words :

" Is Mr. Fiorsen in, Ford ?"

"No, ma'am; Mr. Fiorsen and Count Rosek went
into the country this afternoon. I haven't their
address at present." She must have turned white,
for she could hear the man saying: " Anything I can
get you, ma'am ?"

" When did they start, please ?"

" One o'clock, ma'am — by car. Count Rosek was
driving himself. I should say they won't be away
long — they just had their bags with them." Gyp put
out her hand helplessly; she heard the servant say in
a concerned voice : " I could let you know the moment
they return, ma'am, if you'd kindly leave me your
address."

Giving her card, and murmuring:

"Thank you, Ford; thank you very much," she
grasped Betty's arm again and leaned heavily on her
going down the stairs.

It was real, black fear now. To lose helpless things
— children — dogs — and know for certain that one
cannot get to them, no matter what they may be
suffering ! To be pinned down to ignorance and have
in her ears the crying of her child — this horror, Gyp
suffered now. And nothing to be done ! Nothing but
to go to bed and wait — hardest of aU tasks ! Mercifully
— thanks to her long day in the open — she fell at last
into a dreamless sleep, and when she was called,
there was a letter from Fiorsen on the tray with
her tea.

BEYOND 333

" Gyp,

" I am not a baby-stealer like 3'our father.
The law gives me the right to my own child. But
swear to give up your lover, and the baby shall come
back to you at once. If you do not give him up, I
will take her away out of England. Send me an answer
to this post-office, and do not let your father try any
tricks upon me.

" GUSTAV FlORSEN."

Beneath was written the address of a \\'est End
post-office.

WTien Gyp had finished reading, she went through
some moments of such mental anguish as she had
never known, but — just as when Betty first told her
of the stealing— her wits and wariness came quickly
back. Had he been drinking when he wrote that
letter ? She could almost fancy that she smelled
brandy, but it was so easy to fancy what one wanted
to. She read it through again — this time, she felt
almost sure that it had been dictated to him. If he
had composed the wording himself, he would never
have resisted a gibe at the law, or a gibe at himself
for thus safeguarding her virtue. It was Rosek's
doing. Her anger flamed up anew. Since they used
such mean, cruel ways, why need she herself be scrupu-
lous ? She sprang out of bed and wrote :

" How could you do such a brutal thing ? At aU
events, let the darling have her nurse. It's not like
you to let a little child suffer. Betty will be ready to
come the minute you send for her. As for myself,
you must give me time to decide. I wiU let you know
within two days.

"Gw."

334 BEYOND

When she had sent this off, and a telegram to her
father at Newmarket, she read Fiorsen's letter once
more, and was more than ever certain that it was
Rosek's wording. And, suddenly, she thought of
Daphne Wing, whom her father had seen coming out
of Rosek's house. Through her there might be a
way of getting news. She seemed to see again the
girl lying so white and void of hope when robbed by
death of her own just-born babe. Yes; surely it was
worth trying.

An hour later, her cab stopped before the Wagges'
door in Frankland Street. But just as she was about
to ring the bell, a voice from behind her said :

" Allow me; I have a key. What may I Oh,

it's you !" She turned. Mr. Wagge, in professional
habiliments, was standing there. "Come in; come
in," he said. " I was wondering whether perhaps we
shouldn't be seeing you after what's transpired."

Hanging his tall black hat, craped nearly to the
crown, on a knob of the mahogany stand, he said
huskily :

" I did think we'd seen the last of that," and opened
the dining-room door. " Come in, ma'am. We can
put our heads together better in here."

In that too well remembered room, the table Was
laid with a stained white cloth, a cruet-stand, and
bottle of Worcestershire sauce. The little blue bowl
was gone, so that nothing now marred the harmony of
red and green. Gyp said quickly:

" Doesn't Daph — Daisy live at home, then, now ?"

The expression on Mr. Wagge 's face was singular;
suspicion, relief, and a sort of craftiness were blended
with that furtive admiration which Gyp seemed always
to excite in him.

BEYOND 335

" Do I understand that you-r-er "

" I came to ask if Daisy would do something
for me."

Mr. Wagge blew his nose.

" You didn't know " he began again.

" Yes; I dare say she sees my husband, if that's
what you mean; and I don't mind — he's nothing to
me now."

Mr. Wagge 's face became further complicated by
the sensations of a husband.

" Well," he said, " it's not to be wondered at,
perhaps, in the circumstances. I'm sure I always
thought "

Gyp interrupted swiftly.

" Please, Mr. Wagge — please ! Will you give me
Daisy's address ?"

Mr. Wagge remained a moment in deep thought;
then he said, in a gruff, jerky voice :

" Seventy-three Comrade Street, So'o. Up to seeing
him there on Tuesday, I must say I cherished ever}/'
hope. Now I'm sorry I didn't strike him — he was too

quick for me " He had raised one of his gloved

hands and was sawing it up and down. The sight of
that black object cleaving the air nearly made G3^p
scream, her nerves were so on edge. "It's her blasted
independence — I beg pardon — but who wouldn't ?"
he ended suddenly.

Gyp passed him.

" Who wouldn't ?" she heard his voice behind her
*' I did think she'd have run straight this time ".

And while she was fumbling at the outer door, his red,
pudgy face, with its round grey beard, protruded almost
over her shoulder. " If you're going to see her, I hope
you'll "

336 BEYOND

Gyp was gone. In her cab she shivered. Once she
had lunched with her father at a restaurant in the
Strand. It had been full of Mr. Wagges. But,
suddenly, she thought: 'It's hard on him, poor
man !'

XIII

Seventy-three Comrade Street, Soho, was difficult
to find; but, with the aid of a milk-boy, Gyp dis-
covered the alley at last, and the right door. There
her pride took sudden alarm, and, but for the milk-
boy's eyes fixed on her while he let out his professional
howl, she might have fled. A plump white hand and
wrist emerging took the can, and Daphne Wing's
voice said:

" Oh, Where's the cream ?"

" Ain't got none."

" Oh ! I told you always — two pennyworth at
twelve o'clock."

" Two penn'orth." The boy's eyes goggled.

"Didn't you want to speak to her, miss?" He
beat the closing door. " Lidy wants to speak to you !
Good-momin', miss."

The figure of Daphne Wing in a blue kimono was
revealed. Her eyes peered round at Gyp.

" Oh !" she said.

" May I come in ?"

" Oh, yes ! Oh, do ! I've been practising. Oh, I
am glad to see you !"

In the middle of the studio, a little table was laid
for two. Daphne Wing went up to it, holding in one
hand the milk-can and in the other a short knife, with
which she had evidently been opening oysters. Placing
the knife on the table, she turned round to Gyp. Her
face was deep pink, and so was her neck, which ran

337 22

338 BEYOND

V-shaped down into the folds of her kimono. Her
eyes, round as saucers, met Gyp's, fell, met them
again. She said :

" Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I am glad ! I really am. I
wanted you so much to see my room — do you like it ?
How did you know where I was ?" She looked down
and added: " I think I'd better tell you. Mr. Fiorsen
came here, and, since then, I've seen him at Count
Rosek's — and — and ' '

" Yes; but don't trouble to tell me, please."

Daphne Wing hurried on.

" Of course, I'm quite mistress of myself now."
Then, all at once, the uneasy woman-of-the-world
mask dropped from her face and she seized Gyp's
hand. " Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I shall never be like you !"

With a little shiver. Gyp said:

" I hope not." Her pride rushed up in her. How
could she ask this girl anything ? She choked back
that feeling, and said stonily: " Do you remember my
baby ? No, of course ; you never saw her. He and
Count Rosek have just taken her away from me."

Daphne Wing convulsively squeezed the hand of
which she had possessed herself.

" Oh, what a wicked thing ! When ?"

" Yesterday afternoon."

" Oh, I ayn glad I haven't seen him since ! Oh, I
do think that was wicked ! Aren't you dreadfully-
distressed ?" The least of smiles played on Gyp's

mouth. Daphne Wing burst forth: " D'you know

I think — I think your self-control is something awful.
It frightens me. If my baby had lived and been stolen
like that, I should have been half dead by now."
Gyp answered stonily as ever:
" Yes; I want her back, and I wondered "

BEYOND 33Q

Daphne Wing clasped her hands.

" Oh, I expect I can make him " She stopped,

confused, then added hastily: " Are you sure you don't
mind ?"

" I shouldn't mind if he had fifty loves. Perhaps
he has."

Daphne Wing uttered a little gasp; then her teeth
came down rather viciously on her lower lip.

" I mean him to do what / want now, not what he
wants me. That's the only way when you love. Oh,
don't smile like that, please; you do make me feel so
— uncertain."

" When are you going to see him next ?"

Daphne Wing grew very pink.

" I don't know. He might be coming in to lunch.
You see, it's not as if he were a stranger, is it ?"
Casting up her eyes a little, she added: "He won't
even let me speak your name ; it makes him mad.
That's why I'm sure he still loves you; only, his love
is so funny." And, seizing Gyp's hand ; " I shall never
forget how good you were to me. I do hope you —
you love somebody else." Gyp pressed those damp,
clinging fingers, and Daphne Wing hurried on: " I'm
sure your baby's a darling. How you must be suffer-
ing ! You look quite pale. But it isn't any good
suffering. I learned that."

Her eyes lighted on the table, and a faint ruefulness
came into them, as if she were going to ask Gyp to eat
the oysters.

Gyp bent forward and put her lips to the girl's
forehead.

" Good-bye. My baby would thank you if she
knew."

And she turned to go. She heard a sob. Daphne

340 BEYOND

Wing was crying; then, before Gyp could speak, she
struck herself on the throat, and said, in a strangled
voice :

" Tha — that's idiotic ! I — I haven't cried since —
since, you know. I — I'm perfect mistress of myself;

only, I — only — I suppose you reminded me I

never cry !"

Those words and the sound of a hiccough accom-
panied Gyp down the alley to her cab.

When she got back to Bury Street, she found Betty
sitting in the hall with her bonnet on. She had not
been sent for, nor had any reply come from New-
market. Gyp could not eat, could settle to nothing.
She went up to her bedroom to get away from the
servants' eyes, and wen ont 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 ! ^Vhich
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

BEYOND 341

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 win-
dow. 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 un-
expected water; grateful, bewildered, abashed, yet
instinctively aware of something evanescent and un-
real 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 mistrust-
ing.

342

BEYOND 343

He brushed his hand across his face ; and the thought
flashed through her : ' He means me to see them I
Ah, what a cynical wretch I am !'

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 abnega-
tion, 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. To-morrow 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 I know it's for your good. But afterward it'll

344 BEYOND

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 !"

She pressed her wet cheek passionately to his.
The train moved, but, so long as she could see, she
watched him standing on the platform, waving his
grey hat, then, in her corner, sat down, blinded with

BEYOND 345

tears behind her veil. She had not cried when she
left him the day of her fatal marriage; she cried now
that she was leaving him to go to her incredible
happiness.

Strange ! But her heart had grown since then.

PART IV

I

Little Gyp, aged nearly four and a half that first
of May, stood at the edge of the tulip border, bowing
to two hen turkeys who were poking their heads
elegantly here and there among the flowers. She was
absurdly like her mother, the same oval-shaped face,
dark arched brows, large and clear brown eyes; but
she had the modern child's open-aii^ look; her hair,
that curled over at the ends, was not allowed to be
long, and her polished brown legs were bare to the
knees.

" Turkeys ! You aren't good, are you ? Come
on!" And, stretching out her hands with the palms
held up, she backed away from the tulip-bed. The
turkeys, trailing delicately their long-toed feet and
uttering soft, liquid interrogations moved after her in
hopes of what she was not holding in her little brown
hands. The sun, down in the west, for it was past
tea-time, slanted from over the roof of the red house,
and painted up that small procession — the deep blue
frock of little Gyp, the glint of gold in the chestnut of
her hair; the daisy-starred grass; the dark birds with
translucent red dewlaps, and checkered tails and the
tulip background, puce and red and yellow. When
she had lured them to the open gate, little Gyp raised
herself, and said :

347

348 BEYOND

" Aren't you duffies, dears ? Shoo !" And on the
tails of the turkeys she shut the gate. Then she went
to where, under the walnut-tree — the one large tree
of that walled garden — a very old Scotch terrier was
lying, and sitting down beside him, began stroking
his white muzzle, saying:

" Ossy, Ossy, do you love me ?"

Presently, seeing her mother in the porch, she
jumped up, and crying out: " Ossy — Ossy ! Walk !"
rushed to Gyp and embraced her legs, while the old
Scotch terrier slowly followed.

Thus held prisoner. Gyp watched the dog's ap-
proach. Nearly three years had changed her a little.
Her face was softer, and rather more grave, her form
a little fuller, her hair, if anything, darker, and done
differently — instead of waving in wings and being
coiled up behind, it was smoothly gathered round in
a soft and lustrous helmet, by which fashion the shape
of her head was better revealed.

" Darling, go and ask Pettance to put a fresh piece
of sulphur in Ossy's water-bowl, and to cut up his meat
finer. You can give Hotspur and Brownie two lumps
of sugar each; and then we'll go out." Going down
on her knees in the porch, she parted the old dog's
hair, and examined his eczema, thinking: " I must
rub some more of that stuff in to-night. Oh, ducky,
you're not smelling your best ! 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. — Bryan."

BEYOND 349

\\Tien the boy was gone, she stooped down and
stroked the old dog's head.

" Master home all day to-morrow, Ossy — master
home !"

A voice from the path said: "Beautiful evenin',
ma'am."

The " old scoundrel," Pettance, stiff er in the ankle-
joints, with more lines in his gargoyle's face, fewer
stumps in his gargoyle's mouth, more film over his
dark, burning little eyes, was standing before her, and,
behind him, little Gyp, one foot rather before the other,
as Gyp had been wont to stand, waited gravely.

" Oh, Pettance, Mr. 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. I
says to the man: ' Don't you come it over me,' I says;
* I was born on an 'orse. Talk of twenty pounds for
that pony ! Ten, and lucky to get it !' ' Well,' he
says, ' Pettance, it's no good to talk round an' round
with you. Fifteen !' he says. ' I'll throw you one
in,' I says, * Eleven ! Take it or leave it.' ' Ah !' he
says, ' Pettance, you know 'ow to buy an 'orse. All
right,' he says; ' twelve !' She's worth all of fifteen,
ma'am, and the major's passed her. So if you likes
to have 'er, there she is !"

Gyp looked at her little daughter, who had given
one excited hop, but now stood still, her eyes flying
up at her mother and her lips parted ; and she thought :
" The darling ! She never begs for an3^thing !"

350 BEYOND

" Very well, Pettance; buy her."
The " old scoundrel " touched his forelock:
" Yes, ma'am — very good, ma'am. Beautiful
evenin', ma'am." And, withdrawing at his gait of
one whose feet are at permanent right angles to the
legs, he mused: ' And that'll be two in my pocket.'

Ten minutes later Gyp, little Gyp, and Ossian
emerged from the gaiden gate for their evening walk.
They Went, not as usual, up to the downs, but toward
the river, making for what they called "the wild."
This was an outlying plot of neglected ground belong-
ing to their farm, two sedgy meadows, hedged by
banks on which grew oaks and ashes. An old stone
linhay, covered to its broken thatch by a huge ivy
bush, stood at the angle where the meadows met.
The spot had a strange life to itself in that smooth,
kempt, countryside of cornfields, grass, and beech-
clumps; it was favoured by beasts and birds, and
little Gyp had recently seen two baby hares there.
From an oak-tree, where the crinkled leaves were not
yet large enough to hide him, a cuckoo was calling
and they stopped to look at the grey bird till he flew
off. The singing and serenity, the green and golden
oaks and ashes, the llowers — marsh-orchis, ladies'
smocks, and cuckoo-buds, starring the rushy grass —
all brought to Gyp that feeling of the uncapturable
spirit which lies behind the forms of nature, the
shadowy, hovering smile of life that is ever vanishing
and ever springing again out of death. While they
stood there close to the old linhay a bird came flying
round them in wide circles, uttering shrill cries. It
had a long beak and long, pointed wings, and seemed
distressed by their presence. Little Gyp squeezed her
mother's hand.

