# Lady Sylvia

Extracted from Pall Mall magazine, v.24 1901, pp. 515-527. Accompanying illustrations by Frank Craig omitted.
Lady Sylvia
BY H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON.
OF course I should never have consented to the secrecy, but indeed at that time I had no choice. The promise was wrung from me by pleading lips and eloquent eyes, at once startled, shy, and trustful. It was the trustfulness that submerged me against my judgment, and even my conscience, in a private conspiracy against the Countess of Orvill. Sylvia had swayed me often enough since those days when I had begun to notice that her frocks had gone down and her hair had gone up. She had a sweet and mutinous mouth, the perfection of colour, and bright and diffident eyes. It was a wood-nymph captured in my arms, that palpitated against them, and struggled for liberty, that dark December evening in the long gallery of Orvill Hall. She had just stepped wonderingly out of that strange swift passage into womanhood, and laughed and was happy at one-and-twenty—a famous age in boy or girl. Yet, being so greatly her elder, I certainly should not have yielded to her most fascinating persuasions. There were no arguments, but eyes and the soft pressure of warm fingers. Yet resistance was impossible—judge you between us!
The mischief fell not then, but six months later, with the return of Lady Orvill to their country seat. Sylvia and I had corresponded, and I think I had written the better part of the letters, for she hated a pen; and we had met more than several times in Town. Indeed, we may be said to have gone through the season more or less in company. Yet nobody noticed—not even Sir James Garland, who had begun to watch the child like a dog. This condition, however, could not continue, as I had always seen, and it was I who insisted upon the disclosure of such important facts as we had kept close in our bosoms for so long. It was only fair to the Countess. With trepidation my Sylvia promised to break the news, and (upon my pressing her) that very night. It was the night of her return and our reunion. She had never looked prettier, and her fears became her handsomely. As a matter of fact, I did not envy the poor girl her task, but I would have taken it off her hands if she would have allowed me. She had, however, some idea that she might manage to cajole her mother, while I certainly had no such hopes on my part.
It was not Sylvia who brought me news of the result, but Bates, who, besides being an old friend of the Orvills, had the privilege of having known my father, and was to boot as perfect a Paul Pry and as meddlesome a gossip as any old man in the kingdom.
"Very bad, very bad, Sydney," he said, shaking his head, and enjoying himself. "I'm sorry to hear it. I was surprised at your underhandedness. You know what Lady Orvill is. Well, I needn't specify her peculiar properties. But when Lady Sylvia told her, she nearly had a fit. The fatigue of the journey, and her troublesome cold, sent her to bed early, and that was where your Lady Sylvia found her. I give you my word, my dear boy, I hadn't a notion, and I'm pretty observant. But when poor Lady Sylvia stammered it out, the Countess's face grew scarlet."
"You did not by any chance see it yourself?" I asked dryly.
"Well, not personally, of course, my dear boy. I need not explain that it was not personally, but by proxy. Well, the Countess, it seems, lay thumping the bed and abusing the poor child, until the noise brought in Orvill, who happened to be in the neighbourhood. 'What's the matter, mother?' says he.
"'There is nothing at all the matter,' says Lady Orvill, shrieking, 'save that that wretched Squire of yours has seduced my daughter.'"
"Good heavens, Bates!" I began.
"Fact, my dear Sydney—fact," purred old Bates; "those, my informant says, were her very words. And Orvill yelled out just as you did. I don't believe the poor girl understood. 'Good God, mother!' said he.
"'Yes, from my affections and the course of duty,' says Lady Orvill.
"'Oh, damn,' says Orvill, and walked away."
I stopped old Bates at this point, having no desire to hear him mangle facts, which I should, of course, learn presently from Sylvia herself. That Lady Orvill would be opposed to our marriage I had always been aware. She was of an excellent type of matron that guards its young like a hen, and abandons the nest only when they have been paired off suitably. It was obvious that she would not think Sylvia and myself a suitable pair, and consequently that she would peck and fight. Unhappily the storm had burst upon innocent Sylvia's head, and not on me, the proper and prime offender. I was at least resolved that this injustice should not continue, and a lachrymose note from Sylvia crystallised this purpose. She wrote (poor child) in physical tears, and had blotted her dear name into a smudge. The agitation, too, into which her mother's cruelty had thrown her, had influenced her spelling in one or two instances. But that was of no consequence, as no eye but mine would rest upon that affectionate epistle.
