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Title: The Top of the World

Author: Ethel M. Dell

Release Date: May 15, 2004 [EBook #12360]

Language: English

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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TOP OF THE WORLD ***




Produced by Al Haines




THE TOP OF THE WORLD

By

Ethel M.  Dell



Author of "The Way of an Eagle," "The Lamp in the Desert."



1920




I DEDICATE THIS BOOK

TO THE PRECIOUS MEMORY

OF MY MOTHER




"The years shall not outgo my thinking of thee"




  When you have reached the top of the world
    And only the stars remain,
  Where there is never the sound of storm
    And neither cold nor rain,
  Will it be by wealth, success, or fame
    That you mounted to your goal?
  Nay, I mount only by faith and love
    And God's goodness to my soul.

  When you have reached the top of the world
    And the higher stars grow near,
  When greater dreams succeed our dreams
    And the lesser disappear,
  Will the world at your feet seem good to you,
    A vision fair to see?
  Nay, I look upward for one I love
    Who has promised to wait for me.

  For to those who reach the top of the world
    The things of the world seem less
  Than the rungs of the ladder by which they climbed
    To their place of happiness,
  And I think that success and wealth and fame
    Will be the first to pall,
  For they reach their goal but by faith and love
    And God's goodness over all.




CONTENTS


PART I

CHAPTER

    I.--ADVICE
   II.--THE NEW MISTRESS
  III.--THE WHIP-HAND
   IV.--THE VICTORY
    V.--THE MIRACLE
   VI.--THE LAND OF STRANGERS
  VII.--THE WRONG TURNING
 VIII.--THE COMRADE
   IX.--THE ARRIVAL
    X.--THE DREAM
   XI.--THE CROSS-ROADS
  XII.--THE STAKE


PART 11

    I.--COMRADES
   II.--THE VISITORS
  III.--THE BARGAIN
   IV.--THE CAPTURE
    V.--THE GOOD CAUSE
   VI.--THE RETURN
  VII.--THE GUEST
 VIII.--THE INTERRUPTION
   IX.--THE ABYSS
    X.--THE DESIRE TO LIVE
   XI.--THE REMEDY


PART III

    I.--THE NEW ERA
   II.--INTO BATTLE
  III.--THE SEED
   IV.--MIRAGE
    V.--EVERYBODY'S FRIEND
   VI.--THE HERO
  VII.--THE NET
 VIII.--THE SUMMONS
   IX.--FOR THE SAKE OF THE OLD LOVE
    X.--THE BEARER OF EVIL TIDINGS
   XI.--THE SHARP CORNER
  XII.--THE COST


PART IV

    I.--SAND OF THE DESERT
   II.--THE SKELETON TREE
  III.--THE PUNISHMENT
   IV.--THE EVIL THING
    V.--THE LAND OF BLASTED HOPES
   VI.--THE PARTING
  VII.--PIET VREIBOOM
 VIII.--OUT OF THE DEPTHS
   IX.--THE MEETING
    X.--THE TRUTH
   XI.--THE STORM
  XII.--THE SACRIFICE
 XIII.--BY FAITH AND LOVE




The Top of the World


PART I

CHAPTER I

ADVICE

"You ought to get married, Miss Sylvia," said old Jeffcott, the
head gardener, with a wag of his hoary beard.  "You'll need to be
your own mistress now."

"I should hope I am that anyway," said, Sylvia with a little laugh.

She stood in the great vinery--a vivid picture against a background
of clustering purple fruit.  The sunset glinted on her tawny hair.
Her red-brown eyes, set wide apart, held a curious look, half
indignant, half appealing.

Old Jeffcott surveyed her with loving admiration.  There was no one
in the world to compare with Miss Sylvia in his opinion.  He loved
the open English courage of her, the high, inborn pride of race.
Yet at the end of the survey he shook his head.

"There's not room for two mistresses in this establishment, Miss
Sylvia," he said wisely.  "Three years to have been on your own, so
to speak, is too long.  You did ought to get married, Miss Sylvia.
You'll find it's the only way."

His voice took on almost a pleading note.  He knew it was possible
to go too far.

But the girl facing him was still laughing.  She evidently felt no
resentment.

"You see, Jeffcott," she said, "there's only one man in the world I
could marry.  And he's not ready for me yet."

Jeffcott wagged his beard again commiseratingly.  "So you've never
got over it, Miss Sylvia?  Your feelings is still the same--after
five years?"

"Still the same," said Sylvia.  There was a momentary challenge in
her bright eyes, but it passed.  "It couldn't be any different,"
she said softly.  "No one else could ever come anywhere near him."

Jeffcott sighed aloud.  "I know he were a nice young gentleman," he
conceded.  "But I've seen lots as good before and since.  He
weren't nothing so very extraordinary, Miss Sylvia."

Sylvia's look went beyond him, seeming to rest upon something very
far away.  "He was to me, Jeffcott," she said.  "We just--fitted
each other, he and I."

"And you was only eighteen," pleaded Jeffcott, "You wasn't
full-grown in those days."

"No?"  A quick sigh escaped her; her look came back to him, and she
smiled.  "Well, I am now anyway; and that's the one thing that
hasn't altered or grown old--the one thing that never could."

"Ah, dear!" said old Jeffcott.  "What a pity now as you couldn't
take up with young Mr. Eversley or that Mr. Preston over the way,
or--or--any of them young gents with a bit of property as might be
judged suitable!"

Sylvia's laugh rang through the vinery, a gay, infectious laugh.

"Oh, really, Jeffcott! You talk as if I had only got to drop my
handkerchief for the whole countryside to rush to pick it up!  I'm
not going to take up with anyone, unless it's Mr. Guy Ranger.  You
don't seem to realize that we've been engaged all this time."

"Ah!" said old Jeffcott, looking sardonic.  "And you not met for
five years!  Do you ever wonder to yourself what sort of a man he
may be after five years, Miss Sylvia?  It's a long time for a young
man to keep in love at a distance.  It's a very long time."

"It's a long time for both of us," said Sylvia.  "But it hasn't
altered us in that respect."

"It's been a longer time for him than it has for you," said
Jeffcott shrewdly.  "I'll warrant he's lived every minute of it.
He's the sort that would."

Sylvia's wide brows drew together in a little frown.  She had
caught the note of warning in the old man's words, and she did not
understand it.

"What do you mean, Jeffcott?" she said, with a touch of sharpness.

But Jeffcott backed out of the vinery and out of the discussion at
the same moment.  "You'll know what I mean one day, Miss Sylvia,"
he said darkly, "when you're married."

"Silly old man!" said Sylvia, taking up the cluster of grapes for
which she had come and departing in the opposite direction.
Jeffcott was a faithful old servant, but he could be very
exasperating when he liked.

The gardens were bathed in the evening sunlight as she passed
through them on her way to the house.  The old Manor stood out grey
and ancient against an opal sky.  She looked up at it with loving
eyes.  Her home meant very much to Sylvia Ingleton.  Until the last
six months she had always regarded it as her own life-long
possession.  For she was an only child, and for the past three
years she had been its actual mistress, though virtually she had
held the reins of government longer than that.  Her mother had been
delicate for as long as she could remember, and it was on account
of her failing health that Sylvia had left school earlier than had
been intended, that she might be with her.  Since Mrs. Ingleton's
death, three years before, she and her father had lived alone
together at the old Manor in complete accord.  They had always been
close friends, the only dissension that had ever arisen between
them having been laid aside by mutual consent.

That dissension had been caused by Guy Ranger.  Five years before,
when Sylvia had been only eighteen, he had flashed like a meteor
through her sky, and no other star had ever shone for her again.
Though seven years older than herself, he was little more than a
boy, full of gaiety and life, possessing an extraordinary
fascination, but wholly lacking in prospects, being no more than
the son of Squire Ingleton's bailiff.

The Rangers were people of good yeoman extraction, and Guy himself
had had a public school education, but the fact of their position
was an obstacle which the squire had found insuperable.  Only his
love for his daughter had restrained him from violent measures.
But Sylvia had somehow managed to hold him, how no one ever knew,
for he was a man of fiery temper.  And the end of if it had been
that Guy had been banished to join a cousin farming in South Africa
on the understanding that if he made a success of it he might
eventually return and ask Sylvia to be his wife.  There was to be
no engagement between them, and if she elected to marry in the
meantime so much the better, in the squire's opinion.  He had had
little doubt that Sylvia would marry when she had had time to
forget some of the poignancy of first love.  But in this he had
been mistaken.  Sylvia had steadfastly refused every lover who had
come her way.

He had found another billet for old Ranger, and had installed a
dour Scotchman in his place.  But Sylvia still corresponded with
young Guy, still spoke of him as the man she meant to marry.  It
was true she did not often speak of him, but that might have been
through lack of sympathetic listeners.  There was, moreover, about
her an innate reserve which held her back where her deepest
feelings were concerned.  But her father knew, and she meant him to
know, that neither time nor distance had eradicated the image of
the man she loved from her heart.  The days on which his letters
reached her were always marked with a secret gladness, albeit the
letters themselves held sometimes little more than affectionate
commentary upon her own.

That Guy was making his way and that he would eventually return to
her were practical certainties in her young mind.  If his letters
contained little to support this belief, she yet never questioned
it for a moment.  Guy was the sort to get on.  She was sure of it.
And he was worth waiting for.  Oh, she could afford to be patient
for Guy.  She did not, moreover, believe that her father would hold
out for ever.  Also, and secretly this thought buoyed her up in
rare moments of depression, in another two years--when she was
twenty-five--she would inherit some money from her mother.  It was
not a very large sum, but it would be enough to render her
independent.  It would very greatly increase her liberty of action.
She had little doubt that the very fact of it would help to
overcome her father's prejudices and very considerably modify his
attitude.

So, in a fashion, she had during the past three years come to
regard her twenty-fifth birthday as a milestone in her life.  She
would be patient till it came, but then--at last--if circumstances
permitted, she would take her fate into her own hands, She
would--at last--assume the direction of her own life.

So she had planned, but so it was not to be.  Her fate had already
begun to shape itself in a fashion that was little to her liking.
Travelling with her father in the North earlier in the summer, she
had met with a slight accident which had compelled her to make the
acquaintance of a lady staying at the same hotel whom she had
disliked at the outset and always sought to avoid.  This lady, Mrs.
Emmott, was a widow with no settled home.  Profiting by
circumstances she had attached herself to Sylvia and her father,
and now she was the latter's wife.

How it had come about, even now Sylvia scarcely realized.  The
woman's intentions had barely begun to dawn upon her before they
had become accomplished fact.  Her father's attitude throughout had
amazed her, so astoundingly easy had been his capture.  He was
infatuated, possibly for the first time in his life, and no
influence of hers could remove the spell.

Sylvia's feelings for Mrs. Emmott passed very rapidly from dislike
to active detestation.  Her iron strength of will, combined with an
almost blatant vulgarity, gave the girl a sense of being borne down
by an irresistible weight.  Very soon her aversion became such that
it was impossible to conceal it.  And Mrs. Emmott laughed in her
face.  She hated Sylvia too, but she looked forward to subduing the
unbending pride that so coldly withstood her, and for the sake of
that she kept her animosity in check.  She knew her turn would come.

Meantime, she concentrated all her energies upon the father, and
with such marked success that within two months of their meeting
they were married.  Sylvia had gone to that wedding in such
bitterness of soul and seething inward revolt as she had never
experienced before.  She did not know how she had come through it,
so great had been her disgust.  But that was nearly six weeks ago,
and she had had time to recover.  She had spent part of that period
very peacefully and happily at the seaside with a young married
cousin and her babies, and it had rested and refreshed her.   She
had come back with a calm resolve to endure what had to be endured
in a philosophical spirit, to face the inevitable without futile
rebellion.

Girt in an impenetrable armour of reserve, she braced herself to
bear her burdens unflinching, so that none might ever guess how it
galled her.  And on that golden evening in September she prepared
herself with a smiling countenance to meet her enemy in the gate.

They were returning from a prolonged honeymoon among the Italian
lakes, and she had made everything ready for their coming.  The
great west-facing bedroom, which her father had never occupied
since her mother's death, had been redecorated and prepared as for
a bride.  Sylvia had changed it completely, so that it might never
again look as it had looked in the old days.  She had hated doing
it, but it had been in a measure a relief to her torn heart.  It
was thus she rendered inviolate that inner sanctuary of memory
which none might enter.

As she passed along the terrace in the golden glow, the slight
frown was still upon her brow.  It had been such a difficult time.
Her one ray of comfort had been the thought of Guy, dear, faithful
lover working for her far away.  And now old Jeffcott had cast a
shade even upon that.  But then he did not really know Guy.  No one
knew him as she knew him.  She quickened her steps a little.
Possibly there might be a letter from him that evening.

There was.  She spied it lying on the hall table as she entered.
Eagerly she went forward and picked it up.  But as she did so there
came the sound of a car in the drive before the open front door,
and quickly she thrust it away in the folds of her dress.  The
travellers had returned.

With a resolutely smiling face she went to meet them.




CHAPTER II

THE NEW MISTRESS

"Here is our dear Sylvia!" said Mrs. Ingleton.

She embraced the girl with much _empressement_, and then, before
Sylvia could reach her father, turned and embraced him herself.

"So very nice to be home, dear!" she said effusively.  "We shall be
very happy here."

Gilbert Ingleton bestowed a somewhat embarrassed salute upon her,
one eye on his daughter.  She greeted him sedately the next moment,
and though her face was smiling, her welcome seemed to be frozen at
its source; it held no warmth.

Mrs. Ingleton, tall, handsome, assertive, cast an appraising eye
around the oak-panelled hall.  "Dear me!  What severe splendour!"
she commented.  "I have a great love for cosiness myself.  We must
scatter some of those sweet little Italian ornaments about,
Gilbert.  You won't know the place when I have done with it.  I am
going to take you all in hand and bring you up-to-date."

Her keen dark eyes rested upon her step-daughter with a smile of
peculiar meaning.  Sylvia met them with the utmost directness.

"We like simplicity," she said.

