Ranching for Sylvia Part 27

Bland ordered it and they sat down to a neatly-served meal. The evening was warm and very still and clear. A rattle of wheels reached them from somewhere far down the road and they could hear the faint splash of water in the depths of the ravine.

"This is really delightful," murmured Sylvia, when the table had been cleared. "I like the quietness of the country when it comes as a contrast, after, for example, such an afternoon as we have spent."

"Then you're not sorry you came?"

"Sorry? You wouldn't suggest it, if you knew how dull my days often are. But I mustn't be doleful. You may smoke, if you like."

Bland did not particularly wish to smoke, but he lighted a cigarette.

It seemed to banish formality, to place them on more familiar terms.

"What is the matter with the car?" Sylvia asked.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you. It can't be got along without something the man has gone back for."

"They do stop sometimes. Is this one in the habit of doing so?"

"I can't say, as it isn't mine. Why do you ask?"

"Oh!" said Sylvia, "I had my suspicions. The man didn't seem in the least astonished or annoyed, for one thing. Then it broke down in such a convenient place."

Bland laughed; her boldness appealed to him.

"Well," he declared, "I'm perfectly innocent; though I can't pretend I'm sorry."

"You felt you had to say that."

"No," he declared, with a direct glance; "I meant it."

Sylvia leaned back in her chair and glanced appreciatively at the moor.

"After all," she said, "it's remarkably pretty here, and a change is nice. I'll confess that I find Susan's friends a little boring."

The implication was that she preferred Bland's society, and he was gratified.

"That struck me some time ago," he rejoined. "I wonder if you can guess why I thought it worth while to put up with them?"

Sylvia smiled as she looked at him. She liked the man; she thought that he had a good deal she valued to offer her; but as yet she desired only his captivation. She must not allow him to go too far.

"You might have had a number of motives," she said carelessly. "I don't feel much curiosity about them."

Bland bore the rebuff good-humoredly. Patience was one of his strong points, and since his conversation with Ethel West on the terrace he had made up his mind. In arriving at a decision, the man was honest and ready to make some sacrifice. He had been strongly impressed by Sylvia on their first meeting, but he had realized that it would be a mistake to marry her unless she had some means. Hitherto he had found it difficult to meet his expenses, which were large. He did not believe now that Sylvia was rich, and he had seen enough of her to suspect that she was extravagant, but this did not deter him. She had undoubtedly some possessions, and he was prepared to retrench and deny himself a number of costly pleasures. Indeed, he had once or twice thought of leaving the army.

"Then I won't force an explanation on you," he said, and lighting another cigarette, lazily watched her and tried to a.n.a.lyze her charm.

He failed to do so. Sylvia was a born coquette, and most dangerous in that her power of attraction was natural, and as a rule she appealed to the better and more chivalrous feelings of her victims. Fragile, and delicately pretty, she looked as if she needed some one to shelter and defend her from all troubles. Bland decided that, although she rarely said anything brilliant, and he had seen more beautiful women, he had not met one who, taken all round, could compare with Sylvia.

"What are you thinking of?" she asked at length, with a gleam of mischief in her eyes.

"Oh," he answered, slightly confused, "my mind was wandering. I believe I was trying to explain a thing that's wrapped in impenetrable mystery."

"One wouldn't have imagined you were given to that kind of amus.e.m.e.nt, and it's obviously a waste of time. Wouldn't it be wiser to accept the object that puzzles you for what it seems, if it's nice?"

"It is," he declared, wondering whether this was a random shot on her part or one of the flashes of penetration with which she sometimes surprised him.

"Your advice is good."

"I believe so," responded Sylvia. "If a thing pleases you, don't try to find out too much about it. That's the way to disappointment."

She was a little astonished at his reply.

"Perhaps it's a deserved penalty. One should respect a beautiful mystery--unquestioning faith is a power. It reacts upon its object as well as upon its possessor."

"Even if it's mistaken?"

"It couldn't be altogether so," Bland objected. "Nothing that was unworthy could inspire real devotion."

"All this is far too serious," said Sylvia, petulantly; for her companion's moralizing had awakened a train of unpleasant reflections.

She did not think unquestioning faith was common, but she knew of one man who was endowed with it, and he was toiling for her sake on the desolate western prairie. Once or twice his belief in her had roused angry compunction, and she had revealed the more unfavorable aspects of her character, but he had refused to see them.

"Then what shall we talk about?" Bland inquired.

"Anything that doesn't tax one's brain severely. Yourself, for example."

"I'm not sure that's flattering, and it's an indifferent topic; but I won't back out. As I gave you your choice, I must take the consequences."

"Are you always ready to do that?" There was a tiny hint of seriousness in her voice.

"Well," he said with some dryness, "I generally try."

There was something that reminded her of George in his expression. The man, she thought, would redeem what pledge he gave; he might be guilty of rashness, but he would not slink away when the reckoning came. Then she became conscious of a half-tender regret. It was a pity that George was so fond of the background, and left it only when he was needed, while Brand was a prominent figure wherever he went, and this was, perhaps, the one of his characteristics which most impressed her.

Then he rather modestly began the brief account of his career, adding sc.r.a.ps of information about his relatives, who were people of station.

He did not enlarge upon several points that were in his favor, but he omitted to state that he had now and then been on the verge of a financial crisis.

Sylvia listened with keen interest, and asked a few questions to help him on; but when he finished she let the subject drop. Soon afterward she glanced down the road, which was growing dim.

"I wish your man would come. It's getting late," she said.

"He can't be much longer. I don't think you need be disturbed."

"I am disturbed," Sylvia declared. "I really shouldn't have come to-day; you will remember I hesitated."

"Then it was a temptation?"

Sylvia smiled rather wistfully. "That must be confessed; I need a little stir and brightness and I so seldom get it. You know Muriel; I owe her a good deal, but she's so dull and she makes you feel that everything you like to do is wrong."

"But you haven't been very long with Mrs. Lansing. Wasn't it different in Canada?" Bland had a reason for venturing on the question, though it was rather a delicate one.

"I can hardly bear to think of it! For four months in the year I was shut up, half-frozen, in a desolate homestead. There was deep snow all round the place; n.o.body came. It was a day's drive to a forlorn settlement; nothing ever broke the dreary monotony. In summer one got worn out with the heat and the endless petty troubles. There was not a moment's rest; the house was filled with plowmen and harvesters, uncouth barbarians who ate at our table and must be waited on."