BEYOND 351

" Poor bird ! Isn't it a poor bird, mum ?"

" Yes, dear, it's a curlew — I wonder what's the
matter with it. Perhaps its mate is hurt."

" What is its mate ?"

" The bird it lives with."

" It's afraid of us. It's not like other birds. Is it
a real bird, Mum ? Or one out of the sky ?"

" I think it's real. Shall we go on and see if we can
find out what's the matter ?"

" Yes."

They went on into the sedgy grass and the curlew
continued to circle, vanishing and reappearing from
behind the trees, always uttering those shrill cries.
Little Gyp said:

" Mum, could we speak to it ? Because we're not
going to hurt nothing, are we ?"

" Of course not, darling ! But I'm afraid the poor
bird's too wild. Try, if you like. Call to it : ' Courlie !
Courlie !' "

Little Gyp's piping joined the curlew's cries and
other bird-songs in the bright shadowy quiet of the
evening till Gyp said : /

" Oh, look; it's dipping close to the ground, over
there in that corner — it's got a nest ! We won't go
near, will we ?"

Little Gyp echoed in a hushed voice :
" It's got a nest."

They stole back out of the gate close to the linhay,
the curlew still flighting and crying behind them.
" Aren't we glad the mate isn't hurt, Mum ?"
Gyp answered with a shiver :

" Yes, darling, fearfuUy glad. Now then, shall we
go down and ask Grandy to come up to dinner ?"

Little Gyp hopped. And they went toward the
river.

352 BEYOND

At " The Bowl of Cream," Winton had for two years
had rooms, which he occupied as often as his pursuits
permitted. He had refused to make his home with
Gyp, desiring to be on hand only when she wanted
him; and a simple life of it he led in those simple
quarters, riding with her when Summerhay was in
town, visiting the cottagers, smoking cigars, laying
plans for the defence of his daughter's position, and
devoting himself to the whims of little Gyp. This
moment, when his grandchild was to begin to ride,
was in a manner sacred to one for whom life had scant
meaning apart from horses. Looking at them, hand
in hand. Gyp thought : ' Dad loves her as much as he
loves me now — more, I think.'

Lonely dinner at the inn was an affliction which he
studiously concealed from Gyp, so he accepted their
invitation without alacrity, and they walked on up
the hill, with little Gyp in the middle, supported by
a hand on each side.

The Red House contained nothing that had been in
Gyp's married home except the piano. It had white
walls, furniture of old oak, and for pictures reproduc-
tions of her favourites. " The Death of Procris "
hung in the dining-room. Winton never failed to
scrutinize it when he came in to a meal — that " deuced
rum affair " appeared to have a fascination for him.
He approved of the dining-room altogether; its narrow
oak " last supper " table made gay by a strip of blue
linen, its old brick hearth, casement windows hung
with flowered curtains — all had a pleasing austerity,
uncannily redeemed to softness. He got on well enough
with Summerhay, but he enjoyed himself much more
when he was there alone with his daughter. And this
evening he was especially glad to have her to himself,

BEYOND 353

for she had seemed of late rather grave and absent-
minded. When dinner was over and they were
undisturbed, he said :

" It must be pretty dull for you, my dear, sometimes.
I wish you saw more people."

" Oh no, Dad."

Watching her smile, he thought: ' That's not " sour
grapes " — What is the trouble, then ?'

" I suppose you've not heard anything of that fellow
Fiorsen lately ?"

" Not a word. But he's playing again in London
this season, I see."

" Is he ? Ah, that'll cheer them." And he thought :
' It's not that, then. But there's something — I'll
swear !'

" I hear that Bryan's going ahead. I met a man
in town last week who spoke of him as about the
most promising junior at the bar."

" Yes; he's doing awfully well." And a sound like
a faint sigh caught his ears. " Would you say he's
changed much since you knew him, Dad ?"

" I don't know — perhaps a little less jokey."

" Yes; he's lost his laugh."

It was very evenly and softly said, yet it affected
W^inton.

" Can't expect him to keep that," he answered,
" turning people inside out, day after day — and most
of them rotten. By George, what a life !"

But when he had left her, strolling back in the bright
moonlight, he reverted to his suspicions and wished
he had said more directly: " Look here. Gyp, are you
worrying about Bryan — or have people been making
themselves unpleasant ?"

He had, in these last three years, become uncon-

23

354 BEYOND

sciously inimical to his own class and their imitators,
and more than ever friendly to the poor — visiting the
labourers, small farmers, and small tradesmen, doing
them little turns when he could, giving their children
sixpences, and so forth. The fact that they could
not afford to put on airs of virtue escaped him; he
perceived only that they were respectful and friendly
to Gyp and this warmed his heart toward them in
proportion as he grew exasperated with the two or
three landed families, and that parvenu lot in the
riverside villas.

When he first came down, the chief landowner — a
man he had known for years — had invited him to
lunch. He had accepted with the deliberate intention
of finding out where he was, and had taken the first
natural opportunity of mentioning his daughter. She
was, he said, devoted to her flowers; the Red House
had quite a good garden. His friend's wife, slightly
lifting her brows, had answered with a nervous smile:
" Oh ! yes; of course — yes." A silence had, not un-
naturally, fallen. Since then, Winton had saluted his
friend and his friend's wife with such frigid politeness
as froze the very marrow in their bones. He had not
gone there fishing for Gyp to be called on, but to
show these people that his daughter could not be
slighted with impunity. Foolish of him, for, man of
the world to his finger-tips, he knew perfectly well that
a woman living with a man to whom she was not
married could not be recognized by people with any
pretensions to orthodoxy; Gyp was beyond even the
debatable ground on which stood those who have
been divorced and are married again. But even a
man of the world is not proof against the warping of

BEYOND 355

devotion, and Winton was ready to charge any wind-
mill at any moment on her behalf.

Outside the inn door, exhaling the last puffs of his
good-night cigarette, he thought : ' What wouldn't I
give for the old days, and a chance to wing some of
these moral upstarts !'

II

The last train was not due till eleven-thirty, and
having seen that the evening tray had sandwiches,
Gyp went to Summerhay's study, the room at right
angles to the body of the house, over which was their
bedroom. Here, if she had nothing to do, she always
came when he was away, feeling nearer to him. She
would have been horriiied if she had known of her
father's sentiments on her behalf. Her instant denial
of the wish to see more people had been quite genuine.
The conditions of her life, in that respect, often seemed
to her ideal. It was such a joy to be free of people
one did not care two straws about, and of all empty
social functions. Everything she had now was real —
love, and nature, riding, music, animals, and poor
people. What else was worth having ? She would
not have changed for anything. It often seemed to
her that books and plays about the unhappiness of
women in her position were all false. If one loved,
what could one want better ? Such women, if un-
happy, could have no pride; or else could not really
love ! She had recently been reading " Anna Kare-
nina," and had often said to herself: " There's some-
thing not true about it — as if Tolstoy wanted to make
us believe that Anna was secretly feeling remorse.
If one loves, one doesn't feel remorse. Even if my
baby had been taken away, I shouldn't have felt
remorse. One gives oneself to love — or one does not."
She even derived a positive joy from the feeling that

356

BEYOND 357

her lovt:^ imposed a sort of isolation; she Hked to be
apart -for him. Besides, by her very birth she was
outside the fold of society, her love beyond the love
of those within it — just as her father's love had been.
And her pride was greater than theirs, too. How
could women mope and moan because they were cast
out, and try to scratch their way back where they
were not ^velcome ? How could any woman do that ?
Sometimes, she wondered whether, if Fiorsen died, she
would marry her lover. What difference would it
make ? She could not love him more. It would only
make him feel, perhaps, too sure of her, make it all
a matter of course. For herself, she would rather go
on as she was. But for him, she was not certain, of
late had been less and less certain. He was not bound
now, could leave her when he tired ! And yet — did
he perhaps feel himself more bound than if they were
married — unfairly bound ? It was this thought —
barely more than the shadow of a thought — which had
given her, of late, the extra gravity noticed by her
father.

In that unlighted room with the moonbeams drifting
in, she sat down at Summerhay's bureau, where he
often worked too late at his casos, depriving her of
himself. She sat there resting lier elbows on the bare
wood, crossing her finger-tips, gazing out into the
moonlight, her mind drifting on a stream of memories
that seemed to have beginning only from the year
when he came into her life. A smile crept out on her
face, and now and then she uttered a little sigh of
contentment.

So many memories, nearly all happy ! Surely, the
most adroit work of the jeweller who put the human
soul together was his provision of its power to forget

358 BEYOND

the dark and remember sunshine. The year and a
half of her life with Fiorsen, the empty months that
followed it were gone, dispersed like mist by the
radiance of the last three years in whose sky had hung
just one cloud, no bigger than a hand, of doubt whether
Summerhay really loved her as much as she loved
him, whether from her company he got as much as
the all she got from his. She would not have been
her distrustful self if she could have settled down in
complacent security ; and her mind was ever at stretch
on that point, comparing past days and nights with
the days and nights of the present. Her prevision
that, when she loved, it would be desperately, had
been fulfilled. He had become her life. When this
befalls one whose besetting strength and weakness
alike is pride — no wonder that she doubts.

For their Odyssey they had gone to Spain — that
brown un-European land of, " lyrio " flowers, and
cries of " Agua !" in the streets, where the men seem
cleft to the waist when they are astride of horses,
under their wide black hats, and the black-clothed
women with wonderful eyes still look as if they missed
their Eastern veils. It had been a month of gaiety
and glamour, last days of September and early days
of October, a revel of enchanted wanderings in the
streets of Seville, of embraces and laughter, of strange
scents and stranger sounds, of orange light and velvety
shadows, and all the warmth and deep gravity of
Spain. The Alcazar, the cigarette-girls, the Gipsy
dancers of Triana, the old brown ruins to which they
rode, the streets, and the square with its grave talkers
sitting on benches in the sun, the water-sellers and
the melons; the mules, and the dark ragged man out
of a dream, picking up the ends of cigarettes, the wine

BEYOND 359

of Malaga, burnt fire and honey ! Seville had be-
witched them — they got no further. They had come
back across the brown uplands of Castile to Madrid
and Goya and Velasquez, till it was time for Paris,
before the law-term began. There, in a queer little
French hotel — all bedrooms, and a lift, coffee and
carved beds, wood fires, and a chambermaid who
seemed all France, and down below a restaurant, to
which such as knew about eating came, with waiters
who looked like monks, both fat and lean — they had
spent a week. Three special memories of that week
started up in the moonlight before Gyp's eyes: The
long drive in the Bois among the falling leaves of trees
flashing with colour in the crisp air under a brilliant
sky. A moment in the Louvre before the Leonardo
" Bacchus," when — his " restored " pink skin for-
gotten— all the world seemed to drop away while she
listened, with the listening figure before her, to some
mysterious music of growing flowers, and secret life.
And that last most disconcerting memory, of the
night before they returned. They were having supper
after the theatre in their restaurant, when, in a mirror
she saw three people come in and take seats at a table
a little way behind — Fiorsen, Rosek, and Daphne
Wing ! How she managed to show no sign she never
knew ! While they were ordering, she was safe, for
Rosek was a gourmet, and the girl would certainly
be hungry; but after that, she knew that nothing
could save her being seen — Rosek would mark down
every woman in the room ! Should she pretend to
feel faint and slip out into the hotel ? Or let Bryan
know ? Or sit there laughing and talking, eating and
drinking, as if nothing were behind her ?

Her own face in the mirror had a flush, and her

36o BEYOND

eyes were bright. Wlien they saw her, they would see
that she was happy, safe in her love. Her foot sought
Summerhay's beneath the table. How splendid and
brown and iit he looked, compared with those two
pale, towny creatures ! And he was gazing at her as
though just discovering her beauty. How could she
ever — that man with his little beard and his white
face and those eyes — how could she ever ! Ugh !
And then, in the mirror, she saw Rosek's dark-circled
eyes fasten on her and betray their recognition by a
sudden gleam, saw his lips compressed, and a faint
red come up in his cheeks. What would he do ?
The girl's back was turned — her perfect back — and
she was eating. And Fiorsen was staring straight
before him in that moody way she knew so well. All
depended on that deadly little man, who had once
kissed her throat. A sick feeling seized on Gyp.
If her lover knew that within five yards of him were
those two men ! But she still smiled and talked, and
touched his foot. Rosek had seen that she was con-
scious— was getting from it a kind of satisfaction.
She saw him lean over and whisper to the girl, and
Daphne Wing turning to look, and her mouth opening
for a smothered " Oh !" Gyp saw her give an uneasy
glance at Fiorsen, and then begin again to eat. Surely
she would want to get away before he saw. Yes;
very soon she rose. What little airs of the world she
had now — quite mistress of the situation ! The wrap
must be placed exactly on her shoulders; and how
she walked, giving just one startled look back from
the door. Gone ! The ordeal over ! And Gyp said :

" Let's go up, darling."

She felt as if they had both escaped a deadly peril
— not from anything those two could do to him or

BEYOND 361

her, but from the cruel ache and jealousy of the past,
which the sight of that man would have brought him.

Women, for their age, are surely older than men —
married women, at all events, than men who have not
had that experience. And all through those first
weeks of their life together, there was a kind of wise
watchfulness in Gyp. He was only a boy in know-
ledge of life as she saw it, and though his character
was so much more decided, active, and insistent than
her own, she felt it lay with her to shape the course
and avoid the shallows and sunken rocks. The house
they had seen together near the river, under the
Berkshire downs, was still empty; and while it was
being got ready, they lived at a London hotel. She
had insisted that he should tell no one of their life
together. If that must come, she wanted to be firmly
settled in, with little Gyp and Betty and the horses,
so that it should all be for him as much like respectable
married life as possible. 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 !" WTien the page-
boy was gone, she turned to the mirror and looked at
herself doubtfully. She seemed to know exactly
what that tall woman whom she had seen on the
platform would think of her — too soft, not capable,
not right for him ! — not even if she were legally his
wife. And touching her hair, laying a dab of scent
on her eyebrows, she turned and went downstairs
fluttering, but outwardly calm enough.

In the little low-roofed inner lounge of that old
hotel, whose rooms were all " entirely renovated,"

362 BEYOND

Gyp saw her visitor standing at a table, rapidly turn-
ing the pages of an illustrated magazine, as people
will when their minds are set upon a coming operation.
And she thought : ' I believe she's more frightened
than I am !'

Lady Summerhay held out a gloved hand.

"How do you do?" she said. "I hope you'll
forgive my coming."

Gyp took the hand.

" Thank you. It was very good of you. I'm sorry
Bryan isn't in yet. Will you have some tea ?"

" I've had tea; but do let's sit down. How do you
find the hotel ?"

" Very nice."

On a velvet lounge that had survived the renova-
tion, they sat side by side, screwed round toward each
other.

" Bryan's told me what a pleasant time you had
abroad. He's looking very well, I think. I'm de-
voted 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. " If there's
anything I can do to help, I should be so glad — it
must be horrid for you."

Gyp said very quietly:

" Oh ! no. I'm perfectly happy — couldn't be hap-
pier." And she thought: 'I suppose she doesn't
believe that.'

Lady Summerhay was looking at her fixedly.

BEYOND 363

" One doesn't realize these things at first — neither
of you will, till you see how dreadfully Society can
cold-shoulder."

Gyp made an effort to control a smile.

" One can only be cold-shouldered if one puts
oneself in the way of it. I should never wish to see
or speak to anyone who couldn't take me just for
what I am. And I don't really see what difference
it will make to Bryan; most men of his age have
someone, somewhere." She felt malicious pleasure
watching her visitor jib and frown at the cynicism of
that soft speech ; a kind of hatred had come on her of
this society woman, who — disguise it as she would —
was at heart her enemy, who regarded her, must
regard her, as an enslaver, as a despoiler of her son's
worldly chances, a Dalilah dragging him down. She
said still more quietly: " He need tell no one of my
existence; and you can be quite sure that if ever he
feels he's had enough of me, he'll never be troubled
by the sight of me again."

And she got up. Lady Summerhay also rose.