Mrs. Ingleton pursed her lips, "Oh, but there is simplicity and
simplicity!  Give me warmth, homeliness, and plenty of pretty
things.  This place is archaically cold--quite like a convent.  And
you, my dear, might be the Sister Superior from your air.  Now,
Gilbert darling, you and I are going to be very firm with this
child.  I can plainly see she needs a guiding hand.  She has had
much too much responsibility for so young a girl.  We are going to
alter all that.  We are going to make her very happy--as well as
good."

She tapped Sylvia's shoulder with smiling significance, looking at
her husband to set his seal to the declaration.

Mr. Ingleton was obviously feeling very uncomfortable.  He glanced
at Sylvia almost appealingly.

"I hope we are all going to be happy," he said rather gruffly.
"Don't see why we shouldn't be, I'm sure.  I like a quiet life
myself.  Got some tea for us, Sylvia?"

Sylvia turned, stiffly unresponsive to her step-mother's
blandishments.  "This way," she said, and crossed the hall to the
drawing-room.

It was a beautiful room aglow just then with the rays of the
western sun.  Mrs. Ingleton looked all around her with smiling
criticism, and nodded to herself as if seeing her way to many
improvements.  She walked to the windows.

"What a funny, old-fashioned garden!  Quite medieval!  I foresee a
very busy time in store.  Who lives on the other side of this
property?"

"Preston--George Preston, the M.F.H.," said her husband, lounging
up behind her.  "About the richest man about here.  Made his money
on the Turf."

She gave him a quick look.  "Is he young?" she asked.

He hesitated, "Not very."

"Married?" questioned Mrs. Ingleton, with the air of a ferret
pursuing its quarry down a hole.

"No," said the squire, somewhat reluctantly.

"Ah!" said Mrs. Ingleton, in a tone of satisfaction.

"Won't you have some tea?" said Sylvia's grave voice behind them.

Mrs. Ingleton wheeled.  "Bless the child!" she exclaimed.  "She has
a face as long as a fiddle.  Let us have tea by all means.  I am as
hungry as a hunter.  I hope there is something really substantial
for us."

"It is less than an hour to dinner," said Sylvia.

She hardly looked at her father.  Somehow she had a feeling that he
did not want to meet her eyes.

He sat in almost unbroken silence while she poured out the tea,
"for the last time, dear," as her step-mother jocosely remarked,
and for his sake alone she exerted herself to make polite
conversation with this new mistress of the Manor.

It was not easy, for Mrs. Ingleton did not want to talk upon
indifferent subjects.  Her whole attitude was one of unconcealed
triumph.  It was obvious that she meant to enjoy her conquest to
the utmost.  She was not in the least tired after her journey; she
was one of those people who never tire.  And as soon as she had
refreshed herself with tea she announced her intention of going
round the house.

Her husband, however, intervened upon this point, assuring her that
there would be ample time in the morning, and Mrs. Ingleton yielded
it not very gracefully.

She was placed at the head of the table at dinner, but she could
not accept the position without comment.

"Poor little Sylvia!  We shall have to make up for this, or I shall
never be forgiven," with an arch look at the squire which
completely missed its mark.

There were no subtleties about Gilbert Ingleton.  He was thoroughly
uncomfortable, and his manner proclaimed the fact aloud.  If he
were happy with his enchantress away from home, the home atmosphere
completely dispelled all enchantment.  Was it the fault of the
slim, erect girl with the red-brown eyes who sat so gravely silent
on his right hand?

He could not in justice accuse her, and yet the strong sense of her
disapproval irritated him.  What right had she, his daughter, to
sit in judgment upon him?  Surely he was entitled to act for
himself--choose his own course--make his own hell if he wished!  It
was all quite unanswerable.  He knew she would not have attempted
to answer if he had put it to her, but that very fact made him the
more sore.  He hated to feel himself at variance with Sylvia.

"Can't you play something?" he said to her in desperation as they
entered the drawing-room after dinner.

She looked at bun, her wide brows slightly raised.

"Well?" he questioned impatiently.

"Ask--Mrs. Ingleton first!" she said in a rapid whisper.

Mrs. Ingleton caught it, however.  She had the keen senses of a
lynx.  "Now, Sylvia, my child, come here!" she commanded playfully.
"I can't have you calling me that, you know.  If we are going to
live together, we must have absolutely clear understanding between
us on all points.  Don't you agree with me, Gilbert?"

Ingleton growled something unintelligible, and made for the open
window.

"Don't go!" said his wife with a touch of peremptoriness.  "I want
you here.  Tell this dear child that as I have determined to be a
mother to her she is to address me as such!"

Ingleton barely paused.  "You must settle that between yourselves,"
he said gruffly.  "And for heaven's sake, don't fight over it!"

He passed heavily forth, and Sylvia, after a very brief hesitation,
sat down in a chair facing her step-mother.

"I am sorry," she said quietly.  "But I can't call you Mother.
Anything else you like to suggest, but not that."

Mrs. Ingleton uttered an unpleasant laugh.  "I hope you are going
to try and be sensible, my dear," she said, "for I assure you
high-flown sentiment does not appeal to me in the very least.  As
head of your father's house, I must insist upon being treated with
due respect.  Let me warn you at the outset, though quite willing
to befriend you, I am not a very patient woman.  I am not prepared
to put up with any slights."

Her voice lifted gradually as she proceeded till she ended upon a
note that was almost shrill.

Sylvia sat very still.  Her hands were clasped tightly about her
knee.  Her face was pale, and the red-brown eyes glittered a
little, but she betrayed no other signs of emotion,

"I quite understand," she said after a moment.  "But that doesn't
solve the present difficulty, does it?  I cannot possibly call you
by a name that is sacred to someone else."

She spoke very quietly, but there was indomitable resolution in her
very calm--a resolution that exasperated Mrs. Ingleton almost
beyond endurance.

She arose with a sweeping gesture.  "Oh, very well then," she said.
"You shall call me Madam!"

Sylvia looked up at her.  "I think that is quite a good idea," she
said in a tone that somehow stung her hearer, unbearably.  "I will
do that."

"And don't be impertinent!" she said, beginning to pace to and fro
like an angry tigress.  "I will not put up with it, Sylvia.  I warn
you.  You have been thoroughly spoilt all your life.  I know the
signs quite well.  And you have come to think that you can do
anything you like.  But that is not so any longer.  I am mistress
here, and I mean to maintain my position.  Any hint of rebellion
from you or anyone else I shall punish with the utmost severity.
So now you understand."

"I do indeed," said Sylvia.

She had not stirred from her chair, but sat watching her
step-mother's agitated pacing with grim attention.  It was her
first acquaintance with the most violent temper she had ever
encountered in a woman, and it interested her.  She was no longer
conscious of being angry herself.  The whole affair had become a
sort of bitter comedy.  She looked upon it with a species of
impersonal scorn.

Mrs. Ingleton was obviously lashing herself to fury.  She could not
imagine why, not realizing at that stage that she was the victim of
a jealousy so fierce as to amount almost to a mania.  She wondered
if her father were watching them from the terrace, and contemplated
getting up to join him, but hesitated to do so, reflecting that it
might appear like flight.  At the same time she did not see why she
should remain as a target for her step-mother's invective, and she
had just decided upon departure when Bliss, the butler, opened the
door with his own peculiarly quiet flourish and announced, "Captain
Preston!"

A clean-shaven little man, with a horsey appearance about the legs
which evening-dress wholly failed to conceal, entered, and
instinctively Sylvia rose to receive him.

Mrs. Ingleton stopped short and stared as they met in the middle of
the room.

"Hullo, Sylvia!" said the little man, and stamped forward as if he
had just dismounted after a long ride.  He had a loud voice and an
assertive manner, and Mrs. Ingleton gazed at him in frozen surprise.

Sylvia turned towards her.  "May I introduce Mr. Preston--the
M.F.H.?"  Her tone was cold.  If the newcomer's advent had been a
welcome diversion it obviously gave her no pleasure.

Preston, however, plainly did not stand in need of any
encouragement.  He strode up to Mrs. Ingleton, confronting her with
aggressive self-assurance, "Delighted to meet you, madam.  You are
Sylvia's step-mother, I presume?  I hope we shall be more nearly
connected before long.  Anyone belongin' to Sylvia has my highest
esteem.  She has the straightest seat on a horse of any woman I
know.  Ingleton and I between us taught her all she knows about
huntin', and she does us credit, by gad!"

He winked at Mrs. Ingleton as he ended, and Sylvia bit her lip.
Mrs. Ingleton, however, held out her hand.

"Pray sit down, Mr. Preston!  You are most welcome.  Sylvia, my
dear, will you find the cigarettes?"

Sylvia took a box from the table and handed it to him.  He took it
from her, openly pinching her fingers as he did so, and offered it
to her instead.

"After you, Cherry-ripe!  You're lookin' spiffin' to-night, hey,
Mrs. Ingleton?  What do you think of your new daughter?"

Mrs. Ingleton was smiling.  "I am only wondering what all you young
men can be about," she said.  "I should have thought one of you
would have captured her long ago."

Sylvia turned round, disgust in every line, and walked to the
window.  "I will find Dad," she said.

Preston looked after her, standing with legs wide apart on the
hearth-rug.  "It's none of my fault, I assure you," he said.  "I've
been tryin' to rope her for the last two years.  But she's so damn'
shy.  Can't get near her, by George."

"Really?" smiled Mrs. Ingleton.  "Perhaps you have not gone quite
the right way to work.  I think I shall have to take a hand in the
game and see what I can do."

Preston bowed with his hand on his heart, "I always like to get the
fair sex on my side whenever possible.  If you can put the halter
on her, you've only to name your price, madam, and it's yours."

"Dear me!" said Mrs. Ingleton.  "You're very generous."

"I can afford to be," declared Preston.  "She's a decent bit of
goods--the only one I've ever wanted and couldn't get.  If you can
get the whip-hand of her and drive her my way--well, it'll be
pretty good business for all concerned.  You like diamonds, hey,
madam?"

"Very much," laughed Mrs. Ingleton coquettishly.  "But you mustn't
make my husband jealous.  Remember that now!"

Preston closed one eye deliberately and poked his tongue into his
cheek.  "You leave that to me, my good madam.  Anythin' of that
sort would be the gift of the bridegroom.  See?"

"Oh, quite," said Mrs. Ingleton.  "I shall certainly do my best for
you, Mr. Preston."

"Good for you!" said Preston jocularly.  "It's a deal then.  And
you play every trump you've got!"

"You may depend upon me," said Mrs. Ingleton.




CHAPTER III

THE WHIP-HAND

"Why isn't Mr. Preston engaged to Sylvia?" demanded Mrs. Ingleton
of her husband as she faced him across the breakfast-table on the
following morning.

"He'd like to be," said Ingleton with his face bent over the
morning paper.

"Then why isn't he?" demanded Mrs. Ingleton with asperity.  "He is
a rich country gentleman, and he has a position in the County.
What more could you possibly want for her?"

Reluctantly the squire made answer.  "Oh, I'm willing enough.  He's
quite a decent chap so far as I know.  I dare say he'd make her
quite a good husband if she'd have him.  But she won't.  So there's
an end of that."

"Ridiculous!" exclaimed Mrs. Ingleton.  "And, pray, why won't she?"

"Why? Oh, because there's another fellow, of course.  There always
is," growled Ingleton.  "Girls never fall in love with the right
man.  Haven't you found that out yet?"

"I have found out," said Mrs. Ingleton tartly, "that Sylvia is a
most wilful and perverse girl, and I think you are very unwise to
put up with her whims.  I should be ashamed to have a girl of that
age still on my hands."

"I'd like to know how you'd have managed her any differently,"
muttered the squire, without looking up.

Mrs. Ingleton laughed unpleasantly.  "You don't know much about
women, do you, my dear?  Of course I could have managed her
differently.  She'd have been comfortably married for the past two
years at least if I had been in command."

Ingleton looked sourly incredulous.  "You don't know Sylvia," he
observed.  "She has a will like cast-iron.  You'd never move her."

Mrs. Ingleton tossed her head.  "Never?  Well, look here! If you
want the girl to marry that really charming Mr. Preston, I'll
undertake that she shall--and that within a year.  How is that?"

Ingleton stared a little, then slowly shook his head.  "You'll
never do it, my dear Caroline."

"I will do it if it is your wish," said Mrs. Ingleton firmly.

He looked at her with a touch of uneasiness.  "I don't want the
child coerced."

She laughed again.  "What an idea!  Are children ever coerced in
these days?  It's usually the parents who have to put up with that
sort of treatment.  Now tell me about the other man.  What and
where is he?"

Ingleton told her with surly reluctance.  "Oh, he was a handsome
young beggar she met five years ago--the son of my then bailiff, as
a matter of fact.  The boy had had a fairly decent education; he
was a gentleman, but he wasn't good enough for my Sylvia, had no
prospects of any sort.  And so I put my foot down."

Mrs. Ingleton smiled with her thin, hard lips, but no gleam of
humour reached her eyes.  "With the result, I suppose, that she has
been carrying on with him ever since."

Ingleton stirred uneasily in his chair.  "Well, she hasn't given
him up.  They correspond, I believe.  But he is far enough away at
present.  He is in South Africa.  She'll never marry him with my
approval.  I'm pretty certain now that the fellow is a rotter."

"She probably deems herself very heroic for sticking to him in
spite of opposition," observed Mrs. Ingleton.

"Very likely," he conceded.  "But I think she genuinely cares for
him.  That's just the mischief of it.  And, unfortunately, in
another couple of years she'll be in a position to please herself.
She inherits a little money from her mother then."

Mrs. Ingleton's smile became more pronounced, revealing her strong
white teeth behind.  "You need not look forward so far as that, my
love," she said.  "Leave Sylvia entirely to me!  I will undertake,
as I said, to have her married to Mr. Preston well within a year.
So you may set your mind at rest on that point."

"He is certainly fond of her," said the squire.  "And they both
have sporting tastes.  He ought to have a very good chance with her
if only the other fellow could be wiped out."

