Her father came back from Westminster quiet and angry. He had with difficulty been made to understand 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 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 Harmost'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 impossible!" 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, 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 Winton'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:
"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.
