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The Top of the World by Ethel M. Dell

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Produced by Al Haines



Ethel M. Dell

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





"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.











The Top of the World




"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

"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

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

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.



"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

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

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

"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

"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

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,

"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.



"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

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

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

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

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.



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

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

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.



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

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

"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

"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

"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

"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

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.



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

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

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

"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

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

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.



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.

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