"Dear," she wrote, for I have corrected her spelling, "it is horrid. Mamma has behaved even worse than we thought. She won't hear of it, and says that I am a fool, and you are something worse. I can't repeat what she says about you! I wish it was all over and settled, Dick. It is dreadful! She won't let me see you, and says I am to go to Aunt Elizabeth's if I dare do so. And as soon as she's well enough we're going to pack up and be off, although there's some people coming down to-day on her invitation! You can imagine how I feel, and how lonely I am! The Hall is a desert!! She's quieter now, thank goodness; but I suppose that's her liver, which is very bad. I asked Orvill to help me, of course, but he says he can't be bothered, and you must look after yourself.—Always your Sylvia."
"P.S. Mamma called the Grange a 'beggarly little mousetrap,' and said you had no doubt baited it well, with 'sentimental nonsense and romantic humbug.' It is cruel of her! "
The letter decided me, and I started forth from the Grange, resolute to challenge the Countess. After all, who were the Trents, with their peerage scarce a century in date, and their origin unknown earlier than the seventeenth century, to set themselves up against Sydneys who have been Squires since the reign of the first Edward? The Countess was sharp, as a rule ceremonious, knew her own mind, and was wholly devoid of sentiment. She was not formidable save for the last two reasons, but in my new mood of anger I would have braved her, had her properties been tenfold what they were. I set out briskly, and took the cut across the fields for the Park. From the banks of the stream I had a good view of the western terrace, which was still in shadow that June morning, and as I crossed the little wooden bridge by the grove of trees I looked towards the towers of the Hall, and discerned two figures on the white terrace. The one, even at that distance, I made out as Sylvia's pretty, pliant form, ever in motion, and turning in a perpetual round of graceful attitudes. She had her elbows at this moment upon the terrace wall, and her face went swiftly about to confront her companion. Immediately upon that she vanished, and there remained the tall and grey-clad woman whom I did not know. I passed up to the door, hoping that Sylvia had seen me and run to meet me—a hope which might have been justified by the interest in me clearly displayed by the stranger on the terrace.
I asked for the Countess, and the servant returned with a message that her ladyship was ill, and was able to see no one.
"Well, I should like to see Lord Orvill," said I.
The man respectfully informed me that his lordship was out.
"Very well," said I, impeccably calm, "then Lady Sylvia Trent."
I was an old friend, and had run in and out of the Hall since my childhood, which I suppose was the sole reason why the poor footman carried my bold message to his mistress. It was not he who came back, but after a long pause I saw advancing down the hall the stranger of the terrace. She had a splendid head, moved with a large grace, and had frank, engaging eyes. She was, I judged, somewhere near seven-and-twenty.
"I am Mrs. Glen-Warrington," she began, with easy friendliness. "You are Mr. Sydney? I'm sorry Lady Orvill is confined to her room; but she has asked me to see you, if you don't mind putting up with a proxy." She smiled pleasantly, and seemed to wait for an answer. I will confess I was at a loss. She appeared to take it for granted that I could tell my business to her.
"Oh," said I, "it's of no consequence, thank you. I came to make my inquiries after Lady Orvill, having heard she was not too well."
Mrs. Glen-Warrington invited me with a gesture to follow her, and led the way out upon the terrace. For an instant, I had a suspicion that she meant to lecture me, and thought I could endure it with better temper than if she had been Lady Orvill. It seemed she had no such intention, but when I saw the steps descending into the garden, and looked across the park towards the Grange I began to see that this might very well be a civil method of showing me the door. But Mrs. Glen-Warrington sat down on one of the garden chairs. I looked at the other.
"Might I ask if Lady Sylvia is in?" I said slowly.
Mrs. Glen-Warrington glanced at me and at the chair. "I believe she is," she answered, after a slight pause.
"Would it be possible for me to see her?" I said plainly.
Mrs. Glen-Warrington leaned back in her chair. "Mr. Sydney," she said, faintly colouring, "will you be good enough to credit that I do not at all like my task, when I say that it is just that request I am asked to say 'no' to?"
"I will not only credit it," I answered; "but I will go further, and say I would rather hear it from you than … well, than from any one else."
She eyed me inquisitively, as if she did not quite understand, or understanding was puzzled.
"I'm glad you make my task so easy," she murmured.
"Of course you know this is no use," I went on.
"No use?" she asked.
"None whatever," I said. "Lady Orvill is just going the right way to make me fight. Sylvia is worth fighting for."
