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, o.""Salisbury Cup: Also ran Plum Pudding, E. Pettance," with other triumphs. He got up, saying:
"Good-afternoon, sir; windy afternoon, sir. The mistress 'as 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.""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 dully:
"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."
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 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 Ihaven'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--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.