"Then leave her to me!" said Mrs. Ingleton, rising.  "And mind,
dear"--she paused behind her husband's chair and placed large white
hands upon his shoulders--"whatever I do, you are not to interfere.
Is that a bargain?"

Ingleton moved again uncomfortably.  "You won't be unkind to the
child?" he said.

"My dear Gilbert, don't you realize that the young lady is more
than capable of holding her own against me or anyone else?"
protested Mrs. Ingleton.

"And yet you say you can manage her?" he said.

"Well, so I can, if you will only trust to my discretion.  What she
needs is a little judicious treatment, and that is what I intend to
give her.  Come, that is understood, isn't it? It is perfectly
outrageous that she should have ridden roughshod over you so long.
A chit like that!  And think how pleasant it will be for everyone
when she is settled and provided for.  Dear me!  I shall feel as if
a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders.  We shall really
enjoy ourselves then."

She smiled down into her husband's dubious face, and after a moment
with a curt sigh he pulled her down and kissed her.  "Well, you're
a woman, you ought to know how to manage your own kind," he said.
"Sylvia's mother was an invalid for so long that I expect the child
did grow a bit out of hand.  I'll leave her to you then, Caroline.
If you can manage to marry her to Preston I believe you'll do her
the biggest service possible."

"Of course I should like to do that!" said Mrs. Ingleton, kissing
him loudly.  "Ah!  Here she comes!  She mustn't catch us
love-making at this hour.  Good morning, my dear child!  What roses
to be sure!  No need to ask where you have been."

Sylvia came in, riding-whip in hand.  Her face was flushed and her
eyes shining.

"Had a ripping run, Dad.  You ought to have been there," she said.
"Good morning!"  She paused and kissed him, then turned to her
step-mother.  "Good morning, Madam!  I hope the keys have been duly
handed over.  I told Mrs. Hadlow to see to it."

Mrs. Ingleton kissed her effusively.  "You poor child!  I am afraid
it is a very sore point with you to part with your authority to me.
The only thing for you to do is to be quick and get a home of your
own."

Sylvia laughed.  "Breakfast is my most pressing need at the present
moment.  Winnie carried me beautifully, Dad.  George says she is a
positive marvel for her years; dear little soul."

"George--George!" repeated Mrs. Ingleton with playful surprise.  "I
presume that is the estimable young man who called upon me last
night.  Well, well, if you are so intimate, I suppose I shall have
to be too.  He was in a great hurry to pay his respects, was he
not?"

Sylvia was staring at her from the other side of the table.  "I
meant George the groom," she said coldly after a moment.  "Is there
any news, Dad?"

She turned deliberately to him, but before he could speak in answer
Mrs. Ingleton intervened.

"Now, Sylvia, my love, I have something really rather serious to
say to you.  Of course, I fully realize that you are very young and
inexperienced and not likely to think of these things for yourself.
But I must tell you that it is very bad for the servants to have
meals going in the dining-room at all hours.  Therefore, my child,
I must ask you to make a point of being punctual--always.
Breakfast is at eight-thirty.  Please bear that in mind for the
future!"

Again Sylvia's wide eyes were upon her.  They looked her straight
in the face.  "Dad and I are never back by eight-thirty when we go
cubbing, are we, Dad?" she said.

The squire cleared his throat, and did not respond.

Mrs. Ingleton smiled.  "But we are changing all that," she said.
"At my particular request your dear father has promised me to give
up hunting."

"What?" said Sylvia, and turned upon her father with a red flash in
her eyes.  "Dad, is that true?"

He looked at her unwillingly.  "Oh, don't make a scene!" he said
irritably.  "Your mother is nervous, so I have given it up for the
present, that's all."

"Please don't call Mrs. Ingleton my mother!" said Sylvia, suddenly
deadly calm.  "Am I always to hunt alone, then, for the future?"

"You have got--George," smiled Mrs. Ingleton.

Sylvia's eyes fell abruptly from her father's face, but they did
not return to her step-mother.  She turned away to the sideboard,
and helped herself from a dish that stood there.  In absolute
silence she sat down at the table and began to eat.

Her father sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment or two, then
got up with a non-committal, "Well!" gathered up his letters, and
tramped from the room.

Mrs. Ingleton took up the paper and perused it, humming.  Sylvia
ate her breakfast in dead silence.

She rose finally to pour herself out some coffee, and at the
movement her step-mother looked up.  There was a glitter in her
hard grey eyes that somewhat belied the smile she sought to assume.
"Now, my dear," she said, in the tone of one lecturing a refractory
child, "you were a very wilful and impertinent girl last night.  I
told you I should punish you, and I have kept my word.  I do not
advise you to aggravate the offence by sulking."

"Will you tell me what you mean?" said Sylvia, standing stiff and
straight before her.

Mrs. Ingleton slightly shrugged her shoulders.  "You are behaving
like a child of six, and really, if you go on, you will provoke me
into treating you as such.  The attitude you have chosen to adopt
is neither sensible nor dignified, let me tell you.  You resent my
presence here.  Very well; but you cannot prevent it.  Would it not
be much wiser of you either to submit to my authority or----"

"Or?" repeated Sylvia icily.

"Or take the obvious course of providing yourself with a home
elsewhere," said Mrs. Ingleton.

Sylvia put up a quick hand to her throat.  She was breathing very
quickly.  "You wish to force me to marry that horrible Preston
man?" she said.

"By no means, my dear," smiled Mrs. Ingleton.  "But you might do a
good deal worse.  I tell you frankly, you will be very much
underdog as long as you elect to remain in this establishment.  Oh
yes!" She suddenly rose to her full majestic height, dwarfing the
girl before her with conscious triumph.  "I may have some trouble
with you, but conquer you I will.  Your father will not interfere
between us.  You have seen that for yourself.  In fact, he has just
told me that he leaves the management of you entirely to me.  He
has given me an absolutely free hand--very wisely.  If I choose to
lock you in your room for the rest of the day he will not
interfere.  And as I am quite capable of doing so, I warn you to be
very careful."

Sylvia stood as if turned to stone.  She was white to the lips, but
she confronted her step-mother wholly without fear.

"Do you really think I would submit to that?" she said.  "I am not
a child, I assure you, whatever I may appear to you.  You will
certainly never manage me by that sort of means."

Her clear, emphatic voice fell without agitation.  Now that the
first shock of the encounter was past she had herself quite firmly
in hand.

But Mrs. Ingleton took her up swiftly, realizing possibly that a
moment's delay would mean the yielding of the ground she had so
arrogantly claimed.

"I shall manage you exactly as I choose," she said, raising her
voice with abrupt violence.  "I know very well your position in
this house.  You are absolutely dependent, and--unless you
marry--you will remain so, being quite unqualified to earn your own
living.  Therefore the whip-hand is mine, and if I find you
insolent or intractable I shall use it without mercy.  How dare you
set yourself against me in this way?"  She stamped with sudden fury
upon the ground.  "No, not a word! Leave the room instantly--I will
have no more of it!  Do you hear me, Sylvia?  Do you hear me?"

She raised a menacing hand, but the fearless eyes never flinched.

"I think you must be mad," Sylvia said.

"Mad!" raved Mrs. Ingleton.  "Mad because I refuse to be dictated
to by an impertinent girl?  Mad because I insist upon being
mistress in my own house?  You--you little viper--how dare you
stand there defying me?  Do you want to be turned out into the
street?"

She had worked herself up into unreasoning rage again.  Sylvia saw
that further argument would be worse than useless.  Very quietly,
without another word, she turned, gathered up riding-whip and
gloves, and went from the room.  She heard Mrs. Ingleton utter a
fierce, malignant laugh as she went.




CHAPTER IV

THE VICTOR

The commencement of the fox-hunting season was always celebrated by
a dance at the Town Hall--a dance which Sylvia had never failed to
attend during the five years that she had been in society and had
been a member of the Hunt.

It was at her first Hunt Ball, on the occasion of her _debut_, that
she had met young Guy Ranger, and she looked back to that ball with
all its tender reminiscences as the beginning of all things.

How superlatively happy she had been that night!  Not for anything
that life could offer would she have parted with that one precious
romance of her girlhood.  She clung to the memory of it as to a
priceless possession.  And year after year she had gone to the Hunt
Ball with that memory close in her heart.

It was at the last of these that George Preston had asked her to be
his wife.  She had made every effort to avoid him, but he had
mercilessly tracked her down; and though she had refused him with
great emphasis she had never really felt that he had taken her
seriously.  He was always seeking her out, always making excuses to
be alone with her.  It was growing increasingly difficult to evade
him.  She had never liked the man, but Fate or his own contrivance
was continually throwing him in her way.  If she hunted, he
invariably rode home with her.  If she remained away, he invariably
came upon her somehow, and wanted to know wherefore.

She strongly suspected that her step-mother was in league with him,
though she had no direct proof of this.  Preston was being
constantly asked to the house, and whenever they went out to dine
they almost invariably met him.  She had begun to have a feeling
that people eyed them covertly, with significant glances, that they
were thrown together by design.  Wherever they met, he always fell
to her lot as dinner-partner, and he had begun to affect an
attitude of proprietorship towards her which was yet too indefinite
for her actively to resent,

She felt as if a net were closing around her from which, despite
her utmost effort, she was powerless to escape.  Also, for weeks
now she had received no letter from Guy, and that fact disheartened
her more than any other.  She had never before had to wait so long
for word from him.  Very brief, often unsatisfying, as his letters
had been, at least they had never failed to arrive.  And she
counted upon them so.  Without them, she felt bereft of her
mainstay.  Without them, the almost daily, nerve-shattering scenes
which her step-mother somehow managed to enact, however discreet
her attitude, became an infliction hardly to be borne.  She might
have left her home for a visit among friends, but something held
her back from this.  Something warned her that if she went her
place would be instantly filled up, and she would never return.
And very bitterly she realized the fact that for the next two years
she was dependent.  She had not been trained to earn her own
living, and she lacked the means to obtain a training.  Her father,
she knew, would not hear of such a thing, nor would he relinquish
the only means he possessed of controlling her actions.  She
believed that privately he did not wish to part with her, though
her presence was a very obvious drawback to his comfort.  He never
took her part, but also he never threw his weight into the balance
against her.  He merely, with considerable surliness, looked on.

And so the cruel struggle went on till it seemed to Sylvia that her
physical strength was ultimately beginning to fail.  She came to
dread her step-mother's presence with a feeling akin to nausea, to
shrink in every nerve from the constant ordeals so ruthlessly
thrust upon her,

So far she had never faltered or shown any sign of weakness under
the long-drawn-out persecution, but she was becoming aware that,
strive as she might, her endurance had its limits.  She was but
human, and she was intensely sensitive to unkindness.  Her nerves
were beginning to give way under the strain.  There were even times
when she felt a breakdown to be inevitable, and only the thought of
her step-mother's triumph warded it off.  Once down, and she knew
she would be a slave, broken beyond redemption to the most pitiless
tyranny.  And so, though her strength was worn threadbare through
perpetual strain, she clung to it still.  If only--oh, if only--Guy
would write!  If he should be ill--if he should fail her--she felt
that it would be the end of everything.  For nothing else mattered.

She did not greatly wish to go to the Hunt Ball that year.  She
felt utterly out of tune with all gaiety.  But she could think of
no decent excuse for remaining away.  And she was still buoying
herself up with the thought that Guy's silence could not last much
longer.  She was bound to hear from him soon.

She went to the Ball, therefore, feeling tired and dispirited, and
looking quite _passee_, as her step-mother several times assured
her.

She had endured a long harangue upon jealousy that evening, which
vice Mrs. Ingleton declared she was allowing to embitter her whole
life, and she was weary to death of the subject and the penetrating
voice that had discoursed upon it.  Once or twice she had been
stung into some biting rejoinder, but for the most part she had
borne the lecture in silence.  After all, what did it matter?  What
did it matter?

They reached the Town Hall and went up the carpeted steps.
Preston, in hunting pink, received them.  He captured Sylvia's hand
and pressed it tight against his heart.

She stared at him with wide unsmiling eyes.  "Seen the local rag?"
he asked, as he grinned amorously into them.  "There's something to
interest you in it.  Our local prophet has been at work."

She did not know what he meant, or feel sufficiently interested to
inquire.  She pulled her hand free, and passed on.  His familiarity
became more marked and more insufferable every time she encountered
him.  But still she asked herself again, what did it matter?

He laughed and let her go.

In the cloak-room people looked at her oddly, but beyond ordinary
greetings no one spoke to her.  She did not know that it was solely
her utter wretchedness that kept them at a distance.

She entered the ballroom behind Mrs. Ingleton, and at once Preston
descended upon her again.  He had scrawled his name against half a
dozen dances on her card before she realized what he was doing.
She began to protest, but again that deadly feeling of apathy
overcame her.  She was worn out--worn out.  What did it matter
whether she danced with the man or not?

Young Vernon Eversley, a friendly boy whom she had always liked,
pursed his lips when he saw her programme.

"It's true then, is it?" he said.

"What is true?" She looked at him questioningly, not feeling
greatly interested in his answer.

He met her look with straight, honest eyes.  "I saw the
announcement of your engagement in the paper this morning; but
somehow I didn't believe it.  He's a dashed lucky man."

That startled her out of her lethargy.  She began a quick
disclaimer, but they were interrupted.  One of the stewards came up
and swept young Eversley away.

The next moment Preston came and took possession of her.  He was
laughing still as he whirled her in among the dancers, refusing to
give her any breathing-space.

"I want to see a little colour in those cheeks of yours,
Cherry-ripe," he said.  "What's the Ingleton dragon been doin' to
you, my pretty?"

She danced with him with a feeling that the net was drawn close
about her, and she was powerless to struggle any longer.  When he
suffered her to stand at last, her head was whirling so that she
had to cling to him for support.

He led her to a secluded corner and put her into a chair.  Then he
bent over her and spoke into her ear.  "Look here!  I'm not such a
bad sort.  They've coupled our names together in the local rag.
Why not let 'em?"

She looked up at him, summoning her strength with a great effort.
"So it was your doing!" she said.