Mrs. Glen-Warrington moved her long magnificent limbs. "Yes, she is," she observed critically; "but I don't think——"
She paused, and I struck in: "I shall declare war upon you, of course."
She flushed, and, it seemed, with annoyance. "Oh, pray don't confuse me with Lady Orvill's motives," she said coldly.
I could conceive that she might be a motive in herself to some one, but I knew nothing of her.
"Is Sylvia to be locked up?" I asked.
"That is somewhat ridiculous, Mr. Sydney," she said curtly.
"Oh, very well," said I; "but if it is to be war, I suppose there will be no scruples. Besides, I know Lady Orvill."
"It's an extremely uncharitable and unneighbourly statement to make to a perfect stranger," she retorted sharply.
"And yet," said I, "you refuse to be identified with the enemy."
"Most certainly," said Mrs. Glen-Warrington. "I have nothing to do with it. It is no concern of mine."
"May I ask if Lord Orvill objects?" I asked.
"I don't know: I'm given to understand so," she said; and then, "But really I don't see why I should discuss your—your love affairs, Mr. Sydney."
"Pardon me—nor do I," I told her; "but you began it. It was you thrust yourself into a matter that has no relation to you."
"I did nothing of the kind," she burst forth haughtily, and rose in all her angry beauty. I rose with her. "Then I am to tell Lady Orvill that you refuse to acknowledge her authority?" she said with equal dignity, as she turned to go.
"Tell her, please, that I shall have the honour of waiting on her to-morrow, in the hope that she will be better," I replied, and with a sweep of my hat I went down the steps.
That fool Bates met me in the park, full of chatter and sympathy.
"Didn't manage to see her, I suppose, Sydney? Well, I'm sorry for you, my dear chap. I'm afraid it's no go. Lady Orvill's a woman with a will."
"A man may have a will too," said I sulkily.
"No doubt, no doubt," agreed Bates, and rambled on. I gathered that he considered my case the more desperate as Sir James Garland had arrived at the Hall. "She's going to fire both barrels," said old Bates, gleefully. "One at Garland, with his £30,000 a year, and t'other at Mrs. Glen-Warrington."
The name brought me up. "Whom did you say?" I asked.
"Why," said Bates importantly, "Mrs. Glen-Warrington, you know, the rich widow. There's another £20,000 for Orvill, d'ye see?"
I shook him off. I did see. They were going to sacrifice sweet Sylvia to the lumpish Garland, that decent clod of English clay. And so Mrs. Glen-Warrington was a widow!
I put my teeth together, and went over to the Hall next day, as I had threatened. The Countess was still in bed, but had written me a letter, which was placed in my hands by Mrs. Glen-Warrington. I read it on the terrace, to which we had drifted instinctively. "My dear Mr. Sydney," it opened. (It had usually been "Dick.") There was certainly nothing in the letter to resent. Lady Orvill was frank in stating that she had learned from her daughter with surprise that we had had a secret understanding for six months, and she was hurt at the thought that we had considered it necessary to keep from her a piece of news which affected her so vitally. There were many reasons, she said, why she could not regard the somewhat startling information with composure; and she hoped that, as a gentleman, I would recognise in the circumstances the inadvisability of communicating with Lady Sylvia until her mother was able to see me and explain her views. When I had finished the letter I looked up, and found Mrs. Glen-Warrington's eyes on me.
"It is polite," I said, "but hardly satisfactory. I am not to see Sylvia, then?"
"I hope you will acquit me of any responsibility in the case," she said smilingly.
"My dear lady, I can see you have behaved with absolute discretion and fairness," I answered. "But you have hidden Sylvia."
"Mr. Sydney," she said, "I am right in supposing you to be a good deal older than Sylvia?"
"Fifteen years, as near as possible," I answered.
"Don't you think that, perhaps, it is a little unfair on a girl so young to be asked to make up her mind all at once? "
"She has had two seasons in Town," I answered meditatively; "and I am not a grandfather, though I may seem so to you, Mrs. Glen-Warrington."
She coloured slightly. "I am not talking of myself," she said. "I, like yourself, am of mature years. Sylvia is different, and she is young for her age, moreover."
"The point, I take it, is rather one of affection," I said.
She tapped her foot as if with impatience. "I suppose I shall not see Sylvia, then?" I said. Mrs. Glen-Warrington said nothing. "I consider, as a gentleman," I went on deliberately, "that I am justified in ignoring this letter. I will write to Sylvia, and appeal to her."