" I hope you don't think — I really am only too
anxious to "

" I think it's better to be quite fi'ank. You will
never Uke me, or forgive me for enenaring Bryan.
And so it had better be, please, as it would be if I
were just his common mistress. That will be per-
fectly all right for both of us. It was very good of
you to come, though. Thank you — and good-bye."

Lady Summerhay literally faltered with speech and
hand.

With a malicious smile. Gyp watched her retirement
among the little tables and elaborately modern chairs
till her tall figure had disappeared behind a column.

364 BEYOND

Then she sat down again on the lounge, pressing her
hands to her burning ears. She had never till then
known the strength of the pride-demon within her;
at the moment, it was almost stronger than her love.
She was still sitting there, when the page-boy brought
her another card — her father's. She sprang up
saying :

" Yes, here, please."

Winton came in all brisk and elated at sight of her
after this long absence ; and, throwing her arms round
his neck, she hugged him tight. He was doubly
precious to her after the encounter she had just gone
through. WTien he had given her news of Mildenham
and little Gyp, he looked at her steadily, and said:

" The coast'll be clear for you both down there, and
at Bury Street, whenever you like to come. Gyp. I
shall regard this as your real marriage. I shall have
the servants in and make that plain."

A row like family prayers — and Dad standing up
very straight, saying in his dry way: " You will be so

good in future as to remember " " I shall be

obliged if you will," and so on; Betty's round face
pouting at being brought in with all the others ; Markey's
soft, inscrutable; Mrs. Markey's demure and goggling;
the maids' rabbit-faces; old Pettance's carved grin,
the film lifting from his little burning eyes: "Ha!
Mr. Bryn Summer'ay; he bought her 'orse, and so
she's gone to 'im !" And she said:

" Darling, I don't know ! It's awfully sweet of you.
We'll see later."

Winton patted her hand. " We must stand up to
'em, you know, Gyp. You mustn't get your tail
down."

Gyp laughed.

BEYOND 365

" No, Dad; never ! . . ."

That same night, across the strip of blackness
between their beds, she said:

" Bryan, promise me something !"

" It depends. I know you too well."

" No; it's quite reasonable, and possible. Promise !"

" All right; if it is."

" I want you to let me take the lease of the Red
House — let it be mine, the whole thing — let me pay
for everything there."

" Reasonable ! What's the point ?"

" Only that I shall have a proper home of my own.
I can't explain, but your mother's coming to-day
made me feel I must."

" My child, how could I possibly live on you there ?
It's absurd !"

"You can pay for everything else; London —
travelling — clothes, if you like. We can make it
square up. It's not a question of money, of course.
I only want to feel that if, at any moment, you don't
need me any more, you can simply stop coming."

" I think that's brutal. Gyp."

" No, no; so many women lose men's love because
they seem to claim things of them. I don't want to
lose yours that way — that's all."

" That's silly, darling !"

" It's not. Men — and women, too — always tug at
chains. And when there is no chain "

" Well then; let me take the house, and you can go
away when you're tired of me." His voice sounded
smothered, resentful; she could hear him turning and
turning, as if angry with his pillows. And she mur-
mured :

" No; I can't explain. But I really mean it."

366 BEYOND

" We're just beginning life together, and you talk
as if you want to split it up. It hurts, Gyp, and that's
all about it."

She said gently:

" Don't be angry, dear."

" Well ! Why don't you trust me more ?"

" I do. Only I must make as sure as I can."

The sound came again of his turning and turning.

" I can't !"

Gyp said slowly:

" Oh ! Very well !"

A dead silence followed, both lying quiet in the
darkness, trying to .get the better of each other by
sheer listening. An hour perhaps passed before he
sighed, and, feeling his lips on hers, she knew that she
had won. . . .

Ill

There, in the study, the moonHght had reached her
face ; an owl was hooting not far away, and still more
memories came — the happiest of all, perhaps — of first
days in this old house together.

Summerhay damaged himself out hunting that first
winter. The memory of nursing him was strangely
pleasant, now that it was two years old. For con-
valescence they had gone to the Pyrenees — -Argeles in
March, all almond-blossom and snows against the blue
— a wonderful fortnight. In London on the way
back they had their first awkward encounter. Coming
out of a theatre one evening, Gyp heard a woman's
voice, close behind, say: "Why, it's Bryan! What
ages !" And his answer defensively drawled out:

"Hallo! How are you, Diana ?"

" Oh, awfully fit. Where are you, nowadays ?
Why don't you come and see us ?"

Again the drawl :

" Down in the country. I will, some time. Good-
bye."

A taU woman or girl — red-haired, with one of those
wonderful white skins that go therewith; and brown
— yes, brown eyes; Gyp could see those eyes sweeping
her up and down with a sort of burning- live curiosity.
Bryan's hand was thrust under her arm at once.

" Come on, let's walk and get a cab."

As soon as they were clear of the crowd, she pressed
his hand to her breast, and said:

367

368 BEYOND

" Did you mind ?"

" Mind ? Of course not. It's for you to mind."

" Who was it ?"

" A second cousin. Diana Ley ton."

" Do you know her very well ?"

" Oh yes — used to."

" And do you like her very much ?"

" Rather !"

He looked round into her face, with laughter bub-
bling up behind his gravity. Ah, but could one tease
on such a subject as their love ? And to this day
the figure of that tall girl with the burning-white skin,
the burning-brown eyes, the burning-red hair was not
quite a pleasant memory to Gyp. After that night,
they gave up all attempt to hide their union, going to
whatever they wished, whether they were likely to
meet people or not. Gyp found that nothing was so
easily ignored as Society when the heart was set on
other things. Besides, they were seldom in London,
and in the country did not wish to know anyone, in
any case. But she never lost the feeling that what
was ideal for her might not be ideal for him. He
ought to go into the world, ought to meet people.
It would not do for him to be cut off from social
pleasures and duties, and then some day feel that he
owed his starvation to her. To go up to London,
too, every day was tiring, and she persuaded him to
take a set of residential chambers in the Temple, and
sleep there three nights a week. In spite of all his
entreaties, she herself never went to those chambers,
staying always at Bury Street when she came up.
A kind of superstition prevented her; she would not
risk making him feel that she was hanging round his
neck. Besides, she wanted to keep herself desirable —

BEYOND 369

so little a matter of course that he would hanker after
her when he was away. And she never asked him
where he went or whom he saw. But, sometimes, she
wondered whether he could still be quite faithful to
her in thought, love her as he used to; and joy would
go down behind a heavy bank of clouds, till, at his
return, the sun came out again. Love such as hers —
passionate, adoring, protective, longing to sacrifice
itself, to give all that it had to him, yet secretly de-
manding all his love in return — for how could a proud
woman love one who did not love her ? — such love
as this is always longing for a union more complete
than it is likely to get in a world where all things
move and change. But against the grip of this love
she never dreamed of fighting now. From the moment
when she knew she must cling to him rather than to
her baby, she had made no reservations; all her eggs
were in one basket, as her father's had been before her
—all! . . .

The moonlight was shining full on the old bureau
and a vase of tulips standing there, giving those
flowers colour that was not colour, and an unnamed
look, as if they came from a world which no human
enters. It glinted on a bronze bust of old Voltaire,
which she had bought him for a Christmas present, so
that the great writer seemed to be smiling from the
hollows of his eyes. Gyp turned the bust a little, to
catch the light on its far cheek; a letter was disclosed
between it and the oak. She drew it out thinking:
' Bless him ! He uses everything for paper-weights;'
and, in the strange light, its first words caught her eyes :

" Dear Bryan,

" But I say — you are wasting yourself "

24

370 BEYOND

She laid it down, methodically pushing it back under
the bust. Perhaps he had put it there on purpose !
She got up and went to the window, to check the
temptation to read the rest of that letter and see from
whom it was. No ! She did not admit that she was
tempted. One did not read letters. Then the full
import of those few words struck into her: " Dear
Bryan. But / say — you are wasting yourself." A
letter in a chain of correspondence, then ! A woman's
hand ; but not his mother's, nor his sisters' — she knew
their writings. Who had dared to say he was wasting
himself ? A letter in a chain of letters ! An intimate
correspondent, whose name she did not know, because
— he had not told her ! Wasting himself— on what ?
— on his life with her down here ? And was he ? Had
she herself not said that very night that he had lost
his laugh ? She began searching her memory. Yes,
last Christmas vacation — that clear, cold, wonderful
fortnight in Florence, he had been full of fun. It was
May now. Was there no memory since — of his old
infectious gaiety ? She could not think of any.
" But / say — you are wasting yourself." A sudden
hatred flared up in her against the unknown woman
who had said that thing — and fever, running through
her veins, made her ears burn. She longed to snatch
forth and tear to pieces the letter, with its guardian-
ship of which that bust seemed mocking her; and she
turned away with the thought: ' I'll go and meet him;
I can't wait here.'

Throwing on a cloak she walked out into the moonlit
garden, and went slowly down the whitened road
toward the station. A magical, dewless night ! The
moonbeams had stolen in to the beech clump, frosting
the boles and boughs, casting a fine ghostly grey over

BEYOND 371

the shadow-patterned beech-mast. Gyp took the
short cut through it. Not a leaf moved in there, no
living thing stirred; so might an earth be where only
trees inhabited ! She thought: ' I'll bring him back
through here.' And she waited at the far comer of
the clump, where he must pass, some little distance
from the station. She never gave people unnecessary
food for gossip — any slighting of her irritated him, she
was careful to spare him that. The train came in;
a car went whizzing by, a cyclist, then the first foot-
passenger, at a great pace, breaking into a run. She
saw that it was he, and, calling out his name, ran
back into the shadow of the trees. He stopped dead
in his tracks, then came rushing after her. That
pursuit did not last long, and, in his arms, Gyp said:

" If you aren't too hungry, darling, let's stay here
a little — it's so wonderful !"

They sat down on a great root, and leaning against
him, looking up at the dark branches, she said :

" Have you had a hard day ?"

" Yes; got hung up by a late consultation; and old
Leyton asked me to come and dine."

Gyp felt a sensation as when feet happen on ground
that gives a little.

" The Leytons — that's Eaton Square, isn't it ? A
big dinner ?"

" No. Only the old people, and Bertie and Diana."

" Diana ? That's the girl we met coming out of the
theatre, isn't it ?"

" When ? Oh — ah — what a memory, Gyp !"

" Yes; it's good for things that interest me."

" Why ? Did she interest you ?"

Gyp turned and looked into his face.

" Yes. Is she clever ?"

372 BKYOND

" H'm ! I suppose you might call her so."

" And in love with you ?"

"Great Scott! Why?"

" Is it very unlikely ? I am."

He began kissing her lips and hair. And, closing
her eyes, Gyp thought: ' If only that's not because he
doesn't want to answer !' Then, for some minutes,
they were silent as the moonlit beech clump.

" Answer me truly, Bryan. Do you never — never
— feel as if you were wasting yourself on me ?"

She was certain of a quiver in his grasp ; but his face
was open and serene, his voice as usual when he was
teasing.

" Well, hardly ever ! Aren't you funny, dear ?"

" Promise me faithfully to let me know when you've
had enough of me. Promise !"

" All right ! But don't look for fulfilment in this
life."

"I'm not so sure."
1 am.

Gyp put up her lips, and tried to drown for ever in
a kiss the memory of those words: " But I say — you
are wasting yourself."

IV

SuMMERHAY, coming down next morning, went
straight to his bureau; his mind was not at ease.
" Wasting yourself !" What had he done with that
letter of Diana's ? He remembered Gyp's coming in
just as he finished reading it. Searching the pigeon-
holes and drawers, moving everything that lay about,
he twitched the bust — and the letter lay disclosed.
He took it up with a sigh of relief :

" Dear Bryan,

" But / say — you are wasting yourself. Why,
my dear, of course ! ' // faut se /aire valoir !' You
have only one foot to put forward ; the other is planted
in I don't know what mysterious hole. One foot in
the grave — at thirty ! Really, Bryan ! Pull it out.
There's such a lot waiting for you. It's no good your
being hoity-toity, and telling me to mind my business.
I'm speaking for everyone who knows you. We all
feel the blight on the rose. Besides, you always were
my favourite cousin, ever since I was five and you a
horrid little bully of ten; and I simply hate to think
of you going slowly down instead of quickly up. Oh !

I know ' D n the world !' But — are you ? I

should have thought it was ' d ning ' you ! Enough !

When are you coming to see us ? I've read that book.
The man seems to think love is nothing but passion,
and passion always fatal. I wonder ! Perhaps you
know.

373

374 BEYOND

" Don't be angry with me for being such a grand-
mother.
" Au revoir.

" Your very good cousin,

" Diana Leyton."

He crammed the letter into his pocket, and sat there,
appalled. It must have lain two days under that
bust ! Had Gyp seen it ? He looked at the bronze
face ; and the philosopher looked back from the hollows
of his eyes, as if to say : " What do you know of the
human heart, my boy — your own, your mistress's,
that girl's, or anyone's ? A pretty dance the heart
will lead you yet ! Put it in a packet, tie it round with
string, seal it up, drop it in a drawer, lock the drawer !
And to-morrow it will be out and skipping on its
wrappings. Ho! Ho!" And Summerhay thought:
' You old goat. You never had one !' In the room
above. Gyp would still be standing as he had left her,
putting the last touch to her hair — a man would be a

scoundrel who, even in thought, could " Hallo !"

the eyes of the bust seemed to say. " Pity ! That's
queer, isn't it ? Why not pity that red-haired girl,
with the skin so white that it burns you, and the eyes
so brown that they burn you — don't they ?" Old
Satan ! Gyp had his heart ; no one in the world
would ever take it from her !

And in the chair where she had sat last night con-
juring up memories, he too now conjured. How he
had loved her, did love her ! She would always be
what she was and had been to him. And the sage's
mouth seemed to twist before him with the words:
" Quite so, my dear ! But the heart's very funny —
very — capacious !" A tiny sound made him turn.

BEYOND 375

Little Gyp was standing in the doorway.

" Hallo !" he said.

" Hallo, Baryn !" She came flying to him, and he
caught her up so that she stood on his knees with the
sunlight shining on her fluffed out hair.

" Well, Gipsy ! Who's getting a tall girl ?"

" I'm goin' to ride."

" Ho, ho !"

" Baryn, let's do Humpty-Dumpty !"

"All right; come on!" He rose and carried her
upstairs.

Gyp was still doing one of those hundred things
which occupy women for a quarter of an hour after
they are " quite ready," and at little Gyp's shout of,
" Humpty !" she suspended her needle to watch the
sacred rite.

Summerhay had seated himself on the foot-rail of
the bed, rounding his arms, sinking his neck, blowing
out his cheeks to simulate an egg; then, with an un-
expectedness that even little Gyp could always see
through, he rolled backward on to the bed.

And she, simulating " all the king's horses," tried in
vain to put him up again. This immemorial game,
watched by Gyp a hundred times, had to-day a special
preciousness. If he could be so ridiculously young,
what became of her doubts ? Looking at his face
pulled this way and that, lazily imperturbable under
the pommelings of those small fingers^ she thought :
' And that girl dared to say he was wasting himself I'
For in the night conviction had come to her that those
words were written by the tall girl with the white skin,
the girl of the theatre — the Diana of his last night's
dinner. Humpty-Dumpty was up on the bed-rail
again for the finale; all the king's horses were clasped

376 BEYOND

to him, making the egg more round, and over they
both went with shrieks and gurgles . What a boy he
was ! She would not — no, she would not brood and
spoil her day with him.

But that afternoon, at the end of a long gallop on
the downs, she turned her head away and said sud-
denly:

" Is she a huntress ?"

"Who?"

" Your cousin — Diana."

In his laziest voice, he answered:

" I suppose you mean — does she hunt me ?"

She knew that tone, that expression on his face,
knew he was angry ; but could not stop herself.

" I did."

" So you're going to become jealous. Gyp ?"

It was one of those cold, naked sayings that should
never be spoken between lovers — one of those sayings
at which the heart of the one who speaks sinks with a
kind of dismay, and the heart of the one who hears
quivers. She cantered on. And he, perforce, after
her. WTien she reined in again, he glanced into her
face and was afraid. It was all closed up against him.
And he said softly :

" I didn't mean that. Gyp."

