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 forward 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.
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.
Pages:
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451