"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
unexpected water; grateful, bewildered, abashed, yet instinctively
aware of something evanescent and unreal 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.
"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 mistrusting.
He brushed his hand across his face; and the thought flashed
through her: 'He means me to see them! 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 abnegation, 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:
"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. Tomorrow 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 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.
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.
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 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.