But she only shook her head. He had meant it —
had wanted to hurt her ! It didn't matter — she
wouldn't give him the chance again. And she
said:

" Look at that long white cloud, and the apple-
green in the sky — rain to-morrow. One ought to
enjoy any line day as if it were the last."

Uneasy, ashamed, yet still a little angry, Summerhay
rode on beside her.

BEYOND 377

That night, she cried in her sleep; and, when he
awakened her, clung to him and sobbed out :

" Oh ! such a dreadful dream ! I thought you'd left
off loving me !"

For a long time he held and soothed her. Never,
never ! He would never leave off loving her !

But a cloud no broader than your hand can spread
and cover the whole day.

The summer passed, and always there was that little
patch of silence in her heart, and in his. The tall,
bright days grew taller, slowly passed their zenith,
slowly shortened. On Saturdays and Sundays, some-
times with Winton and little Gyp^ but more often
alone, they went on the river. For Gyp, it had never
lost the magic of their first afternoon upon it — never
lost its glamour as of an enchanted world. All the
week she looked forward to these hours of isolation
with him, as if the surrounding water secured her not
only against a world that would take him from her,
if it could, but against that side of his nature, which,
so long ago she had named " old Georgian." She had
once adventured to the law courts by herself, to see
him in his wig and gown. Under that stiff grey
crescent on his broad forehead, he seemed so hard and
clever — so of a world to which she never could belong,
so of a piece with the brilliant bullying of the whole
proceeding. She had come away feeling that she only
possessed and knew one side of him. On the river,
she had that side utterly — her lovable, lazy, im-
pudently loving boy, lying with his head in her lap,
plimging in for a swim, splashing round her; or with
his sleeves rolled up, his neck bare, and a smile on his
face, plying his slow sculls down-stream, singing,
" Away, my rolling river," or pulling home like a
demon in want of his dinner. It was such a blessing
to lose for a few hours each week this growing con-

378

BEYOND 379

sciousness that she could never have the whole of him.
But all the time the patch ot silence grew, for doubt
in the heart of one lover reacts on the heart of the
other.

When the long vacation came, she made an heroic
resolve. He must go to Scotland, must have a month
away from her, a good long rest. And while Betty
was at the sea with little Gyp, she would take her
father for his cure. She held so inflexibly to this
resolve, that, after many protests, he said with a
shrug :

" Very well, I will then — if you're so keen to get rid
of me."

" Keen to get rid !" WTien she could not bear to
be away from him ! But she forced her feeling
back, and said, smiling:

" At last ! There's a good boy !" Anything ! If
only it would bring him back to her exactly as he had
been. She asked no questions as to where, or to
whom, he would go.

Tunbridge Wells, that charming purgatory where
the retired prepare their souls for a more permanent
retirement, was dreaming on its hills in long rows of
adequate villas. Its commons and woods had re-
mained unscorched, so that the retired had not to any
extent deserted it, that August, for the sea. They
still shopped in the Pantiles, strolled the uplands, or
flourished their golf-clubs in the grassy parks; they
still drank tea in each other's houses and frequented
the many churches. One could see their faces, as it
were, goldened by their coming glory, like the chins
of children by reflection from buttercups. From every
kind of life they had retired, and, waiting now for a

38o BEYOND

more perfect day, were doing their utmost to postpone
it. They lived very long.

Gyp and her father had rooms in a hotel where he
could bathe and drink the waters without having to
climb three hills. This was the first cure she had
attended since the long-past time at Wiesbaden.
Was it possible that was only six years ago ? She
felt so utterly, so strangely different ! Then life had
been sparkling sips of every drink, and of none too
much; now it was one long still draft, to quench a
thirst that would not be quenched.

During these weeks she held herself absolutely at
her father's disposal, but she lived for the post, and
if, by any chance, she did not get her daily letter, her
heart sank to the depths. She wrote every day,
sometimes twice, then tore up that second letter,
remembering for what reason she had set herself to
undergo this separation. During the first week, his
letters had a certain equanimity; in the second week
they became ardent ; in the third, they were iitful —
now beginning to look forward, now moody and
dejected; and they were shorter. During this third
week Aunt Rosamund joined them. The good lady
had become a staunch supporter of Gyp's new exist-
ence, which, in her view, served Fiorsen right. W^hy
should the poor child's life be loveless ? She had a
definitely low opinion of men, and a lower of the state
of the marriage-laws; in her view, any woman who
struck a blow in that direction was something of a
heroine. And she was oblivious of the fact that Gyp
was quite guiltless of the desire to strike a blow against
the marriage -laws, or anything else. Aunt Rosa-
mund's aristocratic and rebellious blood boiled with
hatred of what she called the " stuffy people " who

BEYOND 381

still held that women were men's property. It had
made her specially careful never to put herself in that
position.

She had brought Gyp a piece of news.

" I was walking down Bond Street past that tea-and-
tart shop, my dear — you know, where they have
those special coffee-creams, and who should come out
of it but Miss Daphne Wing and our friend Fiorsen;
and pretty hangdog he looked. He came up to me,
with his little lady watching him like a lynx. Really,
my dear, I was rather sorry for him; he'd got that
hungry look of his; she'd been doing all the eating,
I'm sure. He asked me how you were. I told him,
' Very well.'

" ' When you see her,' he said, ' tell her I haven't
forgotten her, and never shall. But she was quite
right; this is the sort of lady that I'm fit for.' And
the way he looked at that girl made me feel quite
uncomfortable. Then he gave me one of his little
bows; and off they went, she as pleased as Punch.
I really was sorry for him."

Gyp said quietly:

" Ah ! you needn't have been. Auntie; he'll always
be able to be sorry for himself."

A little shocked at her niece's cynicism. Aunt
Rosamund was silent. The poor lady had not lived
with Fiorsen !

That same afternoon, Gyp was sitting in a shelter
on the common, a book on her knee — thinking her one
long thought : ' To-day is Thursday — Monday week !
Eleven days — still !' — when three figures came slowly
toward her, a man, a woman, and what should have
been a dog. English love of beauty and the rights of
man had forced its nose back, deprived it of half its

382 BEYOND

ears, and all but three inches or so of tail. It had
asthma — and waddled in disillusionment. A voice
said:

" This'll do, Maria. We can take the sun 'ere."

But for that voice, with the permanent cold hoarse-
ness caught beside innumeiable graves, Gyp might
not have recognized Mr. Vv'agge, for he had taken off
his beard, leaving nothing but side-whiskers, and Mrs.
Wagge had filled out wonderfully. They were some
time settling down beside her.

" You sit here, Maria; you won't get the sun in your
eyes."

" No, Robert; I'll sit here. You sit there."

" No, you sit there."

" No, I will. Come, Duckie !"

But the dog, standing stockily on the pathway was
gazing at Gyp, while what was left of its broad nose
moved from side to side. Mr. Wagge foUowed the
direction of its glance.

" Oh !" he said, " oh, this is a surprise !" And
fumbling at his straw hat, he passed his other hand
over his sleeve and held it out to Gyp. It felt almost
dry, and fatter than it had been. VVTiile she was
shaking it, the dog moved forward and sat down on
her feet. Mrs. Wagge also extended her hand, clad
in a shiny glove.

" This is a — a — pleasure," she murmured. " Who
would have thought of meeting you ! Oh, don't let
Duckie sit against your pretty frock ! Come, Duckie !"

But Duckie did not move, resting his back against
Gyp's shin-bones. Mr. Wagge, whose tongue had
been passing over a mouth which she saw to its full
advantage for the first time, said abruptly:

" You 'aven't come to live here, 'ave you ?"

BEYOND 383

" Oh no ! I'm only with my father for the baths."

" Ah, I thought not, never havin' seen you. We've
been retired here ourselves a matter of twelve months.
A pretty spot."

" Yes; lovely, isn't it ?"

" We wanted nature. The air suits us, though a
bit — er — too irony, as you might say. But it's a long-
lived place. We were quite a time lookin' round."

Mrs. Wagge added in her thin voice :

" Yes — we'd thought of Wimbledon, you see, but
Mr. Wagge liked this better; he can get his walk,
here; and it's more — select, perhaps. We have several
friends. The church is very nice."

Mr. Wagge 's face assumed an uncertain expression.
He said bluffly:

" I was always a chapel man; but — -I don't know
how it is — there's something in a place like this that
makes church seem more — more suitable; my wife
always had a leaning that way. I never conceal my
actions."

Gyp murmured:

" It's a question of atmosphere, isn't it ?"

Mr. Wagge shook his head.

"No; I don't hold with incense — we're not 'Igh
Church. But how are you, ma'am ? We often speak
of you. You're looking weU."

His face had become a dusky orange, and Mrs.
Wagge's the colour of a doubtful beetroot. The dog
on Gyp's feet stirred, snuffled, turned round, and fell
heavily against her legs again. She said quietly:

" I was hearing of Daisy only to-day. She's quite
a star now, isn't she ?"

Mrs. Wagge sighed. Mr. Wagge looked away and
answered :

384 BEYOND

" It's a sore subject. There she is, making her forty
and fifty pound a week, and run after in all the papers.
She's a success — no doubt about it. And she works.
Saving a matter of fifteen 'undred a year, I shouldn't
be surprised. Why, at my best, the years the influenza
was so bad, I never cleared a thousand nett. No,
she's a success."

Mrs. Wagge added :

" Have you seen her last photograph — the one
where she's standing between two hydrangea-tubs.
It was her own idea."

Mr. Wagge mumbled suddenly:

"I'm always glad to see her when she takes a run
down in a car. But I've come here for quiet after
the life I've led, and I don't want to think about it,
especially before you, ma'am. I don't — that's a fact."

A silence followed, during which Mr. and Mrs.
Wagge looked at their feet, and Gyp looked at the dog.

" Ah ! — here you are !" It was Winton, who had
come up from behind the shelter, and stood, with
eyebrows slightly raised. Gyp could not help a smile.
Her father's weathered, narrow face, half-veiled eyes,
thin nose, little crisp, grey moustache that did not
hide his firm lips, his lean, erect figure, the very way
he stood, his thin, dry, clipped voice were the absolute
antithesis of Mr. Wagge 's thick-set, stoutly planted
form, thick-skinned, thick-featured face, thick, rather
hoarse yet oily voice. It was as if Providence had
arranged a demonstration of the extremes of social
type. And she said:

" Mr. and Mrs. Wagge — my father."

Winton raised his hat. Gyp remained seated, the
dog Duckie being still on her feet.

" 'Appy to meet you, sir. I hope you have benefit

BEYOND 385

from the waters. They're supposed to be most power-
ful, I beheve."

" Thank you — not more deadly than most. Are
you drinking them ?"

Mr. Wagge smiled.

" Nao !" he said, " we live here."

" Indeed ! Do you find anything to do ?"

" Well, as a fact, I've come here for rest. But I
take a Turkish bath once a fortnight — find it refresh-
ing; keeps the pores of the skin acting."

Mrs. Wagge added gently :

" It seems to suit my husband wonderfully."

Winton murmured:

" Yes ! Is this your dog ? Bit of a philosopher,
isn't he ?"

Mrs, Wagge answered:

" Oh, he's a naughty dog, aren't you, Duckie ?"

The dog Duckie, feeling himself the cynosure of
every eye, rose and stood panting into Gyp's face.
She took the occasion to get up.

" We must go, I'm afraid. Good-bye. It's been
very nice to meet you again. When you see Daisy,
will you please give her my love ?"

Mrs. Wagge unexpectedly took a handkerchief from
her reticule. Mr. Wagge cleared his throat heavily.
Gyp was conscious of the dog Duckie waddling after
them, and of Mrs. Wagge calling, " Duckie, Duckie !"
from behind her handkerchief.

Winton said softly :

" So those two got that pretty filly ! Well, she
didn't show much quality, when you come to think
of it. She's still with our friend, according to your
aunt."

Gyp nodded.

25

386 BEYOND

" Yes; and I do hope she's happy."

" He isn't, apparently. Serves him right."

Gyp shook her head.

" Oh no, Dad !"

" Well, one oughtn't to wish any man worse than
he's likely to get. But when I see people daring to
look down their noses at you — by Jove !"

" Darling, what does that matter ?"

Winton answered testily:

" It matters very much to me — the impudence of
it !" His mouth relaxed in a grim little smile: " Ah,
well — there's not much to choose between us so far as
condemning our neighbours goes. ' Charity Stakes —
also ran, Charles Clare Winton, the Church, and Mrs.
Grundy.' "

They opened out to each other more in those few
days at Tunbridge Wells than they had for years.
Whether the process of bathing softened his crust, or
the air that Mr. Wagge found " a bit — er — too irony,
as you might say," had upon Winton the opposite
effect, he certainly relaxed that first duty of man, the
concealment of his spirit, and disclosed his activities
as he never had before — how such and such a person
had been set on his feet, so and so sent out to Canada,
this man's wife helped over her confinement, that
man's daughter started again after a slip. And Gyp's
child-worship of him bloomed anew.

On the last afternoon of their stay, she strolled out
with him through one of the long woods that stretched
away behind their hotel. Excited by the coming end
of her self-infiicted penance, moved by the beauty
among those sunlit trees, she found it difficult to talk.
But Winton, about to lose her, was quite loquacious.
Starting from the sinister change in the racing-world

BEYOND 387

— so plutocratic now, with the American seat, the
increase of book-making owners, and other tragic
occurrences — he launched forth into a jeremiad on
the condition of things in general. Parliament, he
thought, especially now that members were paid, had
lost its self-respect; the towns had eaten up the
country; hunting was threatened; the power and
vulgarity of the press were appalling; women had lost
their heads; and everybody seemed afraid of having
any " breeding." By the time little Gyp was Gyp's
age, they would all be under the thumb of Watch
Committees, live in Garden Cities, and have to account
for erery half-crown they spent, and every half -hour
of their time; the horse, too, would be an extinct
animal, brought out once a year at the lord-mayor's
show. He hoped — the deuce — he might not be alive
to see it. And suddenly he added: " WTiat do you
think happens after death. Gyp ?"

They were sitting on one of those benches that crop
up suddenly in the heart of nature. All around them
briars and bracken were just on the turn ; and the hum
of flies, the vague stir of leaves and life formed but a
single sound. Gyp, gazing into the wood, answered :

" Nothing, Dad. I think we just go back."

" Ah My idea, too !"

Neither of them had ever known what the other
thought about it before !

Gyp murmured:

" La vie est vaine —
Un peu d'amour,
Un peu de haine,
Et puis bonjour !"

Not quite a grunt nor quite a laugh emerged from the
depths of Winton, and, looking up at the sky, he said ;

388 BEYOND

" And what they call * God,' after all, what is it ?
Just the very best you can get out of yourself —
nothing more, so far as I can see. Dash it, you can't
imagine anything more than you can imagine. One
would like to die in the open, though, like \Vhyte-
Melville. But there's one thing that's always puzzled
me, Gyp. All one's life one's tried to have a
single heart. Death comes, and out you go ! Then
why did one love, if there's to be no meeting
after ?"

" Yes; except for that, who would care ? But does
the wanting to meet make it any more likely. Dad ?
The world couldn't go on without love ; perhaps loving
somebody or something with all your heart is all in
itself."

Winton stared; the remark was a little deep.

" Ye-es," he said at last. " I often think the
religious johnnies are saving their money to put on a
horse that'll never run after all. I remember those
Yogi chaps in India. There they sat, and this jolly
world might rot round them for all they cared — they
thought they were going to be all right themselves, in
Kingdom Come. But suppose it doesn't come ?"

Gyp murmured with a little smile :

" Perhaps they were trying to love everything at
once."

" Rum way of showing it. And, hang it, there are
such a lot of things one can't love ! Look at that !"
He pointed upwards. Against the grey bole of a
beech-tree hung a board, on which were the freshly
painted words :

PRIVATE.

TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

BEYOND 389

" That board is stuck up all over this life and the
next. Well, we won't give them the chance to warn
us off, Gyp."

Slipping her hand through his arm, she pressed close
up to him.

" No, Dad; you and I will go off with the wind and
the sun, and the trees and the waters, like Procris in
my picture."

