Ranching for Sylvia | Page 8

gaining her esteem. Then he remembered that this would entail the sacrifice of her property; and a faint distrust of her, which he had hitherto refused to admit, seized him. Sylvia, threatened by poverty, might yield without affection to the opportunities of a suitor who would bid high enough for her hand; and he would not have such a course forced upon her, even if he were the one to profit.
"You're very quiet; you must feel going away," she said.
"Yes," George admitted; "I feel it a good deal."
"Ah! I don't know anybody else who would have gone--I feel selfish and shabby in letting you."
"I don't think you could stop me."
"I haven't tried. I suppose I'm a coward, but until you promised to look after matters, I was afraid of the future. I have friends, but the tinge of contempt which would creep into their pity would be hard to bear. It's hateful to feel that you are being put up with. Sometimes I thought I'd go back to Canada."
"I've wondered how you stood it as long as you did," George said incautiously.
"Aren't you forgetting? I had Dick with me then." Sylvia paused and shuddered. "It would be so different now."
George felt reproved and very compassionate.
"Yes," he said, "I'm afraid I forgot; but the whole thing seems unreal. It's almost impossible to imagine your living on a farm in western Canada."
"I dare say it's difficult. I'll confess I'm fond of ease and comfort and refinement. I like to be looked after and waited on; to have somebody to keep unpleasant things away. That's dreadfully weak, isn't it? And because I haven't more courage, I'm sending you back to the prairie."
"I'm quite ready to go."
"Oh, I'm sure of that! It's comforting to remember that you're so resolute and matter-of-fact. You wouldn't let troubles daunt you--perhaps you would scarcely notice them when you had made up your mind."
The man smiled, rather wistfully. He could feel things keenly, and he had his romance; but Sylvia resumed:
"I sometimes wonder if you ever felt really badly hurt?"
"Once," he said quietly. "I think I have got over it."
"Ah!" she murmured. "I was afraid you would blame me, but now it seems that Dick knew you better than I did. When he made you my trustee, he said that you were too big to bear him malice."
The blood crept into George's face.
"After the first shock had passed, and I could reason calmly, I don't think I blamed either of you. You had promised me nothing; Dick was a brilliant man, with a charm everybody felt. By comparison, I was merely a plodder."
Sylvia mused for a few moments.
"George," she said presently, "I sometimes think you're a little too diffident. You plodders who go straight on, stopping for nothing, generally gain your object in the end."
His heart beat faster. It looked as if she meant this for a hint.
"I can't thank you properly," she continued; "though I know that all you undertake will be thoroughly carried out. I wish I hadn't been forced to let you go so far away; there is nobody else I can rely on."
He could not tell her that he longed for the right to shelter her always--it was not very long since the Canadian tragedy--but silence cost him an effort. At length she touched his arm.
"It's getting late, and the others will wonder where we are," she reminded him.
They went back to the house; and when Sylvia joined Mrs. Lansing, George felt seriously annoyed with himself. He had been deeply stirred, but he had preserved an unmoved appearance when he might have expressed some sympathy of tenderness which could not have been resented. Presently Ethel West crossed the room to where he was rather moodily standing.
"I believe our car is waiting, and, as Edgar won't let me come to the station to-morrow, I must say good-by now," she told him. "Both Stephen and I are glad he is on your hands."
"I must try to deserve your confidence," George said, smiling. "It's premature yet."
"Never mind that. We're alike in some respects: pretty speeches don't appeal to us. But there's one thing I must tell you--don't delay out yonder, come back as soon as you can."
She left him thoughtful. He had a high opinion of Ethel's intelligence, but he would entertain no doubts or misgivings. They were treasonable to Herbert and, what was worse, to Sylvia.
Going to bed in good time, he had only a few words with Sylvia over his early breakfast in the morning. Then he was driven to the station, where Edgar joined him; and the greater part of their journey proved uneventful.
Twelve days after leaving Liverpool they were, however, awakened early one morning by feeling the express-train suddenly slacken speed. The big cars shook with a violent jarring, and George hurriedly swung himself