"No, it wasn't!" he declared.  "I swear it wasn't!  I'm not such a
fool as that.  But see here, Sylvia!  Where's the use of holdin'
out any longer?  You know I want you, and there's no sense in goin'
on pinin' for a fellow in South Africa who's probably married a
dozen blacks already.  It isn't like you to cry for the moon.  Put
up with me instead! You might do worse, and anyone can see you're
havin' a dog's time at the Manor now.  You'll be your own boss
anyway if you come to me."

She heard him with her eyes fixed before her.  Her brief energy had
gone.  Her life seemed to stretch before her in a long, dreary
waste.  His arguments were unanswerable.  Physical weariness,
combined with the despair which till then she had refused to
acknowledge, overwhelmed her.  She was down.

He put his hand upon her.  "Come, I say!  Is it a bargain?  I swear
I won't bully you.  I'm awfully fond of you, Cherry-ripe."

She raised herself slowly.  It was her last effort.  "One thing
first," she said, and put his hand away from her.  "I must--cable
to Guy, and get an answer."

"Oh, rot!" he said.  "What for?"

"Because I haven't heard from him lately, and I must know--I must
know"--she spoke with rising agitation--"the reason why.  He might
be--I don't say it is likely, but he might be--on his way home to
me.  I can't--I can't give him up without knowing."

Preston grimaced wryly, but he was shrewd enough to grasp and hold
such advantage as was his.  "Well, failing him, you'll have me,
what?  That's a promise, is it?"

She looked at him again.  "If you want me under those conditions."

He put his arms about her.  "Of course I want you, Cherry-ripe!
We'd be awfully happy together, you and I.  I'll soon make you
forget him, if that's all.  You can't be very deeply in love with
the fellow after all this time.  I don't suppose he's in the least
the sort of person you take him for.  You're wastin' your time over
a myth.  Come, it's settled, isn't it?  We're engaged."

He pressed her closer.  He bent to kiss her, but she turned her
face away.  His lips only found her neck, but he made the most of
that.  She had to exert her strength to free herself.

"No," she said.  "We're not engaged.  We can't be engaged--until I
have heard from Guy."

He suppressed a short word of impatience.  "And suppose you don't
hear?" he asked.

She made a blind movement with her hands.  "Then---I give in."

"You will marry me?" he insisted.

"If you like," she answered drearily.  "I expect you will very soon
get tired of me."

"There's a remedy for everything," he answered jauntily.  "But we
needn't consider that.  I'm just mad to get you, you poor little
icicle.  I'll warm you up, never fear.  When you've been married to
me a week, you won't know yourself." She shivered and was silent.

He turned in his tracks, perceiving he was making no headway.
"Then we're engaged provisionally anyway," he insisted.  "There's
no need to contradict the general impression--unless we're obliged.
We'll behave like lovers--till further notice."

She got to her feet.  Her knees were trembling.  The net was close
at last.  She seemed to feel it pressing on her throat.  "You are
not--to kiss me," she managed to say.

He frowned at the condition, but he conceded it.  The game was so
nearly his that he could afford to be generous.  Besides, he would
exact payment in full later for any little concessions she wrung
from him now.

"I'm bein' awfully patient," he said pathetically.  "I hope you'll
take that into account.  You really might just as well give in
first as last."

But Sylvia had given in, and she knew it.  Nothing but a miracle
could save her now.  The only loophole she had for herself was one
which she realized already was highly unlikely to serve her.  She
had been practically forced into submission, and she did not
attempt to disguise the fact from herself.

Yet if only Guy had not failed her, she knew that no power on earth
would have sufficed to move her, no clamour of battle could ever
have made her quail.  That had been the chink in her armour, and
through that she had been pierced again and again, till she was
vanquished at last.

She felt too weary now, too utterly overwhelmed by circumstances,
to care what happened.  Yes, she would cable to Guy as she had
said.  But her confidence was gone.  She was convinced already that
no word would come back in answer out of the void that had
swallowed him,

She went through the evening as one in a dream.  People offered her
laughing congratulations, and she never knew how she received them.
She seemed to be groping her way through an all-enveloping mist of
despair.

One episode only stood out clearly from all the rest, and that was
when all were assembled at supper and out of the gay hubbub she
caught the sound of her own name.  Then for a few intolerable
moments she became vividly alive to that which was passing around
her.  She knew that George Preston's arm encircled her, and that
everyone present had risen to drink to their happiness.

As soon as it was over she crept away like a wounded thing and hid
herself.  Only a miracle could save her now.




CHAPTER V

THE MIRACLE

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Ingleton, rising to kiss her
step-daughter on the following morning, "I consider you are a
very--lucky--girl."

Sylvia received the kiss and passed on without reply.  She was very
pale, but the awful inertia of the previous night had left her.
She was in full command of herself.  She took up some letters from
a side table, and sat down with them.

Her step-mother eyed her for a moment or two in silence.  Then:
"Well, my dear?" she said.  "Have you nothing to say for yourself?"

"Nothing particular," said Sylvia.

The letters were chiefly letters of congratulation.  She read them
with that composure which Mrs. Ingleton most detested, and put them
aside.

"Am I to have no share in the general rejoicing?" she asked at
length, in a voice that trembled with indignation.

Sylvia recognized the tremor.  It had been the prelude to many a
storm.  She got up and turned to the window.  "You can read them
all if you like," she said.  "I see Dad on the terrace.  I am just
going to speak to him."

She passed out swiftly with the words before her step-mother's
gathering wrath could descend upon her.  One of Mrs. Ingleton's
main grievances was that it was so difficult to corner Sylvia when
she wanted to give free vent to her violence.

She watched the girl's slim figure pass out into the pale November
sunshine, and her frown turned to a very bitter smile.

"Ah, my girl, you wait a bit!" she murmured.  "You've met your
match, or I'm much mistaken."

The squire was smoking his morning pipe in a sheltered corner.  He
looked round with his usual half-surly expression as his daughter
joined him.

She came to him very quietly and put her hand on his arm.

"Well?" he said gruffly.

She stood for a moment or two in silence, then:

"Dad," she said very quietly, "I am going to cable to Guy.  I
haven't heard from him lately.  I must know the reason why
before--before----" A quiver of agitation sounded in her voice and
she stopped.

"If you've made up your mind to marry Preston, I don't see why you
want to do that," said the squire curtly.

"I am going to do it," she answered steadily.  "I only wish I had
done it sooner."

Ingleton burrowed into his paper.  "All right," he growled.

Sylvia stood for a few seconds longer, but he did not look up at
her, and at length, with a sharp sigh, she turned and left him.

She did not return to her step-mother, however.  She went to her
room to write her message.

A little later she passed down the garden on her way to the
village.  A great restlessness was upon her, and she thought the
walk to the post-office would do her good.

She came upon Jeffcott in one of the shrubberies, and he stopped
her with the freedom of an old servant.

"Beggin' your pardon, missie, but you'll let me wish you joy?" he
said.  "I heard the good news this morning."

She stood still.  His friendly look went straight to her heart,
stirring in her an urgent need for sympathy.

"Oh, Jeffcott," she said, "I'd never have given in if Mr. Ranger
hadn't stopped writing."

"Lor!" said Jeffcott.  "Did he now?"  He frowned for an instant.
"But---didn't you have a letter from him last week?" he questioned.
"Friday morning it were.  I see Evans, the postman, and he said as
there were a South African letter for you.  Weren't that from Mr.
Ranger, missie?"

"What?" said Sylvia sharply.

"Last Friday it were," the old man repeated firmly.  "Why, I see
the letter in his hand top of the pile when he stopped in the drive
to speak to me.  We both of us passed a remark on it."

Sylvia was staring at him.  "Jeffcott, are you sure?" she said.

"Sure as I stand here, Miss Sylvia," he returned.  "I couldn't have
made no mistake.  Didn't you have it then, missie?  I'll swear to
heaven it were there."

"No," Sylvia said.  "I didn't have it."  She paused a moment; then
very slowly, "The last letter I had from Guy Ranger," she said,
"was more than six weeks ago--the day that the squire brought Madam
to the Manor."

"Lor!" ejaculated old Jeffcott again.  "But wherever could they
have got to, Miss Sylvia?  Don't Bliss have the sortin' of the
letters?"

"I--don't--know."  Sylvia was gazing straight before her with that
in her face which frightened the old man.  "Those letters have
been--kept back."

She turned from him with the words, and suddenly she was running,
running swiftly up the path.

Like a young animal released from bondage she darted out of his
sight, and Jeffcott returned to his hedge-trimming with pursed
lips.  That last glimpse of Miss Sylvia's face had--to express it
in his own language--given him something of a turn.

It had precisely the same effect upon Sylvia's step-mother a little
later, when the girl burst in upon her as she sat writing letters
in her boudoir.

She looked round at her in amazement, but she had no time to ask
for an explanation, for Sylvia, white to the lips, with eyes of
flame, went straight to the attack.  She was in such a whirlwind of
passion as had never before possessed her.

She was panting, yet she spoke with absolute distinctness.  "I have
just found out," she said, "how it is that I have had no letters
from Guy during the past six weeks.  They have been--stolen."

"Really, Sylvia!" said Mrs. Ingleton.  She arose in wrath, but no
wrath had any effect upon Sylvia at that moment.  She was girt for
battle--the deadliest battle she had ever known.

"You took them!" she said, pointing an accusing finger full at her
step-mother.  "You kept them back!  Deny it as much as you like--as
much as you dare!  None but you would have stooped to do such a
thing.  And it has been done.  The letters have been delivered--and
I have not received them.  I have suffered--horribly--because of
it.  You meant me to suffer!'

"You are wrong, Sylvia!  You are wrong!" Shrilly Mrs. Ingleton
broke in upon her, for there was something awful in the girl's
eyes--they had a red-hot look.  "Whatever I have done has been for
your good always.  Your father will testify to that.  Go and ask
him if you don't believe me!"

"My father had nothing to do with this!" said Sylvia in tones of
withering scorn.  "Whatever else he lacks, he has a sense of
honour.  But you--you are a wicked woman, unprincipled, cruel,
venomous.  It may be my father's duty to live with you, but--thank
heaven--it is not mine.  You have come into my home and cursed it.
I will never sleep under the same roof with you again."

She turned with the words to leave the room, and found her father
and George Preston just coming out of the library on the other side
of the hall.  Fearlessly she swung round and confronted them.  The
utter freedom of her at that moment made her superb.  The miracle
had happened.  She had rent the net that entangled her to shreds.

Mrs. Ingleton was beginning to clamour in the room behind her.  She
turned swiftly and shut and locked the door.  Then she faced the
two men with magnificent courage.

"I have to tell you," she said, addressing them both impersonally,
"that my engagement to Guy Ranger is unbroken.  I have just found
out that my step-mother has been suppressing his letters to me.
That, of course, alters everything.  And--also of course--it makes
it impossible for me to stay here any longer.  I am going to
him--at once."

Her eyes went rapidly from her father's face to Preston's.  It was
he who came forward and answered her.  The squire seemed struck
dumb.

"Egad!" he said.  "I've never seen you look so rippin' in all my
life!  That's how you look when you're angry, is it?  Now I shall
know what to watch out for when we're married."

She answered him with a quiver of scorn.  "We never shall be
married, Mr. Preston.  You may put that out of your mind for ever.
I am going to Guy by the next boat."

"Not you!" laughed Preston.  "You're in a paddy just now, my dear,
but when you've thought it over soberly you'll find there are a
good many little obstacles in the way of that.  You haven't been
brought up to rough it for one.  And Guy Ranger, as I think we
settled last night, has probably married half a dozen blacks
already.  It's too great a risk, Cherry-ripe!  And--if I know
you--you won't take it."

"You don't know me," said Sylvia.  She turned, from him and went to
her father.  "Have you nothing to say," she asked, "about this vile
and hateful plot?  But I suppose you can't.  She is your wife.
However much you despise her, you have got to endure her.  But I
have not.  And so I am going--to-day!"

Her voice rang clear and unfaltering.  She looked him straight in
the eyes.  He made a sharp movement, almost as if that full regard
pierced him.

He spoke with manifest effort.  "You won't go with my consent."

"No?" said Sylvia.  "Yet--you would never respect me again if I
stayed.  I could never respect myself." She glanced over her
shoulder at the door which Mrs. Ingleton was violently shaking.
"You can let her out," she said contemptuously.  "I have had my
turn.  I leave her--in possession."  She turned to go to the
stairs, then abruptly checked herself, stepped up to her father,
put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him.  The anger had gone
out of her eyes.  "Good-bye, Dad!  Think of me sometimes!" she said.

And with that she was gone, passing Preston by as though she saw
him not, and ascending the stairs quickly, but wholly without
agitation.  They heard her firm, light tread along the corridor
above.  Then with a hunch of the shoulders the squire turned and
unlocked the boudoir door.

Mrs. Ingleton burst forth in a fury.  "You cad to keep me boxed up
here with that little serpent pouring all sorts of poison into your
ears!  Where is she?  Where is she?  I'll give her such a trouncing
as she's never had before!"

But Ingleton stretched an arm in front of her, barring the way.
His face was grim and unyielding.  "No, you won't!" he said.
"You'll leave her alone.  She's my daughter--not yours.  And you'll
not interfere with her any further."

There was a finality in his tone.  Mrs. Ingleton stopped short,
glaring at him.

"You take her part, do you?" she demanded.

"On this occasion--yes, I do," said the squire.

"And what about me?" said Preston.

Ingleton looked at him--still barring his wife's progress--with a
faint, sardonic smile.  "Well, she seems to have given you the
boot, anyway.  If I were in your place, I should--quit."

"She'll repent it!" raved Mrs. Ingleton.  "Oh, she will repent it
bitterly!"

"Very likely," conceded Ingleton.  "But she's kicked over the
traces now, and that fact won't pull her up--anyhow, at present,"

Mrs. Ingleton's look held fierce resentment.  "Are you going to let
her go?" she said.

He shrugged his shoulders.  "Seeing I can't help myself, I suppose
I shall.  There's no sense in making a fuss now.  It's done, so you
leave her alone!"