VI

The curious and complicated nature of man in matters
of the heart is not sufficiently conceded by women,
professors, clergymen, judges, and other critics of his
conduct. And, naturally so, since they all have
"vested interests in his simplicity. Even journalists
are in the conspiracy to make him out less wayward
than he is, and dip their pens in epithets, if his heart
diverges inch or ell.

Bryan Summerhay was neither more curious nor
more complicated than those of his own sex who
would condemn him for getting into the midnight
express from Edinburgh with two distinct emotions in
his heart — a regretful aching for the girl, his cousin,
whom he was leaving behind, and a rapturous antici-
pation of the woman whom he was going to rejoin.
How was it possible that he could feel both at once ?
"Against all the rules," women and other moralists
would say. Well, the fact is, a man's heart knows no
rules. And he found it perfectly easy, lying in his
bunk, to dwell on memories of Diana handing him
tea, or glancing up at him, while he turned the leaves
of her songs, with that enticing mockery in her eyes
and about her lips; and yet the next moment to be
swept from head to heel by the longing to feel Gyp's
arms around him, to hear her voice, look in her eyes,
and press his lips on hers. If, instead of being on his
way to rejoin a mistress, he had been going home to
a wife, he would not have felt a particle more of

390

BEYOND 391

spiritual satisfaction, perhaps not so much. He was
returning to the feeUngs and companionship that he
knew were the most deeply satisfying spiritually and
bodily he would ever have. And yet he could ache
a little for that red-haired girl, and this without any
difficulty. How disconcerting ! But, then, truth is.

From that queer seesawing of his feelings, he fell
asleep, dreamed of all things under the sun as men
only can in a train, was awakened by the hollow silence
in some station, slept again for hours, it seemed, and
woke still at the same station, fell into a sound sleep
at last that ended at Willesden in broad daylight.
Dressing hurriedly, he found he had but one emotion
now, one longing — to get to Gyp. Sitting back in his
cab, hands deep-thrust into the pockets of his ulster,
he smiled, enjoying even the smell of the misty London
morning. Where would she be — in the hall of the
hotel waiting, or upstairs still ?

Not in the hall ! And asking for her room, he made
his way to its door.

She was standing in the far corner motionless, deadly
pale, quivering from head to foot; and when he flung
his arms round her, she gave a long sigh, closing her
eyes. With his lips on hers, he could feel her almost
fainting; and he too had no consciousness of anything
but that long kiss.

Next day, they went abroad to a little place not
far from Fecamp, in that Normandy countryside
where all things are large — the people, the beasts, the
unhedged fields, the courtyards of the farms guarded
so squarely by tall trees, the skies, the sea, even the
blackberries large. And Gyp was happy. But twice
there came letters, in that too-well-remembered hand-
writing, which bore a Scottish postmark. A phantom

392 BEYOND

increases in darkness, solidiiies when seen in mist.
Jealousy is rooted not in reason, but in the nature that
feels it — in her nature that loved desperately, felt
proudly. And jealousy flourishes on scepticism. Even
if pride would have let her ask — what good ? She
would not have believed the answers. Of course he
would say — if only out of pity — that he never let his
thoughts rest on another woman. But, after all, it
was only a phantom. There were many hours in
those three weeks when she felt he really loved her,
and so — was happy.

They went back to the Red House at the end of the
first week in October. Little Gyp, home from the sea,
was now an almost accomplished horsewoman. Under
the tutelage of old Pettance, she had been riding
steadily round and round those rough fields by the
linhay which they called " the wild," her firm brown
legs astride of the mouse-coloured pony, her little
brown face, with excited, dark eyes, very erect, her
auburn crop of short curls flopping up and down on
her Uttle straight back. She wanted to be able to
" go out riding " with Grandy and Mum and Baryn.
And the first days were spent by them all more or less
in fulfilling her new desires. Then term began, and
Gyp sat down again to the long sharing of Summerhay
with his other life.

VII

One afternoon at the beginning of November, the old
Scotch terrier, Ossian, lay on the path in the pale sun-
shine. He had lain there all the morning since his
master went up by the early train. Nearly sixteen
years old, he was deaf now and disillusioned, and
every time that Summerhay left him, his eyes seemed
to say: " You will leave me once too often !" The
blandishments of the other nice people about the
house were becoming to him daily less and less a
substitute for that which he felt he had not much
time left to enjoy; nor could he any longer bear a
stranger within the gate. From her window, Gyp
saw him get up and stand with his back ridged, growl-
ing at the postman, and, fearing for the man's calves,
she hastened out.

Among the letters was one in that dreaded hand-
writing marked " Immediate," and forwarded from
his chambers. She took it up, and put it to her nose.
A scent — of what ? Too faint to say. Her thumb
nails sought the edge of the flap on either side. She
laid the letter down. Any other letter, but not that
— she wanted to open it too much. Readdressing it,
she took it out to put with the other letters. And
instantly the thought went through her : ' What a
pity ! If I read it, and there was nothing !' All her
restless, jealous misgivings of months past would then
be set at rest ! She stood, uncertain, with the letter
in her hand. Ah — but if there were something ! She

393

394 BEYOND

would lose at one stroke her faith in him, and her
faith in herself — not only his love but her own self-
respect. She dropped the letter on the table. Could
she not take it up to him herself ? By the three
o'clock slow train, she could get to him soon after five.
She looked at her watch. She would just have time
to walk down. And she ran upstairs. Little Gyp
was sitting on the top stair — her favourite seat —
looking at a picture-book.

"I'm going up to London, darling. Tell Betty I
may be back to-night, or perhaps I may not. Give
me a good kiss."

Little Gyp gave the good kiss, and said :
" Let me see you put your hat on. Mum."
While G3^p was putting on hat and furs, she thought :
'I shan't take a bag; I can always make shift at

Bury Street if " She did not finish the thought,

but the blood came up in her cheeks. " Take care of
Ossy, darling !" She ran down, caught up the letter,
and hastened away to the station. In the train, her
cheeks still burned. Might not this first visit to his
chambers be like her old first visit to the little house
in Chelsea ? She took the letter out. How she hated
that large, scrawly writing for a.'^ the thoughts and
fears it had given her these past months ! If that girl
knew how much anxiety and suffering she had caused,
would she stop writing, stop seeing him ? And Gyp
tried to conjure up her face, that face seen only for
a minute, and the sound of that clipped, clear voice
but once heard — the face and voice of one accustomed
to have her own way. No ! It would only make her
go on all the more. Fair game, against a woman with
no claim — but that of love. Thank heaven she had
not taken him away from any woman — unless — that

BEYOND 395

girl perhaps thought she had ! Ah ! Why, in all
these years, had she never got to know his secrets, so
that she might fight against what threatened her ?
But would she have fought ? To fight for love was
degrading, horrible ! And yet — if one did not ? She
got up and stood at the window of her empty carriage.
There was the river — and there — yes, the very back-
water where he had begged her to come to him for
good. It looked so different, bare and shorn, under
the light grey sky; the willows were all poUed, the
reeds cut down. And a line from one of his favourite
sonnets came into her mind:

"Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang."

Ah, well ! Time enough to face things when they
came. She would only think of seeing him ! And
she put the letter back to bum what hole it liked in
the pocket of her fur coat.

The train was late ; it was past five, already growing
dark, when she reached Paddington and took a cab
to the Temple. Strange to be going there for the first
time — not even to know exactly where Harcourt
Buildings were. At Temple Lane, she stopped the
cab and walked down that narrow, ill-lighted, busy
channel into the heart of the Great Law.

" Up those stone steps, miss; along the railin',
second doorway." Gyp came to the second doorway
and in the doubtful light scrutinized the names.
" Summerhay — second floor." She began to climb
the stairs. Her heart beat fast. What would he say ?
How greet her ? Was it not absurd, dangerous, to
have come ? He would be having a consultation
perhaps. There would be a clerk or someone to
beard, and what name could she give ? On the first

396 BEYOND

floor she paused, took out a blank card, and pencilled
on it :

" Can I see you a minute ? — G."

Then, taking a long breath to quiet her heart, she
went on up. There was the name, and there the
door. She rang — no one came; listened — could hear
no sound. All looked so massive and bleak and dim
— the iron railings, stone stairs, bare walls, oak door.
She rang again. What should she do ? Leave the
letter ? Not see him after all — her little romance all
come to naught — just a chilly visit to Bury Street,
where perhaps there would be no one but Mrs. Markey,
for her father, she knew, was at Mildenham, hunting,
and would not be up till Sunday ! And she thought :
' I'll leave the letter, go back to the Strand, have some
tea, and try again.'

She took out the letter, with a sort of prayer pushed
it through the slit of the door, heard it fall into its
wire cage; then slowly descended the stairs to the
outer passage into Temple Lane. It was thronged
with men and boys, at the end of the day's work.
But when she had nearly reached the Strand, a woman's
figure caught her eye. She was walking with a man
on the far side; their faces were turned toward each
other. Gyp heard their voices, and, faint, dizzy, stood
looking back after them. They passed under a lamp ;
the light glinted on the woman's hair, on a trick of
Summerhay's, the lift of one shoulder, when he was
denying something; she heard his voice, high-pitched.
She watched them cross, mount the stone steps she
had just come down, pass along the railed stone passage,
enter the doorway, disappear. And such horror
seized on her that she could hardly walk away.

BEYOND 397

" Oh no ! Oh no ! Oh no !" So it went in her
mind — a kind of moaning, like that of a cold, rainy
wind through dripping trees. What did it mean ?
Oh, what did it mean ? In this miserable tumult, the
only thought that did not come to her was that of
going back to his chambers. She hurried away. It
was a wonder she was not run over, for she had no
notion what she was doing, where going, and crossed
the streets without the least attention to traffic. She
came to Trafalgar Square, and stood leaning against its
parapet in front of the National Gallery. Here she
had her first coherent thought: So that was why his
chambers had been empty ! No clerk — no one ! That
they might be alone. Alone, where she had dreamed
of being alone with him ! And only that morning he
had kissed her and said, " Good-bye, treasure !" A
dreadful little laugh got caught in her throat, confused
with a sob. Why — why had she a heart ? Down
there, against the plinth of one of the lions, a young
man leaned, with his arms round a girl, pressing her
to him. Gyp turned away from the sight and resumed
her miserable wandering. She went up Bury Street.
No light ; not any sign of life ! It did not matter ; she
could not have gone in, could not stay still, must
walk ! She put up her veil to get more air, feeling
choked.

The trees of the Green Park, under which she was
passing now, had still a few leaves, and they gleamed
in the lamplight copper-coloured as that girl's hair.
All sorts of torturing visions came to her. Those
empty chambers ! She had seen one little minute of
their intimacy. A hundred kisses might have passed
between them — a thousand words of love ! And he
would lie to her. Already he had acted a lie ! She

398 BEYOND

had not deserved that. And this sense of the in-
justice done her was the first rehef she felt — this
definite emotion of a mind clouded by sheer misery.
She had not deserved that he should conceal things
from her. She had not had one thought or look for
any man but him since that night down by the sea,
when he came to her across the garden in the moon-
light— not one thought — and never would ! Poor
relief enough ! She was in Hyde Park now, wandering
along a pathway which cut diagonally across the grass.
And with more resolution, more purpose, she began
searching her memory for signs, proofs of when he had
changed to her. She could not find them. He had
not changed in his ways to her ; not at all. Could one
act love, then ? Act passion, or — horrible thought ! —
when he kissed her nowadays, was he thinking of that
girl?

She heard the rustling of leaves behind. A youth
was following her along the path, some ravening
youth, whose ungoverned breathing had a kind of
pathos in it. Heaven ! WTiat irony ! She was too
miserable to care, hardly even knew when, in the
main path again, she was free from his pursuit. Love !
Why had it such possession ©f her, that a little thing
— yes, a little thing — only the sight of him with
another, should make her suffer so ? She came out
on the other side of the park. What should she do ?
Crawl home, creep into her hole, and lie there stricken !
At Paddington she found a train just starting and got
in. There were other people in the carriage, business
men from the city, lawyers, from that — place where
she had been. And she was glad of their company,
glad of the crackle of evening papers and stolid faces
giving her looks of stolid interest from behind them,

BEYOND 399

glad to have to keep her mask on, afraid of the violence
of her emotion. But one by one they got out, to their
cars or their constitutionals, and she was left alone
to gaze at darkness and the deserted river just visible
in the light of a moon smothered behind the sou'-
westerly sky. And for one wild moment she thought :
' Shall I open the door and step out — one step —
peace !'

She hurried away from the station. It was raining,
and she drew up her veil to feel its freshness on her
hot face. There was just light enough for her to see
the pathway through the beech clump. The wind in
there was sighing, soughing, driving the dark boughs,
tearing off the leaves, little black wet shapes that
came whirling at her face. The wild melancholy in
that swaying wood was too much for Gyp; she ran
thrusting her feet through the deep rustling drifts of
leaves not yet quite drenched. They clung all wet
round her thin stockings, and the rainy wind beat her
forehead. At the edge, she paused for breath, leaning
against the bole of a beech, peering back, where the
wild whirling wind was moaning and tearing off the
leaves. Then, bending her head to the rain, she went
on in the open, trying to prepare herself to show
nothing when she reached home.

She got in and upstairs to her room, without being
seen. If she had possessed any sedative drug she
would have taken it. Anything to secure oblivion
from this aching misery ! Huddling before the freshly
lighted fire, she listened to the wind driving through
the poplars; and once more there came back to her
the words of that song sung by the Scottish girl at
Fiorsen's concert:

" And my heart reft of its own sun,
Deep lies in death-torpor cold and gray."

400 BEYOND

Presently she crept into bed, and at last fell
asleep.

She woke next morning with the joyful thought:
'It's Saturday; he'll be down soon after lunch!'
And then she remembered. Ah, no ! It was too
much ! At the pang of that remembrance, it was as
if a devil entered into her — a devil of stubborn pride,
which grew blacker with every hour of that morning.
After lunch, that she might not be in when he came,
she ordered her mare, and rode up on the downs alone.
The rain had ceased, but the wind still blew strong
from the sou'west, and the sky was torn and driven in
swathes of white and grey to north, south, east, and
west, and puffs of what looked like smoke scurried
across the cloud banks and the glacier-blue rifts
between. The mare had not been out the day before,
and on the springy turf stretched herself in that
thoroughbred gallop which bears a rider up, as it were,
on air, till nothing but the thud of hoofs, the grass
flying by, the beating of the wind in her face betrayed
to Gyp that she was moving. For full two miles they
went without a pull, only stopped at last by the finish
of the level. From there, one could see far — away
over to Wittenham Clumps across the Valley, and to
the high woods above the river in the east — away, in
the south and west, under that strange, torn sky, to
a whole autumn land, of whitish grass, bare fields,
woods of grey and gold and brown, fast being pillaged.
But all that sweep of wind, and sky, freshness of rain,
and distant colour could not drive out of Gyp's heart
the hopeless aching and the devil begotten of it.

VIII

There are men who, however well-off — either in
money or love — must gamble. Their affections may
be deeply rooted, but they cannot repulse fate when
it tantahzes them with a risk.

Summerhay, who loved Gyp, was not tired of her
either physically or mentally, and even felt sure he
would never tire, had yet daUied for months with this
risk which yesterday had come to a head. And now,
taking his seat in the train to return to her, he fell
unquiet; and since he resented disquietude, he tried
defiantly to think of other things, but he was very
unsuccessful. Looking back, it was difficult for him
to tell when the snapping of his defences had begun.
A preference shown by one accustomed to exact
preference is so insidious. The girl, his cousin, was
herself a gambler. He did not respect her as he
respected Gyp ; she did not touch him as Gyp touched
him, was not — no, not half — so deeply attractive; but
she had — confound her ! the power of turning his
head at moments, a queer burning, skin-deep fascina-
tion, and, above all, that most dangerous quahty in a
woman — the lure of an imperious vitality. In
love with life, she made him feel that he was letting
things sUp by. And since to drink deep of life was
his nature, too — what chance had he of escape ?
Far-off cousinhood is a dangerous relationship. Its
familiarity is not great enough to breed contempt,

401 26

402 BEYOND

but sufficient to remove those outer defences to inti-
macy, the conquest of which, in other circumstances,
demands the conscious effort which warns people
whither they are going.

