§ 14
They were good comrades now; all their problems solved, and a stirrup-cup of happiness to quaff between them. Sylvia was amazed at herself—the surge of exultation which arose in her and swept her along upon its crest. Never in all her life had she been as full of verve and animation as she was throughout that ride. She laughed, she sang, she poured out a stream of fantasy; and all the while the clatter of the horses hoofs—romance blending itself with reality!
But also she was studying the man. There was something in her which must always be studying people. Thank Heaven, he was a man who could forget himself, and laugh and be good fun! It was something to have got him out of his melancholy, and set him to galloping here—admiring her, marveling at her! She felt his admiration like a storm of wind pushing her along.
At last she drew up, breathless. “Dear me,” she exclaimed, “what a lot of chattering I have done! And we must be—how many miles from home?”
“Ten, I should say,” he replied.
“And I’ve had no breakfast!” she said. “We really must go back.”
He made no objection, and they turned. “You must come and see me at the lodge,” she said. “I am going home to-morrow afternoon.”
But he shook his head. “Don’t ask me,” he replied. “You know I don’t belong among smart people.”
She started to protest; but then she thought of Billy Aldrich with his tight collars and fancy stick-pins—of Malcolm McCallum with his Japanese valet; no, there was no use pretending about such things. And besides, she did not want these people to know her secret.
“But where can we meet?” she said. (How perfectly appalling was that—without any hint from him!)
“Can’t we ride again to-morrow morning?” he asked, quite simply.
And so they settled it. He left her at the place where the road turned in to the lodge. He tried to thank her for what she had taken the trouble to do; but she was frightened now—she dared not stay and listen any longer to his voice. She waved him a bright farewell, and rode off, feeling suddenly faint and bewildered.
She had half a mile or so to ride alone, and in that ride it was exactly as if he were by her side. She still heard his horse’s hoofs, and felt how he would look if she were to turn. Once she thought of Lady Dee, and then she could not help laughing. What would Lady Dee have said! How many of the rules of coquetry had she not broken in the space of two brief hours! But after a little more thought, she consoled herself. Possibly there were moves in this game which even Lady Dee had never heard of! “I don’t think I managed it so badly,” she was saying to herself, as she dismounted from her horse.
And that was the view she took when she told Harriet about it. She had not meant to tell Harriet at all, but the secret would out—she had to have some one to talk to. “Oh, my dear,” she exclaimed, “he’s perfectly wonderful!”
“Who? What do you mean?” asked Harriet.
“Frank Shirley.”
“What? You’ve met him?”
“Met him? I’ve been riding with him the whole morning, and I’ve almost let him propose to me!”
“Sylvia!” cried Harriet, aghast.
The other stood looking before her, grown suddenly thoughtful. “Yes, I did. And what’s more, I believe that to-morrow morning I’m going to let him propose to me.”
“Sunny,” exclaimed her friend, “are you a woman, or one of Satan’s imps?”
For answer Sylvia took her seat at the piano and began to sing—a song by which all her lovers set much store:
“Who is Sylvia? What is she,
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair and wise is she—
The heavens such grace did lend her
That she might adored be!”