Mrs. Ingleton turned upon Preston.  "You can bring an action for
breach of promise!" she said.  "I'll support you."

He made her an ironical bow.  "You are more than kind," he said.
"But--I think I shall get on better for the future without your
support."

And with the words he turned on his heel and went out.

"Hateful person!" cried Mrs. Ingleton.  "Gilbert, he has insulted
me!  Go after him and kick him!  Gilbert!  How dare you?"

Ingleton was quietly but firmly impelling her back into the
boudoir.  "You go and sit down!" he said.  "Sit down and be quiet!
There's been enough of this."

It was the first time in her knowledge that he had ever asserted
himself.  Mrs. Ingleton stared at him wildly for a second or two,
then, seeing that he was in earnest, subsided into a chair with a
burst of hysterical weeping, declaring that no one ever treated her
so brutally before.

She expected to be soothed, comforted, propitiated, but no word of
solace came.  Finally she looked round with an indignant dabbing of
her tears.  How dare he treat her thus?  Was he quite heartless?
She began to utter a stream of reproaches, but stopped short and
gasped in incredulous disgust.  He had actually--he had
actually--gone, and left her to wear her emotion out in solitude.

So overwhelming was the result of this piece of neglect, combined
with the failure of all her plans, that Mrs. Ingleton retired
forwith to bed, and remained there for the rest of the day.




CHAPTER VI

THE LAND OF STRANGERS

It had been a day of intense and brooding heat.  Black clouds hung
sullenly low in the sky, and a heavy gloom obscured the face of the
earth.  On each side of the railway the _veldt_ stretched for
miles, vivid green, yet strangely desolate to unaccustomed eyes.
The moving train seemed the only sign of life in all that
wilderness.

Sylvia leaned from the carriage window and gazed blankly forth.
She had hoped that Guy would meet her at Cape Town, but he had not
been there.  She had come unwelcomed into this land of strangers.
But he would be at Ritzen.  He had cabled a month before that he
would meet her there if he could not get to Cape Town.

And now she was nearing Ritzen.  Across the mysterious desolation
she discerned its many lights.  It was a city in a plain, and the
far hills mounted guard around it, but she saw them only dimly in
the failing light.

Ritzen was the nearest railway station to the farm on which Guy
worked.  From here she would have to travel twenty miles across
country.  But that would not be yet.  Guy and she would be married
first.  There would be a little breathing-space at Ritzen before
she went into that new life that awaited her beyond the hills.
Somehow she felt as if those hills guarded her destiny.  She did
not fear the future, but she looked forward to it with a certain
awe.

Paramount within her, was the desire for Guy, the sight of his
handsome, debonair countenance, the ring of his careless laugh.  As
soon as she saw Guy she knew she would be at home, even in the land
of strangers, as she had never been at the Manor since the advent
of her father's second wife.  She had no misgivings on that point,
or she had never come across the world to him thus, making all
return impossible.  For there could be be no going back for her.
She had taken a definite and irrevocable step.  There could be no
turning back upon this road that she had chosen.

It might not be an easy road.  She was prepared for obstacles.  But
with Guy she was ready to face anything.  The adversity through
which she had come had made the thought of physical hardship of
very small account.  And deep in her innermost soul she had a
strong, belief in her own ultimate welfare.  She was sure that she
had done the right thing in thus striking out for herself, and she
was equally sure that, whatever it might entail, she would not
regret it in the end.

The lights were growing nearer.  She discerned the brick building
of the station.  Over the wide stretch of land that yet intervened
there came to her the smell of smoke and human habitation.  A warm
thrill went through her.  In two minutes now--in less--the long
five years' separation would be over, and she would be clasping
Guy's hand again.

She leaned from the window, scanning the few outstanding houses of
the town as the train ran past.  Then they were in the station, and
a glare of light received them.

A crowd of unfamiliar faces swam before her eyes, and then--she saw
him.  He stood on the platform awaiting her, distinct from all the
rest to her eager gaze--a man of medium height, broader than she
remembered, with a keen, bronzed face and eagle eyes that caught
and held her own.

She sprang form the train almost before it shopped.  She held out
both her hands to him.

"Guy! Guy!"

Her voice came sobbingly.  He gripped the hands hard and close.

"So you've got here!" he said.

She was staring at him, her face upraised.  What was there about
him that did not somehow tally with the Guy of her memory and her
dreams?  He was older, of course; he was more mature, bigger in
every way.  But she missed something.  There was no kindling of
pleasure in his eyes.  They looked upon her kindly.  Ah, yes; but
the rapture--where was the rapture of greeting?

A sense of coldness went through her.  Her hands fell from his.  He
had changed--he had changed indeed!  His eyes were too keen.  She
thought they held a calculating expression.  And the South African
sun had tanned him almost bronze.  His chin had a stubbly look.
The Guy she had known had been perfectly smooth of skin.

She looked at him with a rather piteous attempt to laugh.  "I
wonder I knew you at all," she said, "with that hideous embryo
beard.  I'm sure you haven't shaved to-day."

He put up a hand and felt his chin.  "No, I shaved yesterday," he
said, and laughed.  "I've been too busy to-day."

That reassured her.  The laugh at least was like Guy, brief though
it was.  "Horrid boy!" she said.  "Well, help me collect my things.
We'll talk afterwards."

He helped her.  He went into the carriage she had just left and
pulled out all her belongings.  These he dumped on the platform and
told her to wait while he collected the rest.

She stood obediently in the turmoil of Britons, Boers, and Kaffirs,
that surged around.  She felt bewildered, strung up, unlike
herself.  It was a land of strangers, indeed, and she felt forlorn
and rather frightened.  Why had Guy looked at her so oddly?  Why
had his welcome been so cold?  Could it be--could it be--that he
was not pleased to see her, that--that--possibly he did not want
her?  The dreadful chill went through her again like a sword
thrusting at her heart, and with it went old Jeffcott's warning
words: "Do you ever ask yourself what sort of man he may be after
five years?  I'll warrant he's lived every minute of it.  He's the
sort that would."

She had felt no doubt then, nor ever since, until this moment.  And
now--now it came upon her and overwhelmed her.  She glanced about
her, almost as one seeking escape.

"I've fixed everything up.  Come along to the railway hotel!  You
must be pretty tired." He had returned to her, and he stood looking
at her with those strangely keen eyes, almost as if he had never
seen her before, she thought to herself desolately.

She looked bade at him with unconscious appeal in her own.  "I am
tired," she said, and was aware of a sudden difficulty in speaking.
"Is it far?"

"No," he said; "only a step."

He gathered up her hand-baggage and led the way, making a path for
her through the throng.

She scarcely noticed where she went, so completely did he fill her
mind.  He had changed enormously, developed in a fashion that she
had never deemed possible.  He walked with a free swing, and
carried himself as one who counted.  He had the look of one
accustomed to command.  She seemed to read prosperity in every
line.  But was he prosperous?  If so, why had he not sent for her
long ago?

They reached the hotel.  He led the way without pause straight to a
small private room where a table had been prepared for a meal.

"Sit down!" he said.  "Take off your things!  You must be starved."

He rang the bell and gave an order while she mutely obeyed.  All
her confidence was gone.  She had begun to tremble.  The wonder
crossed her mind if perhaps she, too, had altered, grown beyond all
his previous conception of her.  Possibly she was as much a
stranger to him as he to her.  Was that why he had looked at her
with that oddly critical expression?  Was that why he did not now
take her in his arms?

Impulsively she took off her hat and turned round to him.

He was looking at her still, and again that awful sense of doubt
mastered and possessed her.  A great barrier seemed to have sprung
up between them.  He was formidable, actually formidable.  The Guy
of old days, impetuous, hot-tempered even, had never been that.

She stood before him, controlling her rising agitation with a great
effort.  "Why do you look at me like that?" she said.  "I feel--you
make me feel--as if--you are a total stranger!"

His face changed a little, but still she could not read his look.
"Sit down!" he said.  "We must have a talk."

She put out her hand to him.  The aloofness of his speech cut her
with an anguish intolerable.  "What has happened?" she said.
"Quick!  Tell me!  Don't you want to--marry me?"

He took her hand.  She saw that in some fashion he was moved,
though still she could not understand.  "I'm trying to tell you,"
he said; "but--to be honest--you've hit me in the wind, and I don't
know how.  I think you have forgotten in all these years what Guy
was like."

She gazed at him blankly.  Again Jeffcott's words were running in
her mind.  And something--something hidden behind them--arose up
like a menace and terrified her.

"I haven't forgotten," she whispered voicelessly.  "I couldn't
forget.  But go on!  Don't--don't mind telling me!"

She was white to the lips.  All the blood in her body seemed
concentrated at her heart.  It was beating in heavy, sickening
throbs like the labouring of some clogged machinery.

He put his free hand on her shoulder with an abrupt movement that
made him for the moment oddly familiar.  "It's a damned shame," he
said, and though his voice was low he spoke with feeling.  "Look
here, child!  This is no fault of mine.  I never thought you could
make this mistake, never dreamed of such a possibility.  I'm not
Guy at all.  I am Burke Ranger--his cousin.  And let me tell you at
once, we are not much alike now--whatever we have been in the past.
Here, don't faint! Sit down!"

He shifted his hand from her shoulder to her elbow, and supported
her to a chair.  But she remained upon her feet, her white face
upraised, gazing at him--gazing at him.

"Not Guy!  Not Guy!" She said it over and over as if to convince
herself.  Then: "But where is Guy?" She clutched at his arm
desperately, for all her world was shaking.  "Are you going to tell
me he is--dead?"

"No."  Burke Ranger spoke with steady eyes looking straight into
hers.  "He is not."

"Then why--then why--"  She could get no further.  She stopped,
gasping.  His face swam blurred before her quivering vision,--Guy's
face, yet with an inexplicable something in it that was not Guy.

"Sit down!" he said again, and put her with quiet insistence into
the chair.  "Wait till you have had something to eat!  Then we'll
have a talk and decide what had better be done."

She was shivering from head to foot, but she faced him still.  "I
can't eat," she said through white lips.  "I can't do anything
till--till I know--all there is to know."

He stood looking down at her.  The fingers of his right hand were
working a little, but his face was perfectly calm, even grim.

As he did not speak immediately, she went on with piteous effort.
"You must forgive me for making that stupid mistake.  I see
now--you are not Guy, though there is a strong likeness.  You see,
I have not seen Guy for five years, and I--I was allowing for
certain changes."

"He is changed," said Burke Ranger.

That nameless terror crept closer about her heart.  Her eyes met
his imploringly.

"Really I am quite strong," she said.  "Won't you tell me what is
wrong?  He--cabled to me to come to him.  It was in answer to my
cable."

"Yes, I know," said Ranger.

He turned from her abruptly and walked to the window.  The darkness
had drawn close.  It hung like a black curtain beyond the pane.
The only light in the room was a lamp that burned on a side table.
It illumined him but dimly, and again it seemed to the girl who
watched him that this could be no other than the Guy of her
dreams--the Guy she had loved so faithfully, for whose sake she had
waited so patiently for so many weary years.  Surely it was he who
had made the mistake! Surely even yet he would turn and gather her
to his heart, and laugh at her folly for being so easily deluded!

Ah! He had turned.  He stood looking at her across the
dimly-lighted space.  Her very heart stood still to hear his voice.

He spoke.  "The best thing you can do is to go back to the place
you came from--and marry someone else."

The words went through her.  They seemed to tear and lacerate her.
As in a nightmare vision she saw the bitterness that lay behind
her, the utter emptiness before.  She still stared full at him, but
she saw him not.  Her terror had taken awful shape before her, and
all her courage was gone.  She cowered before it.

"I can't--I can't!" she said, and even to herself her voice sounded
weak and broken, like the cry of a lost child.  "I can't go back!"

He came across the room to her, moving quickly, as if something
urged him.  She did not know that she had flung out her hands in
wild despair until she felt him gather them together in his own.

He bent over her, and she saw very clearly in his countenance that
which had made her realize that he was not Guy.  "Look here!" he
said.  "Have a meal and go to bed!  We will talk it out in the
morning.  You are worn out now."

His voice held insistence.  There was no softness in it.  Had he
displayed kindness in that moment she would have burst into tears.
But he put her hands down again with a brief, repressive gesture,
and the impulse passed.  She yielded him obedience, scarcely
knowing what she did.

He brought her food and wine, and she ate and drank mechanically
while he watched her with his grey, piercing eyes, not speaking at
all.

Finally she summoned strength to look up at him with a quivering
smile.  "You are very kind.  I am sorry to have given you so much
trouble."

He made an abrupt movement that she fancied denoted impatience.
"Can't you eat any more?" he said.

She shook her head, still bravely smiling.  "I can't--really.  I
think--I think perhaps you are right.  I had better go to bed, and
you will tell me everything in the morning."

"Finish the drink anyhow!" he said.

She hesitated momentarily, but he pushed the glass firmly towards
her and she obeyed.

She stood up then and faced him.  "Will you please tell me one
thing--to--to set my mind at rest?  Guy--Guy isn't ill?"

He looked her straight in the face.  "No."

"You are sure?" she said.

"Yes." He spoke with curt decision, yet oddly she wondered for a
fleeting second if he had told her the truth.

His look seemed to challenge the doubt, to beat it down.  Half
shyly, she held out her hand.

"Good night," she said.

His fingers grasped and released it.  He turned with her to the
door.  "I will show you your room" he said.




CHAPTER VII

THE WRONG TURNING

Sylvia slept that night the heavy, unstirring sleep of utter
weariness though when she lay down she scarcely expected to sleep
at all.  The shock, the bewilderment, the crushing dread, that had
attended her arrival after the long, long journey had completely
exhausted her mentally, and physically.  She slept as a child
sleeps at the end of a strenuous day.

When she awoke, the night was gone and all the world was awake and
moving.  The clouds had all passed, and a brilliant morning sun
shone down upon the wide street below her window.  She felt
refreshed though the heat was still great.  The burden that had
overwhelmed her the night before did not seem so intolerable by
morning light.  Her courage had come back to her.