A faint smile showed on Mrs. Glen-Warrington's face. "You shall do as seems best to you," she said. "I do not enjoy playing duenna, I assure you."
At this moment there was a sound of whistling from the house, and we both turned towards the windows. It was Orvill who came out, dressed for horseback. I was somewhat interested to see how they would meet, those two who were destined for each other, and would make so satisfactory a match. Orvill was awkward, and his short voice was even shorter than usual.
"How are you, Dick?" he said, nodding; and there was a blank pause. "Going on all right?" he asked, with artificial cheerfulness. He looked at Mrs. Glen-Warrington, and she looked away. Following her gaze, I saw a sight which whipped me at once to action. In the distance, and descending by the steps of the nether terrace, was Sylvia, and with her was the ridiculous Garland.
"Excuse me," said I: "if you haven't the courage of your opinions, Orvill, I have," and I ran lightly along the terrace towards the others.
Garland stared at me with stolid annoyance, but Sylvia was fluttered. During our brief interview her glance danced fearfully towards the windows of the house.
"If you will allow me," I said civilly to Garland, "I have something to say to lady Sylvia."
He muttered something, and stood aside. "Sylvia," said I, "this can't go on——"
"My mother, Dick——" she began eagerly.
"I do not care one button for your mother," I interrupted rudely; "it is only you I have in mind. She has the honour to have given you birth, but apart from that the Countess of Orvill is no more to me than the gargoyles on the terrace. She is a part of the Hall furniture—that's all."
"Oh, Dick, you oughtn't to say that," said pretty Sylvia, with one frightened glance at the windows. "She forbids me to see you. I am doing wrong in letting you talk to me now," said poor Sylvia.
"Wrong!" I said scornfully. "Aren't you your own mistress, child? Don't be tied to Lady Orvill's apron. We have our own lives to live, and are going to live them."
"Ye—es," said Sylvia weakly.
"Of course," I went on, looking into her pretty, troubled face, "of course, if you have mistaken your feelings in regard to me——"
"Oh no, oh no," said Sylvia hastily: "I do—I do care for you very much."
"You don't forget that evening in the long gallery, dear?" I asked her.
Sylvia's beautiful eyes were lifted to mine, and dropped again; they were humid and bright, and that was answer enough.
"I must really go," she said anxiously.
"If it wasn't for this hulking fellow here, I would kiss you," I said, wavering, for she looked amazing, and tempted me.
Sylvia hurriedly withdrew a step. "You mustn't, Dick; oh, you mustn't think of it!" she cried fearfully.
"Well, my mind is made up," I said confidently, and watched her go. She threw a little shy smile of affection at me as she turned to go with Garland. When I passed along the terrace again, Mrs. Glen-Warrington was still there, but Orvill was gone.
"I'm afraid I shall have to report this, Mr. Sydney," she said sweetly. She had a book in her hand, and the morning breeze played in her soft brown hair.
"You are at liberty to do all that is proper to the position to which you have been appointed," I said bluntly.
"Well, I don't think I am asking for permission," she said dryly, though she had flushed slightly; and, bowing stiffly, she resumed her book.
It was clear that from that time a better guard was taken. I got no sign of Sylvia, and only one frightened answer to my several letters. She begged me to wait; said that mamma was still ill, and hoped that it would be all right when she was well. I did not see why it should be, but after all, it seemed that I had no alternative but to wait. I understood Orvill to say frankly that he would be hanged if he'd interfere. There was no help, therefore, from any one, unless the help were to come from Sylvia herself. A week later I met Orvill riding with Mrs. Glen-Warrington, and the former drew in. I saluted and looked at the lady, who attentively stroked her horse.
"I say, Dick, I've been telling Mrs. Glen-Warrington about that oak room of yours and the carvings. She'd like to see it."
I said I should be charmed, and she glanced at me for the first time. "If we are enemies, we can patch up a truce for an afternoon, Mr. Sydney," she said, with a little laugh.
"Certainly," I answered politely. "Will you bring Sylvia?"
Orvill threw back his head and laughed loudly. "You're a caution, Dick!" he said: "you have the cheek."
"I don't know that the truce could include terms so unusual," said the lady pleasantly. "You see I'm not in full power. The Commander-in-chief would have to be consulted."
"If Orvill had had a spark of courage, he would have kept the command in his own hands," I said.
"Oh, come! oh hang it, Dick!" protested the Earl. "I leave it to you and Sylvia. You can have my blessing if you want it."