Summerhay had not reahzed the extent of the danger,
but he had known that it existed, especially since
Scotland. It would be interesting — as the historians
say — to speculate on what he would have done, if he
could have foretold what would happen. But he had
certainly not foretold the crisis of yesterday evening.
He had received a telegram from her at lunch-time,
suggesting the fulfilment of a jesting promise, made
in Scotland, that she should have tea with him and
see his chambers — a small and harmless matter. Only,
why had he dismissed his clerk so early ? That is
the worst of gamblers — they will put a polish on the
risks they run. He had not reckoned, perhaps, that
she would look so pretty, lying back in his big Oxford
chair, with furs thrown open so that her white throat
showed, her hair gleaming, a smile coming and going
on her lips; her white hand, with polished nails, hold-
ing that cigarette; her brown eyes, so unlike Gyp's,
fixed on him; her slim foot with high instep thrust
forward in transparent stocking. Not reckoned that,
when he bent to take her cup, she would put out her
hands, draw his head down, press her lips to his, and
say: " Now you know !" His head had gone round,
still went round, thinking of it ! That was all. A
little matter — except that, in an hour, he would be
meeting the eyes of one he loved much more. And
yet — the poison was in his blood ; a kiss so cut short —
by what — what counter impulse ? — leaving him gazing
at her without a sound, inhaling that scent of hers —
something like a pine wood's scent, only sweeter, while

BEYOND 403

she gathered up her gloves, fastened her furs, as if it
had been he, not she, who had snatched that kiss.
But her hand had pressed his arm against her as they
went down the stairs. And getting into her cab at
the Temple Station, she had looked back at him with
a little half-mocking smile of challenge and comrade-
ship and promise. The link would be hard to break
— even if he wanted to. And yet nothing would come
of it ! Heavens, no ! He had never though-t !
Marriage ! Impossible ! Anything else — even more
impossible ! When he got back to his chambers, he
had found in the box the letter, which her telegram
had repeated, readdressed by Gyp from the Red
House. And a faint uneasiness at its having gone
down there passed through him. He spent a restless
evening at the club, playing cards and losing ; sat up
late in his chambers over a case ; had a hard morning's
work, and only now that he was nearing Gyp, realized
how utterly he had lost the straightforward simplicity
of things.

When he reached the house and found that she had
gone out riding alone, his uneasiness increased. Why
had she not waited as usual for him to ride with her ?
And he paced up and down the garden, where the
wind was melancholy in the boughs of the walnut-tree
that had lost all its leaves. Little Gyp was out for
her walk, and only poor old Ossy kept him company.
Had she not expected him by the usual train ? He
would go and try to find out. He changed and went
to the stables. Old Pettance was sitting on a corn-
bin, examining an aged Ruff's Guide, which contained
records of his long-past glory, scored under by a
pencil: "June Stakes: Agility. E. Pettance 3rd."
" Tidport Selling H'Cap: Dorothea, E. Pettance, 0."

404 BEYOND

" Salisbury Cup : Also ran Plum Pudding, E. Pettance,"
with other triumphs. He got up, saying:

" Good-afternoon, sir; windy afternoon, sir. The
mistress has been gone out over two hours, sir. She
wouldn't take me with 'er."

" Hurry up, then, and saddle Hotspur."

" Yes, sir; very good, sir."

Over two hours ! He went up on to the downs,
by the way they generally came home, and for an
hour he rode, keeping a sharp lookout for any sign of
her. No use; and he turned home, hot and uneasy.
On the hall table were her riding-whip and gloves.
His heart cleared, and he ran upstairs. She was doing
her hair and turned her head sharply as he entered.
Hurrying across the room he had the absurd feeling
that she was standing at bay. She drew back, bent
her face away from him, and said :

" No ! Don't pretend ! Anything's better than
pretence !"

He had never seen her look or speak like that — her
face so hard, her eyes so stabbing ! And he recoiled
dumbfounded.

" What's the matter. Gyp ?"

" Nothing. Only — don't pretend !" And, turning
to the glass, she went on twisting and coiling up her
hair.

She looked lovely, flushed from her ride in the wind,
and he had a longing to seize her in his arms. But
her face stopped him. With fear and a sort of anger,
he said:

" You might explain, I think."

An evil little smile crossed her face.

" You can do that. I am in the dark."

" I don't in the least understand what you mean."

BEYOND 405

" Don't you ?" There was something deadly in her
utter disregard of him, while her fingers moved swiftly
about her dark, shining hair — something so appallingly
sudden in this hostility that Summerhay felt a peculiar
sensation in his head, as if he must knock it against
something. He sat down on the side of the bed.
Was it that letter ? But how ? It had not been
opened. He said:

" What on earth has happened, Gyp, since I went
up yesterday ? Speak out, and don't keep me like
this !"

She turned and looked at him.

" Don't pretend that you're upset because you can't
kiss me ! Don't be false, Bryan ! You know it's
been pretence for months."

Summerhay's voice grew high.

" I think you've gone mad. I don't know what
you mean."

" Oh, yes, you do. Did you get a letter yesterday
marked ' Immediate ' ?"

Ah ! So it was that ! To meet the definite, he
hardened, and said stubbornly:

" Yes; from Diana Leyton. Do you object ?"

" No; only, how do you think it got back to you
from here so quickly ? ' '

He said duUy :

" I don't know. By post, I suppose."

"No; I put it in your letter-box myself — at half-
past five."

Summerhay's mind was trained to quickness, and
the full significance of those words came home to him
at once. He stared at her fixedly.

" I suppose you saw us, then."

" Yes."

4o6 BEYOND

He got up, made a helpless movement, and said:

" Oh, Gyp, don't ! Don't be so hard ! I swear
by "

Gyp gave a little laugh, turned her back, and went
on coiling at her hair. And again that horrid feeling
that he must knock his head against something rose in
Summerhay. He said helplessly:

" I only gave her tea. Why not ? She's my
cousin. It's nothing ! Why should you think the
worst of me ? She asked to see my chambers. Why
not ? I couldn't refuse."

" Your empty chambers ? Don't, Bryan — it's piti-
ful! I can't bear to hear you."

At that lash of the whip, Summerhay turned and
said:

" It pleases you to think the worst, then ?"

Gyp stopped the movement of her fingers and
looked round at him.

" I've always told you you were perfectly free.
Do you think I haven't felt it going on for months ?
There comes a moment when pride revolts — that's all.
Don't lie to me, please !"

" I am not in the habit of lying." But still he did
not go. That awful feeling of encirclement, of a net
round him, through which he could not break — a net
which he dimly perceived even in his resentment to
have been spun by himself, by that cursed intimacy,
kept from her all to no purpose — beset him more closely
every minute. Could he not make her see the truth,
that it was only her he really loved ? And he said :

" Gyp, I swear to you there's nothing but one kiss,
and that was not "

A shudder went through her from head to foot;
she cried out:

BEYOND 407

" Oh, please go away !"

He went up to her, put his hands on her shoulders,
and said:

" It's only you I really love. I swear it ! Why
don't you believe me ? You must believe me. You
can't be so wicked as not to. It's foolish — foolish !

Think of our life — think of our love — think of all "

Her face was frozen ; he loosened his grasp of her, and
muttered: " Oh, your pride is awful !"

" Yes, it's all I've got. Lucky for you I have it.
You can go to her when you like."

"Go to her ! It's absurd — I couldn't If you

wish, I'll never see her again."

She turned away to the glass.

" Oh, don't ! What is the use ?"

Nothing is harder for one whom life has always
spoiled than to find his best and deepest feelings
disbelieved in. At that moment, Summerhay meant
absolutely what he said. The girl was nothing to
him ! If she was pursuing him, how could he help it ?
And he could not make Gyp believe it ! How awful !
How truly terrible ! How unjust and unreasonable
of her ! And why ? What had he done that she
should be so unbelieving — should think him such a
shallow scoundrel ? Could he help the girl's kissing
him ? Help her being fond of him ? Help having a
man's nature ? Unreasonable, unjust, ungenerous !
And giving her a furious look, he went out.

He went down to his study, flung himself on the
sofa and turned his face to the wall. Devilish ! But
he had not been there five minutes before his anger
seemed childish and evaporated into the chill of deadly
and insistent fear. He was perceiving himself up
against much more than a mere incident, up against

4o8 BEYOND

her nature — its pride and scepticism — yes — and the
very depth and singleness of her love. While she
wanted nothing but him, he wanted and took so much
else. He perceived this but dimly, as part of that
feeling that he could not break through, of the irritable
longing to put his head down and butt his way out,
no matter what the obstacles. What was coming ?
How long was this state of things to last ? He got up
and began to pace the room, his hands clasped behind
him, his head thrown back; and every now and then
he shook that head, trying to free it from this feeling
of being held in chancery. And then Diana ! He
had said he would not see her again. But was that
possible ? After that kiss — after that last look back
at him ! How ? What could he say — do ? How
break so suddenly ? Then, at memory of Gyp's face,
he shivered. Ah, how wretched it all was ! There
must be some way out — some way ! Surely some way
out ! For when first, in the wood of life, fatality
halts, turns her dim dark form among the trees, shows
her pale cheek and those black eyes of hers, shows
with awful swiftness her strange reality — men would
be fools indeed who admitted that they saw her !

IX

Gyp stayed in her room doing little things — as a
woman will when she is particularly wretched —
sewing pale ribbons into her garments, polishing her
rings. And the devil that had entered into her when
she woke that morning, having had his fling, slunk
away, leaving the old bewildered misery. She had
stabbed her lover with words and looks, felt pleasure
in stabbing, and now was bitterly sad. What use —
what satisfaction ? How by vengeful prickings cure
the deep wound, disperse the canker in her life ? How
heal herself by hurting him whom she loved so ? If
he came up again now and made but a sign, she would
throw herself into his arms. But hours passed, and
he did not come, and she did not go down — too truly
miserable. It grew dark, but she did not draw the
curtains; the sight of the windy moonlit garden and
the leaves driving across brought a melancholy dis-
traction. Little Gyp came in and prattled. There
was a tree blown down, and she had chmbed on it;
they had picked up two baskets of acorns, and the
pigs had been so greedy; and she had been blown
away, so that Betty had had to run after her. And
Baryn was walking in the study; he was so busy he
had only given her one kiss.

When she was gone, Gyp opened the window and
let the wind full into her face. If only it would blow
out of her heart this sickening sense that all was over,
no matter how he might pretend to love her out of

409

410 BEYOND

pity ! In a nature like hers, so doubting and self-
distrustful, confidence, once shaken to the roots,
could never be restored. A proud nature that went
all lengths in love could never be content with a half-
love. She had been born too doubting, proud, and
jealous, yet made to love too utterlv- She — who had
been afraid of love, and when it came had fought till
it swept her away; who, since then, had lived for love
and nothing else, who gave all, and wanted all — knew
for certain and for ever that she could not have all.

It was " nothing," he had said ! Nothing ! That
for months he had been thinking at least a little of
another woman besides herself. She believed what
he had told her, that there had been no more than
a kiss — but was it nothing that they had reached that
kiss ? This girl — this cousin — who held all the cards,
had everything on her side — the world, family influ-
ence, security of life; yes, and more, so terribly much
more — a man's longing for the young and unawakened.
This girl he could marry ! It was this thought which
haunted her. A mere momentary outbreak of man's
natural wildness she could forgive and forget — oh, yes !
It was the feeling that it was a girl, his own cousin,
besieging him, dragging him away, that was so dread-
ful. Ah, how horrible it was — ^how horrible ! How,
in decent pride, keep him from her, fetter him ?

She heard him come up to his dressing-room, and
while he was still there, stole out and down. Life
must go on, the servants be hoodwinked, and so
forth. She went to the piano and played, turning
the dagger in her heart, or hoping forlornly that music
might work some miracle. He came in presently and
stood by the fire, silent.

Dinner, with the talk needful to blinding the house-

BEYOND 411

hold — for what is more revolting than giving away the
sufferings of the heart ? — was almost unendurable,
and directly it was over, they went, he to his study,
she back to the piano. There she sat, ready to strike
the notes if anyone came in; and tears fell on the
hands that rested in her lap. With all her soul she
longed to go and clasp him in her arms and cry: " I
don't care — I don't care ! Do what you like — go to
her — if only you'll love me a little !" And yet to
love — a little ! Was it possible ? Not to her !

In sheer misery she went upstairs and to bed. She
heard him come up and go into his dressing-room —
and, at last, in the firelight saw him kneeling by her.

" Gyp !"

She raised herself and threw her arms round him.
Such an embrace a drowning woman might have
given. Pride and all were abandoned in an effort to
feel him close once more, to recover the irrecoverable
past. For a long time she listened to his pleading,
explanations, justifications, his protestations of un-
dying love — ^st range to her and painful, yet so boyish
and pathetic. She soothed him, clasping his head to
her breast, gazing out at the flickering fire. In that
hour, she rose to a height above herself. What
happened to her own heart did not matter so long as
he was happy, and had all that he wanted with her
and away from her — if need be, always away from
her.

But, when he had gone to sleep, a terrible time
began; for in the small hours, when things are at
their worst, she could not keep back her weeping,
though she smothered it into the pillow. It woke
him, and all began again; the burden of her cry:
" It's gone !" the burden of his: " It's not — can't you

412 BEYOND

see it isn't ?" Till, at last, that awful feeling that
he must knock his head against the wall made him leap
up and tramp up and down hke a beast in a cage —
the cage of the impossible. For, as in aU human
tragedies, both were right according to their natures.
She gave him all herself, wanted aU in return, and
could not have it. He wanted her, the rest besides,
and no complaining, and could not have it. He did
not admit impossibility; she did.

At last came another of those pitying lulls till he
went to sleep in her arms. Long she lay awake,
staring at the darkness, admitting despair, trying to
find how to bear it, not succeeding. Impossible to
cut his other life awa}^ from him — impossible that,
while he lived it, this girl should not be tugging him
away from her. Impossible to watch and question
him. Impossible to live dumb and blind, accepting
the crumbs left over, showing nothing. Would it have
been better if they had been married ? But then it
would have been the same — reversed; perhaps worse !
The roots were so much deeper than that. He was
not single-hearted and she was. In spite of aU that
he said, she knew he didn't reaUy want to give up that
girl. How could he ? Even if the girl would let him
go ! And slowly there formed within her a gruesome
little plan to test him. Then, ever so gently with-
drawing her arms, she turned over and slept, exhausted.

Next morning, remorselessly carrying out that plan,
she forced herself to smile and talk as if nothing had
happened, watching the rehef in his face, his obvious
deUght at the change, with a fearful aching in her
heart. She waited till he was ready to go down, and
then, stiU smiling, said:

" Forget all about yesterday, darling. Promise me

BEYOND 413

you won't let it make any difference. You must keep
up your friendship; you mustn't lose anything. I
shan't mind; I shall be quite happy." He knelt
down and leaned his forehead against her waist.
And, stroking his hair, she repeated: " I shall only be
happy if you take everything that comes your way.
I shan't mind a bit." And she watched his face that
had lost its trouble.

" Do you really mean that ?"

"Yes; really!"

" Then you do see that it's nothing, never has been
anything — compared with you — never !"

He had accepted her crucifixion. A black wave
surged into her heart.

"It would be so difficult and awkward for you to
give up that intimacy. It would hurt your cousin so."

She saw the relief deepen in his face and suddenly
laughed. He got up from his knees and stared at her.

" Oh, Gyp, for God's sake don't begin again !"

But she went on laughing ; then, with a sob, turned
away and buried her face in her hands. To all his
prayers and kisses she answered nothing, and breaking
away from him, she rushed toward the door. A wild
thought possessed her. WTiy go on ? If she were
dead, it would be all right for him, quiet — peaceful,
quiet — for them all ! But he had thrown himself in
the way.

" ^yP' ^or heaven's sake ! I'll give her up — of
course I'll give her up. Do — do — be reasonable ! I
don't care a finger-snap for her compared with you !"

And presently there came another of those lulls
that both were beginning to know were mere pauses
of exhaustion. They were priceless all the same, for
the heart cannot go on feeling at that rate.