She dressed with a firm determination to carry a brave face
whatever lay before her.  Things could not be quite so bad as they
had seemed the previous night.  Guy could not really have changed
so fundamentally.  Perhaps he only feared that she could not endure
poverty with him.  If that were all, she would soon teach him
otherwise.  All she wanted in life now was his love.

She had almost convinced herself that this was practically all she
had to contend with, and the ogre of her fears was well in the
background, when she finally left her room and went with some
uncertainty through the unfamiliar passages.

She found the entrance, but a crowd of curious Boers collected
about the door daunted her somewhat, and she was turning back from
their staring eyes when Burke Ranger suddenly strode through the
group and joined her.

She gave him a quick, half-startled glance as they met, and the
first thing that struck her about him was the obvious fact that he
had shaved.  His eyes intercepted hers, and she saw the flicker of
a smile pass across them and knew he had read her thought.

She flushed as she held out her hand to him.  "Good morning," she
said with a touch of shyness.  "I hope you haven't been wasting
your time waiting for me."

He took her hand and turned her towards the small room in which
they had talked together the previous night.  "No, I haven't wasted
my time," he said.  "I hope you have had a good rest?"

"Oh, quite, thank you," she answered.  "I slept like the dead.  I
feel--fit for anything."

"That's right," he said briefly.  "We will have some breakfast
before we start business."

"Oh, you have been waiting!" she exclaimed with compunction.  "I'm
so sorry.  I'm not generally so lazy."

"Don't apologize!" he said.  "You've done exactly what I hoped
you'd do.  Sit down, won't you?  Take the end of the table!"

His manner was friendly though curt.  Her embarrassment fell from
her as she complied.  They sat, facing one another, and, the light
being upon him, she gave him a steady look.  He was not nearly so
much like Guy as she had thought the previous night, though
undoubtedly there was a strong resemblance.  On a closer inspection
she did not think him handsome, but the keen alertness of him
attracted her.  He looked as if physical endurance were a quality
he had brought very near to perfection.  He had the stamp of the
gladiator upon him.  He had wrestled against odds.

After a moment or two he turned his eyes unexpectedly to hers.  It
was a somewhat disconcerting habit of his.

"A satisfactory result, I hope?" he said.

She did not look away.  "I don't consider myself a good character
reader," she said.  "But you are certainly not so much like Guy as
I thought at first sight."

"Thank you," he said.  "I must confess I prefer to be like myself."

She laughed a little.  "It was absurd of me to make such a mistake.
But yours was the only face that looked in the least familiar in
all that crowd.  I was so glad to see it."

"You have never been in this country before?" he asked.

She shook her head.  "Never.  I feel a dreadful outsider at
present.  But I shall soon learn.'

"Do you ride?" he said.

Her eyes kindled.  "Yes.  I was keen on hunting in England.  That
will be a help, won't it?"

"It would be," he said, "if you stayed."

"I have come to stay," she said with assurance.

"Wait a bit!" said Burke Ranger.

His manner rather than his words checked her.  She felt again that
cold dread pressing against her heart.  She turned from the subject
as one seeking escape.

She ate a good breakfast almost in spite of herself.  Ranger
insisted upon it, and since he was evidently hungry himself it
seemed churlish not to keep him company.  He told her a little
about the country, while they ate, but he strenuously avoided all
things personal, and she felt compelled to follow his lead.  He
imposed a certain restraint upon her, and even when he rose from
the table at length with the air of a man about to face the
inevitable, she did not feel it to be wholly removed.

She got up also and watched him fill his pipe with something of her
former embarrassment.  She expected him to light it when he had
finished, but he did not.  He put it in his pocket, and somewhat
abruptedly turned to her.

"Now!" he said.

She met his look with a brave face.  She even smiled--a gallant,
little smile to which he made no response.  "Well, now," she said,
"I want you to tell me the quickest way to get to Guy."

He faced her squarely.  "I've got to tell you something about him
first," he said.

"Yes?" Her heart was beating very quickly, but she had herself well
in hand.  "What is it?"

But he stood mutely considering her.  It was as if the power of
speech had suddenly gone from him.

"What is it?" she said again.  "Won't you tell me?"

He made a curious gesture.  It was almost a movement of flinching.
"You're so young," he said.

"Oh, but I'm not--I'm not!" she assured him.  "It's only my face.
I'm quite old really.  I've been through a lot."

"You've never seen life yet," he said.

"I have!" she declared with an odd vehemence.  "I've learnt lots of
things.  Why--do you look like that?  I'm not a child."

Her voice quivered a little in spite of her.  Why did he look like
that?  The compassion in his eyes smote her with a strange pain.
Why--why was he sorry for her?

He saw her rising agitation, and spoke, slowly, choosing his words.
"The fact is, Guy isn't what you take him for--isn't the right man
for you.  Nothing on this earth can make him so now, whatever he
may have been once.  He's taken the wrong turning, and there's no
getting back."

She gazed at him with wide eyes.  Her lips felt stiff and cold.
"What--what--do you mean, please?" she said.

She saw his hands clench.  "I don't want to tell you what I mean,"
he said.  "Haven't I said enough?"

She shook her head slowly, with drawn brows.  "No--no! I've got to
understand.  Do you mean Guy doesn't want me after all?  Didn't he
really mean me to come?  He--sent a message."

"I know.  That's the infernal part of it." Burke Ranger spoke with
suppressed force.  "He was blind drunk when he sent it."

"Oh!"  She put up her hands to her face for a moment as if to
shield herself from a blow.  "He--drinks, does he?"

"He does everything he ought not to do, except steal," said Ranger
bluntly.  "I've tried to keep him straight--tried every way.  I
can't.  It isn't to be done."

Sylvia's hands fell again.  "Perhaps," she said slowly, "perhaps I
could."

The man started as if he had been shot.  "You!" he said.

She met his look with her wide eyes.  "But why not?" she said.  "We
love each other."

He turned from her, grinding the floor with his heel.  "God help me
to make myself intelligible!" he said.

It was the most forcible prayer she had ever heard.  It struck
through to her very soul.  She stood motionless, but she felt
crushed and numb.

Ranger walked to the end of the room and then came straight back to
her.

"Look here!" he said.  "This is the most damnable thing I've ever
had to do.  Let's get it over!  He's a rotter and a blackguard.
Can you grasp that?  He hasn't lived a clean life all these years
he's been away from you.  He went wrong almost at the outset.  He's
the sort that always does go wrong.  I've done my best for him.
Anyhow, I've kept him going.  But I can't make a decent man of him.
No one can.  He has lucid intervals, but they get shorter and
shorter.  Just at present--" he paused momentarily, then plunged
on--"I told you last night he wasn't ill.  That was a lie.  He is
down with delirium tremens, and it isn't the first time."

"Ah!" Sylvia said.  He had made her understand at last.  She stood
for a space staring at him, then with a groping movement she found
and grasped the back of a chair.  "Why--why did you lie to me?" she
said.

"I did it for your sake," he answered briefly.  "You couldn't have
faced it then."

"I see," she said, and paused to collect herself.  "And does
he--does he realize that I am here?" she asked painfully.  "Doesn't
he--want to see me?"

"Just now," said Ranger grimly, "he is too busy thinking about his
own troubles to worry about anyone else's.  He does know you are
coming.  He was raving about it two nights ago.  Then came your
wire from Cape Town.  That was what brought me here to meet you."

"I see," she said again.  "You--you have been very good.  It would
have been dreadful if--if I had been stranded here alone."

"I'd have stopped you at Cape Town if I could," he said.

"No, you wouldn't have stopped me," she answered, with a drear
little smile.  "I should have had to come on and see Guy in any
case.  I shall have to see him now.  Where is he?"

Ranger stood close to her.  He bent slightly, looking into her
eyes.  "You have understood me?" he questioned.

She looked straight back at him; it was no moment for shrinking
avoidance.  "Yes," she said,

"And you believe me?" he proceeded.

Her red-brown eyes widened a little.  "But of course I believe you."

"And, still you want to see him?" said Burke Ranger.

"I must see him," she answered quietly.  "You must realize that.
You would do the same in my place."

"If I did," said Ranger, dropping his voice, "it would be to tell
him to go to hell!"  Then, as involuntarily she drew back: "No, I
shouldn't put it like that to you, I know.  But what's the point of
your seeing him? It will only make things worse for you."

"I must see him," she said firmly.  "Please tell me where he is!"

He looked at her for a moment or two in silence.  "He is in his own
shanty on my farm," he said then.  "Blue Hill Farm it is called.
You can't go to him there.  It's a twenty-mile ride from here."

"Can't I get a horse to take me?" she asked.

"I could take you in my cart," said Burke slowly.

"And will you?" Sylvia said.

"I suppose you will go in any case," he said.

"I must go," she answered steadily.

"I don't see why," he said.  "It's a degrading business.  It won't
do any good."

Her face quivered.  She controlled it swiftly.  "Will you take me?"
she said.

He frowned.  "What is going to happen afterwards?  Have you thought
of that?"

She shook her head.  "No.  I can't see the future at all.  I only
know that I must see Guy, and I can't go back to England."

"Why not?" he said.

She pressed a hand to her throat as if she found speaking a
difficulty.  "I have no place there.  My father has married again.
I must earn my living here somehow."

He moved abruptly.  "You!" he said again.  She tried to smile.
"You seem to think I am very helpless.  I assure you I am not.  I
have managed my father's house for five years.  I am quite willing
to learn anything, and I am very strong."

"You are very brave," he said, almost as if he spoke in spite of
himself.  "But--you've got to be sensible too.  You won't marry
him?"

She hesitated.  "I must see him.  I must judge for myself."

He nodded, still frowning.  "Very well,--if you must.  But you
won't marry him as a way out of your difficulties?  You've got to
promise me that."

"Why?" she said.

He answered her with that sudden force which before had startled
her.  "Because I can't stand by and see purity joined to
corruption.  Some women will sacrifice anything for sentiment.  You
wouldn't do anything so damn' foolish as that."

"No," said Sylvia.

"Then it's a promise?" he said.

She held out her hand to him with her brave little smile.  "I
promise you I won't do anything damn' foolish for the sake
of--sentiment.  Will that do?"

He gripped her hand for a moment.  "Yes.  I think it will," he said.

"And thank you for being so good to me," she added.

He dropped her hand, and turned away.  "As to that--I please
myself," he said briefly.  "Be ready to start in an hour from now!"




CHAPTER VIII

THE COMRADE

That twenty-mile ride in Burke Ranger's high cart, with a pair of
skittish young horses pulling at the reins, was an experience never
to be eradicated from Sylvia's memory.  They followed a course
across the veldt that began as a road and after a mile or two
deteriorated into a mere rough track.  Up and down many slopes they
travelled, but the far hills never seemed to draw any nearer.  Here
and there they passed kopjes stacked against the blazing blue of
the sky.  They held a weird attraction for her.  They were like the
stark bones of the earth pushing up through the coarse desert
grasses.  Their rugged strength and their isolation made her
marvel.  The veldt was swept by a burning wind.  The clouds of the
night before had left no rain behind.

Sylvia would have liked to ask many things of her companion but his
attention was completely absorbed by the animals he drove.  Also
talking was wellnigh impossible during that wild progress, for
though the horses presently sobered down somewhat, the roughness of
the way was such that most of the time her thoughts were
concentrated upon maintaining her seat.  She clung to her perch
with both hands, and mutely admired Burke Ranger's firm control and
deftness.  He seemed to know by instinct when to expect any sudden
strain.

The heat of the sun was intense, notwithstanding the shelter
afforded by the hood of the cart.  The air seemed to quiver above
the burning earth.  She felt after a time as if her eyes could
endure the glare no longer.  The rapid, bumping progress faded into
a sort of fitful unpleasant dream through which the only actual
vivid consciousness that remained to her centred in the man beside
her.  She never lost sight of his presence.  It dominated all
besides, though he drove almost entirely in silence and never
seemed to look her way.

At the end of what appeared an interminable stretch of time during
which all her sensibilities had gradually merged into one vast
discomfort, Burke spoke at her side.

"We've got a bit of tough going before us.  Hang on tight!  We'll
have a rest after it."

She opened her eyes and saw before her a steep slant between
massive stones, leading down to a wide channel of running water.
On the further side a similar steep ascent led up again.

"Ritter Spruit," said Ranger.  "It's not deep enough to be
dangerous.  Hold on!  We shall soon be through."

He spoke to the horses and they gathered themselves as if for a
race.  They thundered down the incline and were dashing through the
stony watercourse almost before Sylvia, clinging dazed to her seat,
realized what was happening.  Her sensations were indescribable.
The water splashed high around them, and every bone in her body
seemed to suffer a separate knock or jar.  If Ranger had not
previously impressed her with his level-headedness she would have
thought him mad.  But her confidence in him remained unshaken, and
in a very few seconds it proved to be justified.  They were through
the spruit and halfway up the further side before she drew breath.
Then she found that they were slackening pace.

She turned to Ranger with kindling eyes.  "Oh, you are a
sportsman!" she said.  "How I should love to be able to drive like
that!"

He smiled without turning his head.  "I'm afraid this last is a
man's job.  So you are awake now, are you?  I was afraid you were
going to tumble out."

She laughed.  "The heat makes one drowsy.  I shall get used to it."

He was pulling in the horses.  "There's some shade round the
corner.  We'll rest for an hour or two."

"I shall like that," said Sylvia.

A group of small larch-trees grew among the stones at the top of
the slope, and by these he stopped.  Sylvia looked around her with
appreciation as she alighted.

"I am going to like South Africa," she said,

"I wonder!" said Ranger.

He began to unbuckle the traces, and she went round to the other
side and did the same.

"Poor dears, they are hot!" she said.

"Don't you do that!" said Ranger.

She was tugging at the buckle.  "Why not?  I like doing it.  I love
horses, don't you?  But I know you do by the way you handle them.
Do you do your own horse-breaking?  That's a job you might give me."

"Am I going to find you employment, then?" said Burke.

She laughed a little, bending her flushed face down.  "Don't women
do any work out here?"