Mrs. Glen-Warrington gazed from one of us to the other, and I wondered what was running in her mind. Her smile was enigmatic, but very friendly, and as dulcet as an angel's. They rode on, and I watched them disappear at a bend in the lane.
Not Mrs. Glen-Warrington but Sir James Garland visited me at the Grange that same week. He came after dinner, drank a good many liqueurs of my special brandy, and smoked three strong cigars from his own case. He talked at intervals, very heavily and in mighty earnest, and it was hours before I discovered what he wanted. He had come, if you please, to talk about Woman! Although it is permissible to speak of women in the way of gossip, no one over thirty should talk about Woman; everything has been said before that age, and the problem either solved or given up. But Garland aired his views with complacency. He liked spirit, he said, in a woman, and beauty, of course. But give him a woman of character, after all.
This was not very lucid, nor original, nor interesting; and I suggested that you could not be certain how much character a woman had until you married her, or some one else did. There he smiled with greater composure than ever.
"Precisely," he assented. "There you have it, my dear fellow. Unless you or some one else marries her. You never said a truer word."
I was naturally glad to receive Garland's intelligent approbation, but I was not aware that the statement was signally remarkable for its truth. However, I acknowledged the compliment, and waited. I wondered, as a matter of fact, what bearing this had on Sylvia, and eyed him carefully with a view to evading an indecent conflict of words. But it was not of Sylvia that he was thinking, as I discovered, for he began to ask me some questions about Mrs. Glen-Warrington.
I'm told she has twenty thousand a year. I know nothing," I said; "but every one gossips about his neighbour or his stranger. I never set eyes on the lady before."
"No," said Garland, scanning me heavily; and he lit a third cigar, and chuckled, "We all know where you're gone."
"I'm glad to be so easy of interpretation," I said frigidly, "as I evidently must be. It seems my affairs are public property, like the King's."
"Oh, come, Sydney," he remonstrated, "you gave yourself away, you know. Lord, I shan't forget," he said, with a grin of appreciative recollection, "how sick I was when you ran into my little tea-party. But I will say this, Sydney, and that's that you've been rather hardly treated, by Jove. I don't see what's wrong with you myself."
"Don't you?" I retorted, keeping my anger within blankets. "And I suppose you don't know, not seeming to be extremely intelligent, why you're down here, and how much your infernal rent-roll is?"
"Hang it all, Sydney," said Garland uneasily—"shut up; after all, you've got a good enough income."
"After all," I said bitterly, "I haven't got thirty thousand a year, and my grandfather didn't make his money out of silk."
"I don't think that's fair," protested Garland, with his big face red.
"Perhaps it isn't," I admitted. "At any rate, you're all right wherever you go, and thirty thousand pounds will buy a good deal."
He was not offended, being dull and insensitive.
"Hum!" said he reflectively, "I don't know that it will buy what I want. You see, you say she's got twenty thousand on her own."
I stared at him. "You mean to tell me," I said coldly, "that you've transferred your young affections to Mrs. Glen-Warrington."
"Hang it, don't be so satirical," he said, with some impatience.
"I daresay thirty thousand pounds can buy twenty thousand," said I, slowly.
Garland had seemed a greater ass to me than usual, and I was relieved to think that Sylvia, at least, was to be freed from his gross paws and importunities. Mrs. Glen-Warrington might guard herself from her lubberly admirer as best she could. I saw neither of them for a week; and Orvill only once, when he was bad-tempered, and swore more than usual.
It was on a hot afternoon in July that I came upon the Hall party next, and to my satisfaction I observed that Sylvia was with the others. They were four, and included, besides my poor girl and Mrs. Glen-Warrington, Garland and old Bates, and they were all riding. I struck my heels into my own chestnut, and went over a hedge or two towards them. The lane into which they had turned descended far below the level of the fields, like the road that winds to Hades on an easy gradient. But from the meadow it was another matter, and Roger took the jump with a snort of fear. I knew every foot of the district, however; and down he came, practically all four feet at once, into the deep ditch, scarcely twenty paces in front of the party.
Mrs. Glen-Warrington cried out. Garland said "Good Lord," and Sylvia, who had seen me do the same thing a dozen times, went red and hung back. Old Bates was greatly flustered.
"Mrs. Glen-Warrington," said I, "I have not yet enjoyed the honour of that visit," and with that turned to Sylvia. "How are you, Sylvia dear?" said I; and Sylvia went redder,
"Mr. Sydney, pardon me, but this is not permissible," said Mrs. Glen-Warrington's prim voice. I threw a glance round at her.