414 BEYOND

It was Sunday morning, the church-bells ringing
no wind, a lull in the sou 'westerly gale — one of those
calms that fall in the night and last, as a rule, twelve
or fifteen hours, and the garden all strewn with leaves
of every hue, from green spotted with yellow to deep
copper.

Summerhay was afraid; he kept with her all the
morning, making all sorts of little things to do in her
company. But he gradually lost his fear, she seemed
so calm now, and his was a nature that bore trouble
badly, ever impatient to shake it off. And then,
after lunch, the spirit-storm beat up again, with a
swiftness that showed once more how deceptive were
those lulls, how fearfully deep and lasting the wound.
He had simply asked her whether he should try to
match something for her when he went up, to-morrow.
She was silent a moment, then answered :

"Oh, no, thanks; you'll have other things to do;
people to see !"

The tone of her voice, the expression on her face
showed him, with a fresh force of revelation, what
paralysis had fallen on his life. If he could not re-
convince her of his love, he would be in perpetual fear
— that he might come back and find her gone, fear
that she might even do something terrible to herself.
He looked at her with a sort of horror, and, without
a word, went out of the room. The feeling that he
must hit his head against something was on him once
more, and once more he sought to get rid of it by
tramping up and down. Great God ! Such a little
thing, such fearful consequences ! All her balance,
her sanity almost, destroyed. Was what he had done
so very dreadful ? He could not help Diana loving
him !

BEYOND 415

In the night, Gyp had said: " You are cruel. Do
you think there is any man in the world that I wouldn't
hate the sight of if I knew that even to see him gave you
a moment's pain ?" It was true — he felt it was true.
But one couldn't hate a girl simply because she loved
you; at least he couldn't — not even to save Gyp pain.
That was not reasonable, not possible. But did that
difference between a man and a woman necessarily
mean that Gyp loved him so much more than he
loved her ? Could she not see things in proportion ?
See that a man might want, did want, other friend-
ships, even passing moments of passion, and yet could
love her just the same ? She thought him cruel,
called him cruel — what for ? Because he had kissed
a girl who had kissed him; because he liked talking
to her, and — yes, might even lose his head with her.
But cruel ! He was not ! Gyp would always be iirst
with him. He must make her see — but how ? Give
up everything ? Give up — Diana ? (Truth is so
funny — it will out even in a man's thoughts !) Well,
and he could ! His feeling was not deep — that was
God's truth ! But it would be difficult, awkward,
brutal to cut her suddenly, completely ! It could be
done, though, sooner than that Gyp should think him
cruel to her. It could be — should be done !

Only, would it be any use ? Would she believe ?
Would she not always now be suspecting him when
he was away from her, whatever he did ? Must he
then sit down here in inactivity ? And a gust of anger
with her swept him. Why should she treat him as if
he were utterly unreliable ? Or — was he ? He stood
still. When Diana had put her arms round his neck,
he could no more have resisted answering her kiss
than he could now fly through the window and over

4i6 BEYOND

those poplar trees. But he was not a blackguard, not
cruel, not a liar ! How could he have helped it all ?
The only way would have been never to have answered
the girl's first letter, nearly a year ago. How could
he foresee ? And, since then, all so gradual, and
nothing, really, or almost nothing. Again the surge
of anger swelled his heart. She must have read the
letter which had been under that cursed bust of old
Voltaire all those months ago. The poison had been
working ever since ! And in sudden fury at that
miserable mischance, he drove his fist into the bronze
face. The bust fell over, and Summerhay looked
stupidly at his bruised hand. A silly thing to do !
But it had quenched his anger. He only saw Gyp's
face now — so pitifully unhappy. Poor darhng ! WTiat
could he do ? K only she would beheve ! And again
he had the sickening conviction that whatever he did
would be of no avail. He could never get back, was
only at the beginning, of a trouble that had no end.
And, Uke a rat in a cage, his mind tried to rush out
of this entanglement now at one end, now at the other.
Ah, well ! WTiy bruise your head against walls ? If
it was hopeless — let it go ! And, shrugging his
shoulders, he went out to the stables, and told old
Pettance to saddle Hotspur. While he stood there
waiting, he thought : ' Shall I ask her to come ?' But
he could not stand another bout of misery — must
have rest ! And mounting, he rode up towards the
downs.

Hotspur, the sixteen-hand brown horse, with not a
speck of white, that Gyp had ridden hunting the day
she first saw Summerhay, was nine years old now.
His master's two faults as a horseman — a habit of
thrusting, and not too light hands — had encouraged

BEYOND 417

his rather hard mouth, and something had happened
in the stables to-day to put him into a queer temper;
or perhaps he felt — as horses will — the disturbance
raging within his rider. At any rate, he gave an ex-
hibition of his worst quahties, and Summerhay derived
perverse pleasure from that waywardness. He rode
a good hour up there; then, hot, with aching arms —
for the brute was pulhng like the devil ! — he made his
way back toward home and entered what little Gyp
called " the wild," those two rough sedgy fields with
the linhay in the corner where they joined. There
was a gap in the hedge-growth of the bank between
them, and at this he put Hotspur at speed. The horse
went over like a bird; and for the first time since
Diana's kiss Summerhay felt a moment's joy. He
turned him round and sent him at it again, and again
Hotspur cleared it beautifully. But the animal's
blood was up now. Summerhay could hardly hold
him. Muttering: "Oh, you hrute, don't pull!" he
jagged the horse's mouth. There darted into his mind
Gyp's word: " Cruel !" And, viciously, in one of those
queer nerve-crises that beset us all, he struck the
pulhng horse.

They were cantering toward the corner where the
fields joined, and suddenly he was aware that he
could no more hold the beast than if a steam-engine
had been under him. Straight at the linhay Hotspur
dashed, and Summerhay thought : ' My God ! He'll
kill himself !' 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 ! Tom
backward out of the saddle, he fell on his back in a

27

4i8 BEYOND

pool of leaves and mud. And the horse, sUthering
round the linhay walls, checked in his own length,
unhurt, snorting, frightened, came out, turning his wild
eyes on his master, who never stirred, then trotted
back into the field, throwing up his head.

X

When, at her words, Summerhay went out of the
room, Gyp's heart sank. All the morning she had
tried so hard to keep back her despairing jealousy,
and now at the first reminder had broken down again.
It was beyond her strength ! To live day after day
knowing that he, up in London, was either seeing
that girl or painfully abstaining from seeing her !
And then, when he returned, to be to him just what
she had been, to show nothing — would it ever be
possible ? Hardest to bear was what seemed to her
the falsity of his words, maintaining that he still
really loved her. If he did, how could he hesitate one
second ? Would not the very thought of the girl be
abhorrent to him ? He would have shown that, not
merely said it among other wild things. Words were
no use when they contradicted action. She, who
loved with every bit of her, could not grasp that a
man can really love and want one woman and yet,
at the same time, be attracted by another.

That sudden fearful impulse of the morning to make
away with herself and end it for them both recurred so
vaguely that it hardly counted in her struggles; the
conflict centred now round the question whether life
would be less utterly miserable if she withdrew from
him and went back to Mildenham. Life without him ?
That was impossible ! Life with him ? Just as im-
possible, it seemed ! There comes a point of mental
anguish when the alternatives between which one

419

420 BEYOND

swings, equally hopeless, become each so monstrous
that the mind does not really work at all, but rushes
helplessly from one to the other, no longer trying to
decide, waiting on fate. So in Gyp that Sunday
afternoon, doing little things all the time — mending
a hole in one of his gloves, brushing and applpng
ointment to old Ossy, sorting bills and letters.

At five o'clock, knowing little Gyp must soon be
back from her walk, and feeling unable to take part
in gaiety, she went up and put on her hat. She turned
from contemplation of her face with disgust. Since
it was no longer the only face for him, what was the
use of beauty ? She slipped out by the side gate
and went down toward the river. The lull was over;
the south-WTst wind had begun sighing through the
trees again, and gorgeous clouds were piled up from
the horizon into the pale blue. She stood by the river
watching its grey stream, edged by a scum of torn-off
twigs and floating leaves, watched the wind shivering
through the spoiled plume-branches of the willows.
And, standing there, she had a sudden longing for her
father; he alone could help her — just a little — by his
quietness, and his love, by his mere presence.

She turned away and went up the lane again, avoid-
ing the inn and the riverside houses, walking slowly,
her head down. And a thought came, her first hopeful
thought. Could they not travel — go round the
world ? Would he give up his work for that — that
chance to break the spell ? Dared she propose it ?
But would even that be anything more than a putting-
off ? If she was not enough for him now, would she
not be still less, if his work were cut away ? Still, it
was a gleam, a gleam in the blackness. She came in
at the far end of the fields they called " the wild."

J

BEYOND 421

A rose-leaf hue tinged the white cloud-banks, which
towered away to the east beyond the river; and
peeping over that mountain-top was the moon, fleecy
and unsubstantial in the flax-blue sky. It was one
of nature's moments of wild colour. The oak-trees
above the hedgerows had not lost their leaves, and
in the darting, rain-washed light from the setting sun,
had a sheen of old gold with heart of ivy-green; the
half-stripped beeches flamed with copper; the russet
tufts of the ash-trees glowed. And past Gyp, a single
leaf blown off, went soaring, turning over and over,
going up on the rising wind, up — up, higher — higher
into the sky, till it was lost — away.

The rain had drenched the long grass, and she turned
back. At the gate beside the linhay, a horse was
standing. It whinnied. Hotspur, saddled, bridled,
with no rider ! Why ? Where — then ? Hastily she
undid the latch, ran through, and saw Summerhay
lying in the mud — on his back, with eyes wide-open,
his forehead and hair all blood. Some leaves had
dropped on him. God ! O God ! His eyes had no
sight, his lips no breath; his heart did not beat; the
leaves had dropped even on his face — in the blood on
his poor head. Gyp raised him — stiffened, cold as
ice ! She gave one cry, and fell, embracing his dead,
stiffened body with all her strength, kissing his lips,
his eyes, his broken forehead; clasping, warming him,
trying to pass life into him; till, at last, she, too, lay
still, her lips on his cold lips, her body on his cold
body in the mud and the fallen leaves, while the wind
crept and rustled in the ivy, and went over with the
scent of rain. Close by, the horse, uneasy, put his head
down and sniffed at her, then, backing away, neighed,
and broke into a wild gallop round the field. . . .

422 BEYOND

Old Pettance, waiting for Summerhay's return to
stable-up for the night, heard that distant neigh and
went to the garden gate, screwing up his little eyes
against the sunset. He could see a loose horse gal-
loping down there in " the wild," where no horse
should be, and thinking: 'There now; that artful
devil's broke away from the guv'nor ! Now 111 'ave
to ketch 'im !' he went back, got some oats, and set
forth at the best gait of his stiff- jointed feet. The
old horseman characteristically did not think of
accidents. The guv'nor had got off, no doubt, to
unhitch that heavy gate — the one you had to lift.
That 'orse — he was a masterpiece of mischief ! His
difference with the animal still rankled in a mind that
did not easily forgive.

Half an hour later, he entered the lighted kitchen
shaking and gasping, tears rolling down his furrowed
cheeks into the corners of his gargoyle's mouth, and
panted out:

" O, my Gord ! Fetch the farmer — fetch an 'urdle !
O my Gord ! Betty, you and cook — I can't get 'er
off him. She don't speak. I felt her — all cold.
Come on, you sluts — quick ! O my Gord ! The poor
guv'nor ! That 'orse must 'a' galloped into the linhay
and killed him. I've see'd the marks on the devil's
shoulder where he rubbed it scrapin' round the wall.
Come on — come on ! Fetch an 'urdle or she'll die
there on him in the mud. Put the child to bed and
get the doctor, and send a wire to London, to the
major, to come sharp. Oh, blarst you all — keep your
'eads ! What's the good o' howlin' and blubberin' !"

In the whispering corner of those fields, light from
a lantern and the moon fell on the old stone linhay,
on the ivy and the broken gate, on the mud, the golden

BEYOND 423

leaves, and the two quiet bodies clasped together.
Gyp's consciousness had flown; there seemed no
difference between them. And presently, over the
rushy grass, a procession moved back in the wind and
the moonlight — two hurdles, two men carrying one,
two women and a man the other, and, behind, old
Pettance and the horse.

XI

When Gyp recovered a consciousness, whose flight
had been mercifully renewed with morphia, she was
in her bed, and her first drowsy movement was toward
her mate. With eyes still closed, she turned, as she
was wont, and put out her hand to touch him before
she dozed off again. There was no warmth, no sub-
stance; through her mind, still away in the mists of
morphia, the thoughts passed vague and lonely: ' Ah,
yes, in London !' And she turned on her back.
London ! Something — something up there ! She
opened her eyes. So the fire had kept in all night !
Someone was in a chair there, or — was she dreaming !
And suddenly, without knowing why, she began
breathing hurriedly in little half-sobbing gasps. The
figure moved, turned her face in the firelight. Betty !
Gyp closed her eyes. An icy sweat had broken out all
over her. A dream ! In a whisper, she said:

" Betty !"

The muffled answer came.

" Yes, my darlin'."

" What is it ?"

No answer; then a half-choked, " Don't 'ee think —
— don't 'ee think ! Your Daddy'U be here directly,
my sweetie !"

Gyp's eyes, wide open, passed from the firelight and
that rocking figure to the little chink of light that was
hardly light as yet, coming in at one corner of the
curtain. She was remembering. Her tongue stole

424

BEYOND 425

out and passed over her lips; beneath the bedclothes
she folded both her hands tight across her heart.
Then she was not dead with him — not dead ! Not

gone back with him into the ground — not And

suddenly there flickered in her a flame of maniacal
hatred. They were keeping her alive ! A writhing
smile forced its way up on to her parched lips.

" Betty, I'm so thirsty — so thirsty. Get me a cup
of tea."

The stout form heaved itself from the chair and
came toward the bed.

" Yes, my lovey, at once. It'll do you good. That's
a brave girl."

" Yes."

The moment the door clicked to, Gyp sprang up.
Her veins throbbed; her whole soul was alive with
cunning. She ran to the wardrobe, seized her long
fur coat, slipped her bare feet into her slippers, wound
a piece of lace round her head, and opened the door.
All dark and quiet ! Holding her breath, stifling the
sound of her feet, she gUded down the stairs, shpped
back the chain of the front door, opened it, and fled.
Like a shadow she passed across the grass, out of the
garden gate, down the road under the black dripping
trees. The beginning of light was mixing its grey hue
into the darkness; she could just see her feet among
the puddles on the road. She heard the grinding
and whirring of a motor-car on its top gear approach-
ing up the hill, and cowered away against the hedge.
Its light came searching along, picking out with a
mysterious momentary brightness the bushes and
tree-trunks, making the wet road gleam. Gyp saw
the chauffeur turn his head back at her, then the
car's body passed up into darkness, and its tail-light

426 BEYOND

was all that was left to see. Perhaps that car was
going to the Red House with her father, the doctor,
somebody, helping to keep her alive ! The maniacal
hate flared up in her again; she flew on. The Ught
grew; a man with a dog came out of a gate she had
passed, and called " Hallo !" She did not turn her
head. She had lost her slippers, and ran with bare
feet, unconscious of stones, or the tom-off branches
strewing the road, making for the lane that ran right
down to the river, a little to the left of the inn, the
lane of yesterday, where the bank was free.

She turned into the lane; dimly, a hundred or more
yards away, she could see the willows, the width of
lighter grey that was the river. The river — " Away,
my rolling rivei !" — the river — and the happiest hours
of all her hfe ! If he were anywhere, she would find
him there, where he had sung, and lain with his head
on her breast, and swum and splashed about her;
where she had dreamed, and seen beauty, and loved
him so ! She reached the bank. Cold and grey and
silent, swifter than yesterday, the stream was flowing
by, its dim far shore brightening slowly in the first
break of dawn. And Gyp stood motionless, drawing
her breath in gasps after her long run; her knees
trembled; gave way. She sat down on the wet grass,
clasping her arms round her drawn-up legs, rocking
herself to and fro, and her loosened hair fell over her
face. The blood beat in her ears; her heart felt
suffocated; all her body seemed on fire, yet numb.
She sat, moving her head up and down — as the head
of one moves that is gasping her last — waiting for
breath — breath and strength to let go life, to slip
down into the grey water. And that queer apartness
from self, which is the property of fever, came on her.