"Yes.  They work jolly hard, some of 'em."

"Are you married?" said Sylvia.

"No."

She heaved a sigh.

"Sorry?" he enquired.

She finished her task and looked up.  Her frank eyes met his across
the horses' backs.  "No.  I think I'm rather glad.  I don't like
feminine authority at all."

"That means you like your own way," observed Burke.

She nodded.  "Yes.  But I don't always get it."

"Are you a good loser?" he said.

She hesitated.  "I hope I'm a sportsman.  I try to be."

He moved to the horses' heads.  "Come and hold this animal for me
while I hobble the other!" he said.

She obeyed him readily.  There was something of boyish alertness in
her movements that sent a flicker of approval into the man's eyes.
She drew the horse's head to her breast with a crooning sound.

"He is a bit tricky with strangers," observed Burke, as he led the
other away.

"Oh, not with me!" said Sylvia, "He knows I love him."

When he returned to relieve her of her charge she was kissing the
forehead between the full soft eyes that looked at her with perfect
confidence.

"See!" she said.  "We are friends already."

"I shall call you The Enchantress," said Burke.  "Will you see if
you can find a suitable spot for a picnic now?"

"Yes, but I can't conjure up a meal," said Sylvia.

"I can," he said.  "There's a basket under the seat."

"How ripping!" she said.  "I think you are the magician."

He smiled.  "Rather a poor specimen, I am afraid.  You go and
select the spot, and I will bring it along!"

Again she obeyed with cheerful alacrity.  Her choice was
unhesitating.  A large boulder threw an inviting shade, and she sat
down among the stones and took off her hat.

Her red-gold hair gleamed against the dark background.   Burke
Ranger's eyes dwelt upon it as he moved to join her.  She looked up
at him.

"I love this place.  It feels so--good."

He glanced up at the brazen sky.  "You wouldn't say so if you
wanted rain as badly as I do," he observed.  "We haven't had nearly
enough this season.  But I am glad you can enjoy it."

"I like it more and more," said Sylvia.  She stretched an arm
towards the wide veldt all about them.  "I am simply aching for a
gallop over that--a gallop in the very early morning, and to see
the sun rise from that knoll!"

"That's a _kopje_," said Burke.

Again half-unconsciously his eyes dwelt upon her vivid face.  She
seemed to draw his look almost in spite of him.  He set down the
basket by her side.

"Am I to unpack?" said Sylvia.

He dropped his eyes.  "No.  I will.  It isn't much of a feed; only
enough to keep us from starvation.  Tell me some more about
yourself!  Tell me about your people--your home!"

"Have you never heard of me before?" she asked.  "Did--Guy--never
speak of me?"

"I knew there was someone."  Burke spoke rather unwillingly.  "I
don't think he ever actually spoke of you to me.  We're not
exactly--kindred spirits, he and I."

"You don't like him," said Sylvia.

"Nor he me," said Burke Ranger.

She looked at him with her candid eyes.  "I don't think you are
very tolerant of weakness, are you?" she said gently.

"I don't know," he said non-committally.  "Won't you tell me about
yourself?"

The subject of Guy was obviously distasteful to him, yet her whole
life during the past five years had been so closely linked to the
thought of that absent lover of hers that it was impossible to
speak of the one without the other.  She told him all without
reservation, feeling in a fashion that it was his right to know.

He listened gravely, without comment, until she ended, when he made
one brief observation.  "And so you chose the deep sea!"

"Could I have done anything else?" she said.  "Would you have done
anything else?"

"Probably not," he said.  "But a man is better equipped to fight
the undercurrents!"

"You think I was very rash?" she questioned.

He smiled.  "One doesn't look for caution in a girl.  I think your
father deserved a horsewhipping, for letting you go."

"He couldn't prevent me," said Sylvia quickly.

"Pshaw!" said Burke Ranger.

"You're very rude," she protested.

His smile became a laugh.  "I could have prevented you," he said.

She flushed.  "Indeed you couldn't! I am not a namby-pamby miss.  I
go my own way.  I----"

She broke off suddenly.  Burke's eyes, grey as steel in his
sun-tanned face, were upon her.  He looked amused at her vehemence.

"Well?" he said encouragingly.  "Finish!"

She laughed in spite of herself.  "No, I shan't say any more.  I
never argue with the superior male.  I just--go my own way, that's
all."

"From which I gather that you are not particularly partial to the
superior male," said Burke.

"I hate the species," said Sylvia with simplicity.

"Except when it kneels at your feet," he suggested, looking
ironical.

"No, I want to kick it then," she said.

"You seem difficult to please," he observed.

Sylvia looked out across the _veldt_.  "I like a man to be just a
jolly comrade," she said.  "If he can't be that, I've no use for
him."

"I see," said Burke slowly.  "That's to be my _role_, is it?"

She turned to him impulsively with extended hand.  "I think you can
fill it if you try."

He took the hand, grasping it strongly.  "All right.  I'll try," he
said.

"You don't mind?" she said half-wistfully.  "You see, it makes such
a difference to feel there's someone like that to turn to in
trouble--someone who won't let you down."

"I shan't let you down," said Burke.

Her fingers closed hard on his.  "You're a brick," she said.  "Now
let's have some lunch, and then, if you don't mind, I'm going to
sleep!"

"Best thing you can do," said Burke.

They rested for the greater part of the afternoon in the shadow of
their boulder.  Sylvia lay with her head on a light rug that he
spread for her, and he sat with his back to the rock and smoked
with eyes fixed straight before him.

Sleep came to the girl very quickly for she was tired, and her
healthy young body was swift to find repose.  But the man, watching
beside her, did not even doze.  He scarcely varied his position
throughout his vigil, scarcely glanced at the figure nestled in the
long grass so close to him.  But his attitude had the alertness of
the man on guard, and his brown face was set in grimly resolute
lines.  It gave no indication whatever of that which was passing in
his mind.




CHAPTER IX

THE ARRIVAL

It was drawing towards evening when Sylvia at length stirred,
stretched, and opened her eyes.  A momentary bewilderment showed in
them, then with a smile she saw and recognized her companion.

She sat up quickly.  "I must have been asleep for ages.  Why didn't
you wake me?"

"I didn't want to," he said.

She looked at him.  "What have you been doing?  Have you been
asleep?"

He raised his shoulders to the first question.  To the second he
replied merely, "No."

"Why didn't you smoke?" she asked next.

For an instant he looked half-ashamed, then very briefly, "I don't
live on tobacco," he said.

"How very silly of you!" said Sylvia.  "It wouldn't have disturbed
me in the least.   I smoke cigarettes myself."

Burke said nothing.  After a moment he got to his feet.

"Time to go?" she said.

"Yes.  I think we ought to be moving.  We have some miles to go
yet.  You sit still while I get the horses in!"

But Sylvia was on her feet.  "No.  I'm coming to help.  I like to
do things.  Isn't it hot?  Do you think there will be a storm?"

He looked up at the sky.  "No, not yet.  It'll take some time to
break.  Are you afraid of storms?"

"Of course not!" said Sylvia.

He smiled at her prompt rejoinder.  "Not afraid of anything?" he
suggested.

She smiled back.  "Not often anyway.  And I hope I don't behave
like a muff even when I am."

"I shouldn't think that very likely," he observed.

They put in the horses, and started again across the veldt.  The
burning air that blew over the hot earth was like a blast from a
furnace.  Over the far hills the clouds hung low and menacing, A
mighty storm seemed to be brewing somewhere on the further side of
those distant heights.

"It is as if someone had lighted a great fire just out of sight,"
said Sylvia.  "Is it often like this?"

"Very often," said Burke.

"How wonderful!" she said.

They drove on rapidly, and as they went, the brooding cloud-curtain
seemed to advance to meet them, spreading ominously across the sky
as if it were indeed the smoke from some immense conflagration.

Sylvia became silent, awed by the spectacle.

All about them the veldt took on a leaden hue.  The sun still
shone; but vaguely, as if through smoked glass.  The heat seemed to
increase.

Sylvia sat rapt.  She did not for some time wake to the fact that
Burke was urging the horses, and only when they stretched
themselves out to gallop in response to his curt command did she
rouse from her contemplation to throw him a startled glance.  He
was leaning slightly forward, and the look On his face sent a
curious thrill through her.  It was the look of a man braced to
utmost effort.  His eyes were fixed steadily straight ahead,
marking the road they travelled.  His driving was a marvel of skill
and confidence.  The girl by his side forgot to watch the storm in
front of them in her admiration of his ability.  It was to her the
most amazing exhibition of strength and adroitness combined that
she had ever witnessed.   The wild enjoyment of that drive was
fixed in her memory for all time.

At the end of half-an-hour's rapid travelling a great darkness had
begun to envelope them, and obscurity so pall-like that even near
objects were seen as it were through a dark veil.

Burke broke his long silence.  "Only two miles more!"

She answered him exultantly.  "I could go on for ever!"

They seemed to fly on the wings of the wind those last two miles.
She fancied that they had turned off the track and were racing over
the grass, but the darkness was such that she could discern nothing
with any certainty.   At last there came a heavy jolting that flung
her against Burke's shoulder, and on the top of it a frightful
flash and explosion that made her think the earth had rent asunder
under their feet.

Half-stunned and wholly blinded, she covered her face, crouching
down almost against the foot-board of the cart, while the dreadful
echoes rolled away.

Then again came Burke's voice, brief yet amazingly reassuring.
"Get down and run in!  It's all right."

She realized that they had come to a standstill, and mechanically
she raised herself to obey him.

As she groped for the step, he grasped her arm.  "Get on to the
_stoep_!  There's going to be rain.  I'll be with you in a second."

She thanked him, and found herself on the ground.  A man in front
of her was calling out unintelligibly, and somewhere under cover a
woman's voice was uplifted in shrill tones of dismay.  This latter
sound made her think of the chattering of an indignant monkey, so
shrill was it and so incessant.

A dark pile of building stood before her, and she blundered towards
it, not seeing in the least where she was going.  The next moment
she kicked against some steps, and sprawled headlong.

Someone--Burke--uttered an oath behind her, and she heard him leap
to the ground.  She made a sharp effort to rise, and cried out with
a sudden pain in her right knee that rendered her for an instant
powerless.  Then she felt his hands upon her, beneath her.  He
lifted her bodily and bore her upwards.

She was still half-dazed when he set her down in a chair.  She held
fast to his arm.  "Please stay with me just a moment--just a
moment!" she besought him incoherently.

He stayed, very steady and quiet beside her.  "Are you hurt?" he
asked her.

She fought with herself, but could not answer him.  A ridiculous
desire to dissolve into tears possessed her.  She gripped his arm
with both hands, saying no word.

"Stick to it!" he said.

"I--I'm an awful idiot!" she managed to articulate.

"No, you're not.  You're a brave girl," he said.  "I was a fool not
to warn you.  I forgot you didn't know your way.  Did you hurt
yourself when you fell?"

"My knee--a little," she said.  "It'll be all right directly." She
released his arm.  "Thank you.  I'm better now.  Oh, what is that?
Rain?"

"Yes, rain," he said.

It began like the rushing of a thousand wings, sweeping
irresistibly down from the hills.  It swelled into a pandemonium of
sound that was unlike anything she had ever heard.  It was as if
they had suddenly been caught by a seething torrent.  Again the
lightning flared, dancing a quivering, zigzag measure across the
verandah in which she sat, and the thunder burst overhead, numbing
the senses.

By that awful leaping glare Sylvia saw her companion.  He was
stooping over her.  He spoke; but she could not hear a word he
uttered.

Then again his arms were about her and he lifted her.  She yielded
herself to him with the confidence of a child, and he carried her
into his home while the glancing lightning showed the way.

The noise within the house was less overwhelming.  He put her down
on a long chair in almost total darkness, but a few moments later
the lightning glimmered again and showed her vividly the room in
which she lay.  It was a man's room, half-office, half-lounge,
extremely bare, and devoid of all ornament with the exception of a
few native weapons on the walls.

The kindling of a lamp confirmed this first impression, but the
presence of the man himself diverted her attention from her
surroundings.  He turned from lighting the lamp to survey her.  She
thought he looked somewhat stern.

"What about this knee of yours?" he said.  "Is it badly damaged?"

"Oh, not badly," she answered.  "I'm sure not badly.  What a lot of
trouble I am giving you!  I am so sorry."

"You needn't be sorry on that account," he said.  "I blame myself
alone.  Do you mind letting me, see it?  I am used to giving
first-aid."

"Oh, I don't think that is necessary," said Sylvia.  "I--can quite
easily doctor myself."

"I thought we were to be comrades," he observed bluntly.

She coloured and faintly laughed, "You can see it if you
particularly want to."

"I do." said Burke.

She sat up without further protest, and uncovered the injured knee
for his inspection.  "I really don't think anything of a tumble
like that," she said, as he bent to examine it.  But the next
moment at his touch she flinched and caught her breath.

"That hurts, does it?" he said.  "It's swelling up.  I'm going to
get some hot water to bathe it."

He stood up with the words and turned away.  Sylvia leaned back
again, feeling rather sick.  Certainly the pain was intense.

The rain was still battering on the roof with a sound like the
violent jingling together of tin cans, She listened to it with a
dull wonder.  The violence of it would have made a deeper
impression upon her had she been suffering less.  But she felt as
one immersed in an evil dream which clogged all her senses save
that of pain.

When Burke returned she was lying with closed eyes, striving hard
to keep herself under control.  The clatter of the rain had abated
somewhat, and she heard him speak over his shoulder to someone
behind him.  She looked up and saw an old Kaffir woman carrying a
basin.

"This is Mary Ann," said Burke, intercepting her glance of
surprise.  "A useful old dog except when there is any dope about!
Hope you don't mind niggers."

"I shall get used to them," said Sylvia rather faintly.

"There's nothing formidable about this one," he said, "She can't
help being hideous.  She is quite tame."

Sylvia tried to smile.  Certainly Mary Ann was hideous, but her
lameness was equally obvious.  She evidently stood in considerable
awe of her master, obeying his slightest behest with clumsy
solicitude and eyes that rolled unceasingly in his direction.