"Is it to be force majeure, then?" I asked flippantly. She looked at Garland, who was grinning, and shrugged his shoulders. "Although I don*t particularly admire women on horseback," I went on, scrutinising Sylvia, "I do think you look extremely sweet, dear child."
""Mamma has told me——" began Sylvia tremulously.
"I have heard Mamma's messages until I am sick," I interrupted; "besides, she has delegated her authority, I understand," and I looked at Mrs. Glen-Warrington.
"I have nothing to say," said that lady with asperity, "except to report to Lady Orvill that we were held up by a highwayman."
"I'm sure I don't mind," I said, "nor does Sylvia: and without your permission I will take leave to accompany you on the way a little."
Mrs. Glen-Warrington eyed me, and then suddenly turned her horse's head round and continued on her way. Garland followed her, and old Bates hung back to keep Sylvia and myself company. We didn't want him, and I told him so most plainly.
"My dear Sydney, it's not right," he stuttered. "Lady Orvill will——"
"That's her business and mine," I said. "Go away. Sylvia, tell him to go away."
But Sylvia was grievously embarrassed.
"Really, Lady Sylvia——" protested old Bates.
I gave his horse a crack across the loins, and he went leaping forward, with old Bates—an infamous horseman—clutching at the reins. I turned to Sylvia.
"Sylvia dear," said I, "I have somewhere about two thousand pounds a year, the Grange, and not a penny more. Are you willing to sacrifice more glorious prospects and defy your mother for my sake and that?"
"Of course I—do care for you, Dick," protested Sylvia. "I don't care how little money you've got. Only Mamma——"
"Look here," I broke in, "let us give Mamma a rest. She needs it. And you and I will ride straight away to Orvill and put it to him. He has promised us his blessing."
"But Orvill's in Town," said Sylvia; "and, besides, we're going on to the Downs."
"All right," I assented cheerfully. "Then I'll go to the Downs with you, and we'll go to Orvill together later." And I rode on to Mrs. Glen-Warrington.
"Lady Sylvia and I have arranged that I shall accompany her on the ride," I explained, "and let Lord Orvill decide to-night."
"I cannot prevent your following us," said Mrs. Glen-Warrington coldly.
"You think I've behaved badly?" I asked. Garland had fallen back to Sylvia and Bates.
"I have my own opinion, but I do not know that it is necessary to publish it," she replied demurely.
"I do not see that there's anything specially wrong in it," I observed meditatively. "I gave Lady Orvill fair warning through you that it was to be war."
"The war of a man of the world against an innocent girl," she retorted shortly.
"Pardon me, no," I answered; "but the war of one poor man against two strong women." She smiled. "In any case," I continued, "there's no harm done by this. You and old Bates are chaperones, so to speak."
"Come," said Mrs. Glen-Warrington, whipping up her horse, "I'm not a grandmother yet, although I may seem so to you, Mr. Sydney."
When she slackened speed I drew near again. "I see you think I have taken an unfair advantage," I said, "and so I'll meet you half-way. I'll give you my word not to ride with her."
"What do you mean?" she asked, turning on me her full eyes.
"I'll ride with you," I said.
Mrs. Glen-Warrington broke out into laughter. "I think your impudence is bewildering," she said, but she did not refuse.
By the time we had surmounted the Downs, the horizon southward lowered upon us. A thick blackness marched steadily across the sky, heralded by a cold and whistling wind. It fell presently as dark as nightfall, and very soon the storm was upon us. The rain lashed about our faces, and the thunder blared forth, terrifying the horses. The Downs here were open, and the water poured upon us in streams.
"This way," I shouted,—"we can find shelter here," and I beckoned Sylvia forward.
Mrs. Glen-Warrington looked helpless, for the first time in my experience of her. On the borders of the dark pine-wood stood a keeper's cottage, and here we sheltered till the storm passed. It was long in passing, but the time did not hang. I think we should have been comfortable enough if it had not been for our wet clothes. Poor Sylvia's hair was out of curl, and she looked at me piteously. I urged the woman of the cottage to supply wraps and to light fires.
"Bless you, yes," she said heartily: "I'll soon have the little miss dry."
"If you heard that," said Mrs. Glen-Warrington to me, "it should surely give you pause in your wicked design."
The good woman halted before us. "And I can see your good lady would be the better of a change also," she said cheerfully.
"If you heard that——" said I; but Mrs. Glen-Warrington had turned away, and I had only the glimpse of a pink cheek.
