Beyond Part 55

"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 pitiful! 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:

"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--foolis.h.!.+ 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 gla.s.s.

"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. Devilis.h.!.+ 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 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 b.u.t.t 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 s.h.i.+vered. 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, polis.h.i.+ng 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 p.r.i.c.kings 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 pa.s.sed, 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 distraction. Little Gyp came in and prattled. There was a tree blown down, and she had climbed 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 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 utterly. 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 influence, 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 dreadful. 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 household--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 undying love--strange 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 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 like a beast in a cage--the cage of the impossible. For, as in all human tragedies, both were right according to their natures. She gave him all herself, wanted all 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 away 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 might 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 all that he said, she knew he didn't really 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 withdrawing 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 relief in his face, his obvious delight at the change, with a fearful aching in her heart. She waited till he was ready to go down, and then, still smiling, said:

"Forget all about yesterday, darling. Promise me you won't let it make any difference. You must keep up your friends.h.i.+p; 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 G.o.d'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. Why 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.

"Gyp, for 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.