Burke kept her in the room while he bathed the injury.  He was very
gentle, and Sylvia was soon conscious of relief.  When at length he
applied a pad soaked in ointment and proceeded to bandage with a
dexterity that left nothing to be desired, she told him with a
smile that he was as good as a professional.

"One has to learn a little of this sort of thing," he said.  "How
does it feel now?"

"Much better," she answered.  "I shall have forgotten all about it
by to-morrow."

"No, you won't," said Burke.  "You will rest it for three days at
least.  You don't want to get water on the joint."

"Three days!" she echoed in dismay, "I can't--possibly--lie up
here."

He raised his eyes from his bandaging for a moment, and a curious
thrill went through her; it was as if his look pierced her.  "The
impossible often happens here," he said briefly.

She expressed a sharp tremor that caught her unawares.  "What does
that mean?" she asked, striving to speak lightly.

He replied with his eyes lowered again to his task.  "It means
among other things that you can't get back to Ritzen until the
floods go down.  Ritter Spruit is a foaming torrent by this time."

"Good heavens!" she exclaimed.  "But isn't there--isn't there a
bridge anywhere?"

"Forty miles away," said Burke Ranger laconically.

"Good--heavens!" she gasped again.

He finished his bandaging and stood up.  "Now I am going to carry
you to bed," he said, "and Mary Ann shall wait on you.  You won't
be frightened?"

She smiled in answer.  "You've taken my breath away, but I shall
get it again directly.  I don't think I want to go to bed yet.
Mayn't I stay here for a little?"

He looked down at her.  "You've got some pluck, haven't you?" he
said.

She flushed.  "I hope so--a little."

He touched her shoulder unexpectedly, with a hint of awkwardness.
"I'm afraid I can only offer you--rough hospitality.  It's the best
I can do.  My guests have all been of the male species till now.
But you will put up with it?  You won't be scared anyhow?"

She reached up an impulsive hand and put it into his.  "No, I
shan't be scared at all.  You make me feel quite safe.  I'm
only--more grateful than I can say."

His fingers closed upon hers.  "You've nothing to be grateful for.
Let me take you to the guestroom and Mary Ann shall bring you
supper.  You'll be more comfortable there.  Your baggage is there
already."

She clung to his hand for an instant, caught by an odd feeling of
forlornness.  "I will do whatever you wish.  But--but--you will let
me see Guy in the morning?"

He stooped to lift her.  For a moment his eyes looked straight into
hers.  Then: "Wait till the morning comes!" he said quietly.

There was finality in his tone, and she knew that it was no moment
for discussion.  With a short sigh she yielded to the inevitable,
and suffered him to carry her away.




CHAPTER X

THE DREAM

She had no further communication with Burke that night.  The old
Kaffir woman helped her, brought her a meal on a tray, and waited
upon her until dismissed.

Sylvia had no desire to detain her.  She longed for solitude.  The
thought of Guy tormented her perpetually.  She ached and
yearned--even while she dreaded--to see him.  But Burke had decreed
that she must wait till the morning, and she had found already that
what Burke decreed usually came to pass.    Besides, she knew that
she was worn out and wholly unfit for any further strain.

Very thankfully she sank down at last upon the bed in the bare
guest-room.  Her weariness was such that she thought that she must
sleep, yet for hours she lay wide awake, listening to the rain
streaming down and pondering--pondering the future.  Her romance
was ended.  She saw that very clearly.  Whatever came of her
meeting with Guy, it would not be--it could not be--the
consummation to which she had looked forward so confidently during
the past five years.  Guy had failed her.  She faced the fact with
all her courage.  The Guy she had loved and trusted did not exist
any longer, if he ever had existed.  Life had changed for her.  The
path she had followed had ended suddenly.  She must needs turn back
and seek another.  But whither to turn she knew not.  It seemed
that there was no place left for her anywhere.

Slowly the long hours dragged away.  She thought the night would
never pass.  Her knee gave her a good deal of pain, and she
relinquished all hope of sleep.  Her thoughts began to circle about
Burke Ranger in a worried, confused fashion.  She felt she would
know him better when she had seen Guy.  At present the likeness
between them alternately bewildered her or hurt her poignantly.
She could not close her mind to the memory of having taken him for
Guy.  He was the sort of man--only less polished--that she had
believed Guy would become.  She tried to picture him as he must
have been when younger, but she could see only Guy.  And again the
bitter longing, the aching disappointment, tore her soul.

Towards morning she dozed, but physical discomfort and torturing
anxiety went with her unceasingly, depriving her of any real
repose.  She was vaguely aware of movements in the house long
before a low knock at the door called her back to full
consciousness.

She started up on her elbows.  "Come in!  I am awake."

Burke Ranger presented himself.  "I was afraid Mary Ann might give
you a shock if she woke you suddenly," he said.  "Can I come in?"

"Please do!" she said.

The sight of his tanned face and keen eyes came as a great relief
to her strained and weary senses.  She held out a welcoming hand,
dismissing convention as superfluous.

He came to her side and took her hand, but in a moment his fingers
were feeling for her pulse.  He looked straight down at her.
"You've had a bad night," he said.

She admitted it, mustering a smile as she did so.  "It rained so
hard, I couldn't forget it.  Has it left off yet?"

He paid no attention whatever to the question.  "What's the
trouble?" he said.  "Knee bad?"

"Not very comfortable," she confessed.  "It will be better
presently, no doubt."

"I'll dress if again," said Burke, "when you've had some tea.  You
had better stay in bed to-day."

"Oh, must I?" she said in dismay.

"Don't you want to?" said Burke.

"No.  I hate staying in bed.  It makes me so miserable."  She spoke
with vehemence.  Besides--besides----"

"Yes?" he said.

"I want--to see Guy," she ended, colouring very deeply.

"That's out of the question," said Burke, with quiet decision.
"You certainly won't see him to-day."

"Oh, but I must!  I really must!" she pleaded desperately.  "My
knee isn't very bad.  Have you--have you told him I am here yet?"

"No," said Burke.

"Then won't you?  Please won't you?"  She was urging him almost
feverishly now.  "I can't rest till I have seen him--indeed.  I
can't see my way clearly.  I can't do anything until--until I have
seen him."

Burke was frowning.  He looked almost savage, But she was not
afraid of him.  She could think only of Guy at that moment and of
her urgent need to see him.  It was all that mattered.  With nerves
stretched and quivering, she waited for his answer.

It did not come immediately.  He was still holding her hand in one
of his and feeling her pulse with the other.

"Listen!" he said at length.  "There is no need for all this
wearing anxiety.  You must make up your mind to rest to-day, or you
will be ill.  It won't hurt you--or him either--to wait a few hours
longer."

"I shan't be ill!" she assured him earnestly.  "I am never ill.
And I want to see him--oh, so much.  I must see him.  He isn't--he
isn't worse?"

"No," said Burke.

"Then why mustn't I see him?" she urged.  "Why do you look like
that? Are you keeping back something?  Has--has something happened
that you don't want me to know?  Ah, that is it!  I thought so!
Please tell me what it is!  It is far better to tell me."

She drew her hand from his and sat up, steadily facing him.  She
was breathing quickly, but she had subdued her agitation.  Her eyes
met his unflinchingly.

He made an abrupt gesture--as if compelled against his will.
"Well--if you must have it!  He has gone."

"Gone!" she repeated.  "What--do you mean by that?"

He looked down into her whitening face, and his own grew sterner.
"Just what I say.  He cleared out yesterday morning early.  No one
knows where he is."

Sylvia's hand unconsciously pressed her heart.  It was beating very
violently.  She spoke with a great effort.  "Perhaps he has gone to
Ritzen--to look for me."

"I think not," said Burke drily.

His tone said more than his words.  She made a slight involuntary
movement of shrinking.  But in a moment she spoke again with a
pathetic little smile.

"You are very good to me.  But I mustn't waste any more of your
time.  Please don't worry about me any more!  I can quite well
bandage my knee myself."

The grimness passed from his face.  "I shall have to see it to
satisfy myself it is going on all right," he said.  "But I needn't
bother you now.  I'll send Mary Ann in with some tea."

"Thank you," said Sylvia.  She was gathering her scattered forces
again after the blow; she spoke with measured firmness.  "Now
please don't think about me any more! I am not ill--or going to be.
You may look at my knee this evening--if you are very anxious.  But
not before."

"Then you will stay in bed?" said Burke.

"Very well; if I must," she conceded.

He turned to go; then abruptly turned back.  "And you won't lie and
worry?  You've too much pluck for that."

She smiled again--a quivering, difficult smile.  "I am not at all
plucky, really.  I am only pretending."

He smiled back at her suddenly.  "You're a brick!  I've never seen
any woman stand up to hard knocks as you do.  They generally want
to be carried over the rough places.  But you--you stand on your
feet."

The genuine approbation of his voice brought the colour back to her
face.  His smile too, though it reminded her piercingly of Guy,
sent a glow of comfort to her chilled and trembling heart.

"I want to if I can," she said.  "But I've had rather a--knock-out
this time.  I shall be all right presently, when I've had time to
pull myself together."

He bent abruptly and laid his hand upon hers.

"Look here!" he said.  "Don't worry!"

She lifted clear eyes to his.  "No--I won't!  There is always a way
out of every difficulty, isn't there?"

"There certainly is out of this one," he said.

"I'll show it you presently--if you'll promise not to be offended."

"Offended!" said Sylvia.  "That isn't very likely, is it?"

"I don't know," said Burke.  "I hope not.  Good-bye!"  He
straightened himself, stood a moment looking down at her, then
turned finally and left her.

There was something in the manner of his going that made her wonder.

The entrance of the old Kaffir woman a few minutes later diverted
her thoughts.  She found Mary Ann an interesting study, being the
first of her kind that she had viewed at close quarters.  She was
very stout and ungainly.  She moved with elephantine clumsiness,
but her desire to please was so evident that Sylvia could not
regard her as wholly without charm.  Her dog-like amiability
outweighed her hideousness.  She found it somewhat difficult to
understand Mary Ann's speech, for it was more like the chattering
of a monkey than human articulation, and being very weary she did
not encourage her to talk.

There was so much to think about, and for a while her tired brain
revolved around Guy and all that his departure meant to her.  She
tried to take a practical view of the situation, to grapple with
the difficulties that confronted her.  Was there the smallest
chance of his return?  And even if he returned, what could it mean
to her?  Would it help her in any way?  It was impossible to evade
the answer to that question.  He had failed her finally.  She was
stranded in a strange land and only her own efforts could avail her
now.

She wondered if Burke would urge her to return to her father's
house.  If so, he would not succeed.  She would face any hardship
sooner than that.  She was not afraid of work.  She would make a
living for herself somehow if she worked in the fields with Kaffir
women.  She would be independent or die in the attempt.  After all,
she reflected forlornly, it would not matter very much to anyone if
she did die.  She stood or fell alone.

Thought became vague at last and finally obscured in the mists of
sleep.  She lay still on the narrow bed and slept long and deeply.

It must have been after several hours that her dream came to her.
It arose out of a sea of oblivion--a vision unsummoned, wholly
unexpected.  She saw Burke Ranger galloping along the side of a dry
and stony ravine where doubtless water flowed in torrents when the
rain came.  He was bending low in the saddle, his dark face set
forward scanning the path ahead.  With a breathless interest she
watched him, and the thunder of his horse's hoofs drummed in her
brain.  Suddenly, turning her eyes further along the course he
followed, she saw with horror round a bend that which he could not
see.  She beheld another horseman galloping down from the opposite
direction.  The face of this horseman was turned from her, but she
did not need to see it.  She knew, as it is given in dreams to know
beyond all doubting, that it was Guy.  She recognized his easy seat
in the saddle, the careless grace of his carriage.  He was plunging
straight ahead with never a thought of danger, and though he must
have seen the turn as he approached it, he did not attempt to check
the animal under him.  Rather he seemed to be urging it forward.
And ever the thunder of the galloping hoofs filled her brain.

Tensely she watched, in a suspense that racked her whole body.  Guy
reached the bend first.  There was room for only one upon that
narrow ledge.  He went round the curve with the confidence of one
who fully expected a clear path ahead.  And then--on the very edge
of the precipice--he caught sight of the horseman galloping towards
him.  He reined back.  He threw up one hand as his animal staggered
under him, and called a warning.  But the thudding of the hoofs
drowned all other sound.

Sylvia's heart stood still as if it could never beat again.  Her
look flashed to Burke Ranger.  He was galloping still--galloping
hard.  One glimpse she had of his face as he drew near, and she
knew that he saw the man ahead of him, for it was set and
terrible--the face of a devil.

The next instant she heard the awful crash of collision.  There was
a confusion indescribable, there on the very brink of the ravine.
Then one horse and its rider went hurling headlong down that wall
of stones.  The other horseman struck spurs into his animal and
galloped up the narrow path to the head of the ravine without a
backward glance.

She was left transfixed by horror in a growing darkness that seemed
to penetrate to her very soul.  Which of the two had galloped free?
Which lay shattered there, very far below her in an abyss that had
already become obscure?  She agonized to know, but the darkness hid
all things.  At last she tore it aside as if it had been a veil.
She went down, down into that deep place.  She stumbled through a
valley of awful desolation till she came to that which she
sought;--a fallen horse, a rider with glassy eyes upturned.

But the hand of Death had wiped out every distinguishing mark.  Was
it Guy?  Was it Burke?  She knew not.  She turned from the sight
with dread unspeakable.  She went from the accursed spot with the
anguish of utter bewilderment in her soul.  She was bereft of all.
She walked alone in a land of strangers.




CHAPTER XI

THE CROSS-ROADS

When Sylvia started awake from that terrible dream it was to hear
the tread of horses' feet outside the house and the sound of men's
voices talking to each other.  As she listened, these drew nearer,
and soon she heard footsteps on the _stoep_ outside.  It was
drawing towards sunset, and she realized that she had slept for a
long time.

She felt refreshed in spite of her dream and very thankful to
regain possession of her waking senses.  Her knee too was decidedly
better.  She found with relief that with care she c