Garland was in conversation with Sylvia, who had mustered spirit enough to make a little grimace at me; and Bates hovered, unnecessary and officious, about us all. Heaven knows what tale he would have to forward to Lady Orvill. But my conscience was, of course, clear.
"You see I am carrying out my compact to the letter," I told Mrs. Glen-Warrington.
"What compact?" she asked indifferently. "There's only a compact when there are two parties to an agreement," she added; and then looked at me hard. "I congratulate you on your strength of will. You resist temptation amazingly."
The voice seemed somehow to contain a mocking note; but I had no time to consider that. The rain had taken off, it was getting late, and we must be starting. We plunged into the long reach of the forest, which, what with the darkened sky and its own natural shadows, was like a piece of the dominion of night. The roads were but tracks that crossed and recrossed to the valleys below; but I was no stranger in that neighbourhood. As I led the way on the narrow path, with Mrs. Glen-Warrington beside me, I was aware that Garland's big bay was thrusting towards us. The nose of his horse was at my crupper, and ere I was aware my companion had fallen back to Sir James. I was evidently to enjoy the solitude of pioneer. When we had gone a little farther Garland dismounted to attend to his horse's foot, which had caught up a stone, and the rest of us went on. We came to a place where four roads met in the wood, and where were the remains of a finger-post. I dashed downwards towards the valley, and the others followed. I felt Mrs. Glen-Warrington drawing close to me, and heard her voice.
"Does Sir James know that we have taken this road?" she asked.
"I'm sure I don't know," I replied. "It's the proper road."
She meditated. "I think we ought to see that he doesn't miss his way," she said presently.
"There's a sign-post," I said indifferently.
"You know very well that it's battered out of recognition," she said with asperity.
"I can't wait," I said. "It's my duty to get you and Lady Sylvia home. There'll be some more rain before long. Look!" She did look. "I'm not responsible for Sir James," I said pleasantly. "You will admit I've given him every chance this afternoon."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Glen-Warrington faintly, and gently arresting her horse she fell back to the others.
I saw her out of the tail of my eye engaging them in talk, and I noticed that she pointed her whip upwards into the gathering darkness. I saw old Bates shake his head, and on an impulse I waited for them. Mrs. Glen-Warrington's eyes questioned me.
"I'm now going to take my chance," I said in passing. "You will admit I've been quite fair."
She watched me with a puzzled expression as I reined in by Sylvia. Sylvia was laughing; she enjoyed a ride, she liked adventure, and she didn't mind getting wet. But she was afraid of her mother.
"Sylvia," I said, "the time has come." She looked startled. "We must come to some conclusion, you know."
"I thought we had," she said weakly.
"What conclusion?" I asked.
"Well, Mamma——"
I don't remember how I interrupted her, but Sylvia looked shocked.
"The question is," I pursued, "are you going to give me up for Mamma?"
"I—I don't know," faltered Sylvia; and irrelevantly, but with interest, "Did you really lose Sir James on purpose?"
"Yes, I did," I answered shortly. "I thought he had enjoyed your society as much as he ought."
"Oh!" said Sylvia, with a little merry laugh. "I wonder if he'll ever find his way home?"
I said I didn't care. That was the best of Sylvia. She had an eye for a joke, which was more than could be said for Mrs. Glen-Warrington. But I brought her back to the point.
"The question is, Sylvia dear, whether you are going to sacrifice me to your mother. Let us come to an understanding."
Sylvia was confused. "We needn't decide at once," she said. "There's no hurry."
"Oh, but there is," I protested irritably. "Here have I been put to your doors for the last three weeks, used as a beggar-man, while you have been playing columbine——"
"You mustn't say such things, Dick," interrupted Sylvia severely. "If Mamma——"
I said something.
"Do you know what you're saying?" said she with asperity. "I can hardly think you know what you're saying."
I told her that Orvill ought to have accustomed her to the word by this time.
"It makes me wonder——" began Sylvia primly; and then continued, "You seem quite different. You really are unkind; and I never thought you were. Just look at what you did to poor Sir James just now."
"Oh, Sylvia, Sylvia!" said I; "and who burst out laughing?"
"I did nothing of the sort," she said indignantly. "I only laughed at the idea."
"Oh, well," I said helplessly, "let us come to some conclusion. Shall I put the question? Are we to be married? Those in favour of the motion please signify——"
"Now you are insulting," she said, on her dignity.
"Well, I withdraw. But I want a plain answer."
