d in the stables to-day to put him into a queer
temper; or perhaps he felt--as horses will--the disturbance raging
within his rider. At any rate, he gave an exhibition of his worst
qualities, and Summerhay derived perverse pleasure from that
waywardness. He rode a good hour up there; then, hot, with aching
arms--for the brute was pulling like the devil!--he made his way back
toward home and entered what little Gyp called "the wild," those two
rough sedgy fields with the linhay in the corner where they joined.
There was a gap in the hedge-growth of the bank between them, and at
this he put Hotspur at speed. The horse went over like a bird; and for
the first time since Diana's kiss Summerhay felt a moment's joy. He
turned him round and sent him at it again, and again Hotspur cleared it
beautifully. But the animal's blood was up now. Summerhay could hardly
hold him. Muttering: "Oh, you BRUTE, don't pull!" he jagged the horse's
mouth. There darted into his mind Gyp's word: "Cruel!" And, viciously,
in one of those queer nerve-crises that beset us all, he struck the
pulling horse.

They were cantering toward the corner where the fields joined, and
suddenly he was aware that he could no more hold the beast than if a
steam-engine had been under him. Straight at the linhay Hotspur dashed,
and Summerhay thought: "My God! He'll kill himself!" Straight at the
old stone linhay, covered by the great ivy bush. Right at it--into it!
Summerhay ducked his head. Not low enough--the ivy concealed a beam! A
sickening crash! Torn backward out of the saddle, he fell on his back
in a pool of leaves and mud. And the horse, slithering round the linhay
walls, checked in his own length, unhurt, snorting, frightened, came
out, turning his wild eyes on his master, who never stirred, then
trotted back into the field, throwing up his head.

X

When, at her words, Summerhay went out of the room, Gyp's heart sank.
All the morning she had tried so hard to keep back her despairing
jealousy, and now at the first reminder had broken down again. It
was beyond her strength! To live day after day knowing that he, up in
London, was either seeing that girl or painfully abstaining from seeing
her! And then, when he returned, to be to him just what she had been, to
show nothing--would it ever be possible? Hardest to bear was what seemed
to her the falsity of his words, maintaining that he still really loved
her. If he did, how could he hesitate one second?