Sylvia turned a rosy colour, more with anger than with pleasure. Skelton was amusing himself at her expense. Latterly he had fallen into a half-bantering love-making with her that was infuriating. Sylvia shut her lips, threw back her head, and unconsciously quickened her walk. Skelton, without making the slightest attempt at conversation, walked by her side. They were following the indentations of the river towards the bridge. The sky lowered, and presently a few large drops of rain fell. Sylvia started and turned a little pale. She was afraid of storms, and already the rumbling of thunder was heard.
“I must fly home!� she cried. “Good-bye,� and gave him her hand.
At that moment the air suddenly turned black, and there was a blinding flash of light, a sudden roar of thunder, and all at once a great golden willow not fifty yards from where they stood seemed to shrivel before their eyes as a bolt struck it. A fearful stillness hung over the land, although the thunder bellowed overhead. Sylvia trembled, and clung to Skelton’s sinewy brown hand.
“Don’t go!� she said piteously.
In another instant she felt herself rushed along towards the house. She was breathless, and the wind, which had suddenly risen, blew the brim of her large hat over her eyes, but just as the rain swept down in a torrent she found herself in the Belfield hall, panting and frightened, but safe.
“Now,� said Skelton coldly and with malicious satisfaction, “good-bye.�
“What do you mean?� cried Sylvia, aghast. “In this rain?�
“The rain is nothing,� replied Skelton, buttoning up his coat. He was vexed with her, and was sincere in meaning to go home.
“But—but—you mustn’t go,� said Sylvia, looking at him with terrified eyes.
“Are you afraid to be alone? I will call the servants for you.