"You see," said Sylvia, rubbing her whip gently across her horse's neck, "I don't believe we are really suited to each other, Dick. You have a very bad temper, and Mamma was saying——"
"I think we ought to manage this without Mamma," I managed to interject with exemplary calmness. "Yes or no?"
"If you are so rude, then, no," said Sylvia, with spirit.
"Very well, so be it," I answered, and pushed forward my horse to Mrs. Glen-Warrington and Bates.
"May I suggest, Mrs. Glen-Warrington," I said, "that the Grange is yonder, and that you are all tired and wet, and would be the better for tea, or brandy, or something of the kind."
Mrs. Glen-Warrington's lips parted as she gazed at me with hesitation.
"There are also those oak rooms to see," I went on; "and it is more than a mile to the Hall."
"I should like to see the rooms," said Mrs. Glen-Warrington.
"If I might advise——" began old Bates fussily.
"We don't want your advice," I interposed brutally: "And your face would be all the better for a wash," I added with intention.
"I think perhaps we ought to take advantage of Mr. Sydney's offer," said Mrs. Glen-Warrington tentatively.
As old Bates was now occupied in an attempt to discover where his face was dirty, and simultaneously to hide it, there was no opposition, and we reached the Grange. Tea and brandy were both served, and Sylvia drank one and Bates the other. As I passed the former on the way to the oak rooms, she whispered, "You're not angry, Dick?"
"Not in the least," I answered. "Only sore."
Sylvia's pretty eyelashes drooped, and then her pretty white teeth met meditatively in a cake she held. Mrs. Glen-Warrington and I went into the farther rooms, which she was pleased to say delighted her. We lingered looking out on the view, which was wonderful in the falling afternoon.
"Do you know," I began suddenly, "that I've come to the conclusion that you're right about Sylvia. She is too young."
Mrs. Glen-Warrington started almost imperceptibly. "Indeed!" she said, after a pause. "But after all I'm no judge. I was just regretting I had been dragged into the affair at all." She smiled on me faintly. "You have your chance. Really you ought to be with her now. I think I should look over it, especially considering the storm."
"Oh, I've no longer any right there," I replied. "Sylvia has told me as much. I wear the willow."
She gave me a glance. "Then there is certainly no harm in your joining her," she said. "I'll explain to Lady Orvill."
"I had much rather be here," I said, and Mrs. Glen-Warrington turned her head to the door.
"Isn't that Sir James's voice?" she asked, very interested
"Yes," I assented. "He has blundered on us somehow."
She laughed. "You are very spiteful. And he is left alone with Sylvia?"
"You forget old Bates," I said.
"Oh, he will be chaperone—he will know his duty," and we both laughed.
There was a pause, in which she stirred. She moved slowly towards the door, but involuntarily my hand went out as if to detain her, and I found her fingers in mine.
"Mr. Sydney!" she said, in uncertain tones of surprise.
"I am not ashamed," I said boldly.
"You—you are outrageous," she said, with an awkward laugh. "You have no manners, and, it seems to me, few morals."
I still held her hand firmly, and she ceased to struggle.
"I have what I want now," I said.
"You had what you wanted an hour ago," she replied, and her colour deepened.
"I have never had it," I said quietly.
She looked down at the hand which held hers. "Is this Sylvia's discards?" she asked softly.
"Yes," I said boldly.
Mrs. Glen-Warrington laughed low. "Why did you do it?" she asked. "How vain men are!"
"No," I reflected. "I think it was only obstinacy."
"I knew it wasn't——" But here Mrs. Glen-Warrington stopped abruptly and blushed. The sound of voices from the other room came in to us. "We must go back now," said she, and her hand was no longer captive.
"May I come and see you in Town?" I asked quickly.
She shot a glance at me. "Yes, if you think I am not too old …. I go to-morrow."
"And Lord Orvill?" I queried.
"I don't understand you," said Mrs. Glen- Warrington, lifting her eyebrows.
"Poor Lady Orvill!" I said with sympathy.
"Indeed! As apparently Lady Orvill has succeeded in … has succeeded, she should be congratulated," she said.
"Succeeded!" I cried. "Well, poor Sir James, then!"
Mrs. Glen-Warrington treated the remark as if she had not heard it. We joined the others.
Sir James also left for Town the next day, and Lady Orvill got out of bed for the first time. I never heard what she said, for old Bates wasn't present. But we are now on excellent terms, and Lady Sylvia is a great favourite of my wife.
This work was published before January 1, 1930, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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