BEYOND 427

so that she seemed to see herself sitting there, waiting,
and thought : ' I shall see myself dead, floating among
the reeds. I shall see the birds wondering above
me !' And, suddenly, she broke into a storm of dry
sobbing, and all things vanished from her, save just
the rocking of her body, the gasping of her breath,
and the sound of it in her ears. Her boy — her boy —
and his poor hair ! " Away, my rolling river !"
Swaying over, she lay face down, clasping at the wet
grass and the earth.

The sun rose, laid a pale bright streak along the
water, and hid himself again. A robin twittered in
the willows; a leaf fell on her bare ankle.

Winton, who had been hunting on Saturday, had
returned to town on Sunday by the evening train,
and gone straight to his club for some supper. There,
falling asleep over his cigar, he had to be awakened
when they desired to close the club for the night.
It was past two when he reached Bury Street and
found a telegram.

" Something dreadful happened to Mr. Summerhay.
Come quick. — Betty."

Never had he so cursed the loss of his hand as during
the time that followed, when Markey had to dress,
help his master, pack bags, and fetch a taxi equipped
for so long a journey. At half-past three they started.
The whole way down, Winton, wrapped in his fur
coat, sat a little forward on his seat, ready to put his
head through the window and direct the driver. It
was a wild night, and he would not let Markey, whose
chest was not strong, go outside to act as guide.
Twice that silent one, impelled by feelings too vehement
even for his respectful taciturnity, had spoken.

428 BEYOND

" That'll be bad for Miss Gyp, sir."

" Bad, yes — terrible."

And later:

" D'you think it means he's dead, sir ?"

Winton answered sombrely:

" God knows, Markey ! We must hope for the
best."

Dead ! Could Fate be cruel enough to deal one so
soft and loving such a blow ? And he kept saying to
himself: " Courage. Be ready for the worst. Be
ready."

But the figures of Betty and a maid at the open
garden gate, in the breaking darkness, standing there
wringing their hands, were too much for his stoicism.
Leaping out, he cried:

" What is it, woman ? Quick !"

" Oh, sir ! My dear's gone. I left her a moment
to get her a cup of tea. And she's run out in the
cold !"

Winton stood for two seconds as if turned to stone.
Then, taking Betty by the shoulder, he asked quietly:

" What happened to him ?"

Betty could not answer, but the maid said:

" The horse killed him at that linhay, sir, down in
' the wild.' And the mistress was unconscious till
quarter of an hour ago."

" Which way did she go ?"

" Out here, sir; the door and the gate was open —
can't tell which way."

Through Winton flashed one dreadful thought: The
river !

" Turn the cab round ! Stay in, Markey ! Betty
and you, girl, go down to ' the wild,' and search there
at once. Yes ? What is it ?"

BEYOND 429

The driver was leaning out.

"As we came up the hill, sir, I see a lady or some-
thing in a long dark coat with white on her head, against
the hedge."

" Right ! Drive down again sharp, and use your
eyes."

At such moments, thought is impossible, and a
feverish use of every sense takes its place. But of
thought there was no need, for the gardens of villas
and the inn blocked the river at all but one spot.
Winton stopped the car where the narrow lane branched
down to the bank, and jumping out, ran. By instinct
he ran silently on the grass edge, and Markey, imitat-
ing, ran behind. When he came in sight of a black
shape lying on the bank, he suffered a moment of
intense agony, for he thought it was just a dark gar-
ment thrown away. Then he saw it move, and,
holding up his hand for Markey to stand still, walked
on alone, tiptoeing in the grass, his heart swelling with
a sort of rapture. Stealthily moving round between
that prostrate figure and the water, he knelt down and
said, as best he could, for the husk in his throat :
" My darhng !"

Gyp raised her head and stared at him. Her white
face, with eyes unnaturally dark and large, and hair
falling all over it, was strange to him — the face of
grief itself, stripped of the wrappings of form. And
he knew not what to do, how to help or comfort, how
to save. He could see so clearly in her eyes the look
of a wild animal at the moment of its capture, and
instinct made him say:

" I lost her just as cruelly, Gyp."
He saw the words reach her brain, and that wild
look waver. Stretching out his arm, he drew her

430 BEYOND

close to him till her cheek was against his, her shaking
body against him and kept murmuring:
" For my sake, Gyp; for my sake !"
When, with Markey's aid, he had got her to the
cab, they took her, not back to the house, but to the
inn. She was in high fever, and soon delirious. By
noon. Aunt Rosamund and Mrs. Markey, summoned
by telegram, had arrived; and the whole inn was taken
lest there should be any noise to disturb her.

At five o'clock, Winton was summoned downstairs
to the little so-called reading-room. A tall woman
was standing at the window, shading her eyes with
the back of a gloved hand. Though they had lived
so long within ten miles of each other he only knew
Lady Summerhay by sight, and he waited for the
poor woman to speak first. She said in a low voice:

' ' There is nothing to say ; only, I thought I must
see you. How is she ?"
" Delirious."

They stood in silence a full minute, before she
whispered :

" My poor boy ! Did you see him — his forehead ?"
Her lips quivered. " I will take him back home."
And tears rolled, one after the other, slowly down her
flushed face under her veil. Poor woman ! Poor
woman ! She had turned to the window, passing her
handkerchief up under the veil, staring out at the
little strip of darkening lawn, and Winton, too, stared
out into that mournful daylight. At last, he said:

" I will send you all his things, except — except
anything that might help my poor girl."
She turned quickly.

" And so it's ended like this ! Major Winton, ^^
there anything behind — were they really happy ?"

J

BEYOND 431

Winton looked straight at her and answered:

" Ah, too happy !"

Without a quiver, he met those tear-darkened,
dilated eyes straining at his; with a heavy sigh, she
once more turned away, and, brushing her hand-
kerchief across her face, drew down her veil.

It was not true — he knew from the mutterings of
Gyp's fever — but no one, not even Summerhay's
mother, should hear a whisper if he could help it.
At the door, he murmured:

" I don't know whether my girl will get through, or
what she will do after. When Fate hits, she hits too
hard. And you ! Good-bye."

Lady Summerhay pressed his outstretched hand.

" Good-bye," she said, in a strangled voice. " I
wish you — good-bye." Then, turning abruptly, she
hastened away.

Winton went back to his guardianship upstairs.

In the days that followed, when Gyp, robbed of
memory, hung between life and death, Winton hardly
left her room, that low room with creepered windows
whence the river could be seen, gliding down under
the pale November sunshine or black beneath the
stars. He would watch it, fascinated, as one some-
times watches the relentless sea. He had snatched her
as by a miracle from that snaky river.

He had refused to have a nurse. Aunt Rosamund
and Mrs. Markey were skilled in sickness, and he could
not bear that a strange person should listen to those
dehrious mutterings. His own part of the nursing
was just to sit there and keep her secrets from the
others — if he could. And he grudged every minute
away from his post. He would stay for hours, with
eyes iixed on her face. No one could supply so well

432 BEYOND

as he just that coherent thread of the famihar, by
which the fevered, without knowing it, perhaps find
their way a httle in the dark mazes where they wander.
And he would think of her as she used to be — well
and happy — adopting unconsciously the methods of
those mental and other scientists whom he looked upon
as quacks.

He was astonished by the number of inquirers, even
people whom he had considered enemies left cards or
sent their servants, forcing him to the conclusion that
people of position are obliged to reserve their human
kindness for those as good as dead. But the small
folk touched him daily by their genuine concern for
her whose grace and softness had won their hearts.
One morning he received a letter forwarded from
Bury Street.

" Dear Major Winton,

" I have read a paragraph in the paper about
poor Mr. Summerhay's death. And, oh, I feel so
sorry for her ! She was so good to me; I do feel it
most dreadfully. If you think she would like to know
how we all feel for her, you would tell her, wouldn't
you ? I do think it's cruel.

" Very faithfully yours,

" Daphne Wing."

So they knew Summerhay's name — he had not
somehow expected that. He did not answer, not
knowing what to say.

During those days of fever, the hardest thing to
bear was the sound of her rapid whisperings and
mutterings — incoherent phrases that said so little and
told so much. Sometimes he would cover his ears,
to avoid hearing of that long stress of mind at which

BEYOND 433

he had now and then glimpsed. Of the actual tragedy,
her wandering spirit did not seem conscious; her lips
were always telling the depth of her love, always
repeating the dread of losing his; except when they
would give a whispering laugh, uncanny and enchant-
ing, as at some gleam of perfect happiness. Those
little laughs were worst of all to hear; they never
failed to bring tears into his eyes. But he drew a
certain gruesome comfort from the conclusion slowly
forced on him, that Summerhay's tragic death had
cut short a situation which might have had an even
more tragic issue. One night in the big chair at the
side of her bed, he woke from a doze to see her eyes
fixed on him. They were different; they saw, were
her own eyes again. Her lips moved.

" Dad."

" Yes, my pet."

" I remember everything."

At that dreadful little saying, Winton leaned for-
ward and put his lips to her hand, that lay outside
the clothes.

" Where is he buried ?"

" At Widrington."

" Yes."

It was rather a sigh than a word and, raising his
head, Winton saw her eyes closed again. Now that
the fever had gone, the white transparency of her
cheeks and forehead against the dark lashes and hair
was too startling. Was it a living face, or was its
beauty that of death ?

He bent over. She was breathing — asleep.

28

XII

The return to Mildenham was made by easy stages
nearly two months after Summerhay's death, on New
Year's day — Mildenham, dark, smelling the same, full
of ghosts of the days before love began. For little
Gyp, more than five years old now, and beginning to
understand life, this was the pleasantest home yet.
In watching her becoming the spirit of the place, as
she herself had been when a child. Gyp found rest at
times, a little rest. She had not picked up much
strength, was shadowy as yet, and if her face was
taken unawares, it was the saddest face one could see.
Her chief preoccupation was not being taken un-
awares. Alas ! To Winton, her smile was even
sadder. He was at his wits' end about her that
winter and spring. She obviously made the utmost
effort to keep up, and there was nothing to do but
watch and wait. No use to force the pace. Time
alone could heal — perhaps. Meanwhile, he turned to
little Gyp, so that they became more or less inseparable.
Spring came and passed. Physically, Gyp grew
strong again, but since their return to Mildenham, she
had never once gone outside the garden, never once
spoken of The Red House, never once of Summerhay.
Winton had hoped that warmth and sunUght would
bring some life to her spirit, but it did not seem to.
Not that she cherished her grief, appeared, rather, to
do all in her power to forget and mask it. She only
had what used to be called a broken heart. Nothing

434

BEYOND 435

to be done. Little Gyp, who had been told that
" Baryn " had gone away for ever, and that she must
" never speak of him for fear of making Mum sad,"
would sometimes stand and watch her mother with
puzzled gravity. She once remarked uncannily to
Winton :

" Mum doesn't live with us, Grandy; she lives away
somewhere, I think. Is it with Baryn ?"

Winton stared, and answered:

"Perhaps it is, sweetheart; but don't say that to
anybody but me. Don't ever talk of Baryn to anyone
else."

" Yes, I know; but where is he, Grandy ?"

What could Winton answer ? Some imbecility
with the words "very far" in it; for he had not
courage to broach the question of death, that mystery
so hopelessly beyond the grasp of children, and of
himself — and others.

He rode a great deal with the child, who, like her
mother before her, was never so happy as in the saddle ;
but to Gyp he did not dare suggest it. She never
spoke of horses, never went to the stables, passed all
the days doing little things about the house, gardening,
and sitting at her piano, sometimes playing a little,
sometimes merely looking at the keys, her hands
clasped in her lap. This was early in the fateful
summer, before any as yet felt the world-tremors, or
saw the Veil of the Temple rending and the darkness
beginning to gather. Winton had no vision of the
coif above the dark eyes of his loved one, nor of him-
self in a strange brown garb, calling out old famihar
words over barrack-squares. He often thought: * If
only she had something to take her out of herself !'

In June he took his courage in both hands and

436 BEYOND

proposed a visit to London. To his surprise, she
acquiesced without hesitation. They went up in
Whit-week. While they were passing Widrington, he
forced himself to an unnatural spurt of talk; and it
was not till fully quarter of an hour later that, glancing
stealthily round his paper, he saw her sitting motion-
less, her face turned to the fields and tears rolling
down it. And he dared not speak, dared not try
to comfort her. She made no sound, her face no
movement; only, those tears kept rolling down. And,
behind his paper, Winton's eyes narrowed and re-
treated; his face hardened till the skin seemed tight
drawn over the bones, and every inch of him
quivered.

The usual route from the station to Bury Street
was " up," and the cab went by narrow by-streets,
town lanes where the misery of the world is on show,
where ill-looking men, draggled and overdriven
women, and the jaunty ghosts of little children in
gutters and on doorsteps proclaim, by every feature
of their clay-coloured faces and every movement of
their underfed bodies, the post-datement of the mil-
lennium; where the lean and smutted houses have a
look of dissolution indefinitely put off, and there is no
more trace of beauty than in a sewer. Gyp, leaning
forward, looked out, as one does after a long sea
voyage; Winton felt her hand slip into his and squeeze
it hard.

That evening after dinner — in the room he had
furnished for her mother, where the satinwood chairs,
the little Jacobean bureau, the old brass candelabra
were still much as they had been just on thirty years
ago — ^she said :

" Dad, I've been thinking. Would you mind if I

BEYOND 437

could make a sort of home at Mildenham where poor
children could come to stay and get good air and food.
There are such thousands of them."

Strangely moved by this, the first wish he had
heard her express since the tragedy, Winton took her
hand, and, looking at it as if for answer to his question,
said:

" My dear, are you strong enough ?"

" Quite. There's nothing wrong with me now
except here." She drew his hand to her and pressed
it against her heart. " What's given, one can't get
back. I can't help it; I would if I could. It's been
so dreadful for you. I'm so sorry." Winton made
an unintelligible sound, and she went on: " If I had
them to see after, I shouldn't be able to think so m.uch ;
the more I had to do the better. Good for our gipsy-
bird, too, to have them there. I should like to begin
it at once."

Winton nodded. Anj^thing that she felt could do
her good — anything !

" Yes, yes," he said; " I quite see — you could use
the two old cottages to start with, and we can easily
run up anything you want."

" Only let me do it all, won't you ?"

At that touch of her old self, Winton smiled. She
should do everything, pay for everything, bring a whole
street of children down, if it would give her any comfort !

" Rosamund '11 help you find 'em," he muttered,
" She's first-rate at all that sort of thing." Then,
looking at her fixedly, he added: " Courage, my soul;
it'll all come back some day."

Gyp forced herself to smile. Watching her, he
understood only too well the child's saying: " Mum
Lives away somewhere, I think."

438 BEYOND

Suddenly, she said, very low:
" And yet I wouldn't have been without it."
She was sitting, her hands clasped in her lap, two
red spots high in her cheeks, her eyes shining strangely,
the faint smile still on her lips. And Winton, staring
with narrowed eyes, thought : ' Love ! Beyond
measure — beyond death — it nearly kills. But one
wouldn't have been without it. Why ?'

Three days later, leaving Gyp with his sister, he
went back to Mildenham to start the necessary altera-
tions in the cottages. He had told no one he was
coming, and walked up from the station on a perfect
June day, bright and hot. When he turned through
the drive gate, into the beech-tree avenue, the leaf-
shadows were thick on the ground, with golden gleams
of the invincible sunlight thrusting their way through.
The grey boles, the vivid green leaves, those glistening
sun-shafts through the shade, entranced him, coming
from the dusty road. Do\\ti in the very middle of
the avenue, a small, white figure was standing, as if
looking out for him. He heard a shrill shout.

" Oh, Grandy, you've come back — you've come
back ! What fun I"

Winton took her curls in his hand, and, looking into
her face said:

" Well, my gipsy-bird, will you give me one of
these ?"

Little Gyp gazed at him with flying eyes, and,
hugging his legs, answered furiously :

" Yes; because I love you. Ptill !"

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19271 3