Part 1 (1/2)

Ranching for Sylvia.

by Harold Bindloss.

CHAPTER I

A STRONG APPEAL

It was evening of early summer. George Lansing sat by a window of the library at Brantholme. The house belonged to his cousin; and George, having lately reached it after traveling in haste from Norway, awaited the coming of Mrs. Sylvia Marston in an eagerly expectant mood. It was characteristic of him that his expression conveyed little hint of his feelings, for George was a quiet, self-contained man; but he had not been so troubled by confused emotions since Sylvia married Marston three years earlier. Marston had taken her to Canada; but now he was dead, and Sylvia, returning to England, had summoned George, who had been appointed executor of her husband's will.

Outside, beyond the broad sweep of lawn, the quiet English countryside lay bathed in the evening light: a river gleaming in the foreground, woods clothed in freshest verdure, and rugged hills running back through gradations of softening color into the distance. Inside, a ray of sunlight stretched across the polished floor, and gleams of brightness rested on the rows of books and somber paneling. Brantholme was old, but modern art had added comfort and toned down its austerity; and George, fresh from the northern snow peaks, was conscious of its restful atmosphere.

In the meanwhile, he was listening for a footstep. Sylvia, he had been told, would be with him in two or three minutes; he had already been expecting her for a quarter of an hour. This, however, did not surprise him: Sylvia was rarely punctual, and until she married Marston, he had been accustomed to await her pleasure.

She came at length, clad in a thin black dress that fitted her perfectly; and he rose and stood looking at her while his heart beat fast. Sylvia was slight of figure, but curiously graceful, and her normal expression was one of innocent candor. The somber garments emphasized the colorless purity of her complexion; her hair was fair, and she had large, pathetic blue eyes. Her beauty was somehow heightened by a hint of fragility: in her widow's dress she looked very forlorn and helpless; and the man yearned to comfort and protect her.

It did not strike him that she had stood for some moments enduring his compa.s.sionate scrutiny with exemplary patience.

”It's so nice to see you, George,” she said. ”I knew you would come.”

He thrilled at the a.s.surance; but he was not an effusive person. He brought a chair for her.

”I started as soon as I got your note,” he answered simply. ”I'm glad you're back again.”

He did not think it worth while to mention that he had with difficulty crossed a snow-barred pa.s.s in order to save time, and had left a companion, who resented his desertion, in the wilds; but Sylvia guessed that he had spared no effort, and she answered him with a smile.

”Your welcome's worth having, because it's sincere.”

Those who understood Sylvia best occasionally said that when she was unusually gracious it was a sign that she wanted something; but George would have denied this with indignation.

”If it wouldn't be too painful, you might tell me a little about your stay in Canada,” he said by and by. ”You never wrote, and”--he hesitated--”I heard only once from d.i.c.k.”

d.i.c.k was her dead husband's name, and she sat silent a few moments musing, and glancing un.o.btrusively at George. He had not changed much since she last saw him, on her wedding-day, though he looked a little older, and rather more serious. There were faint signs of weariness which she did not remember in his sunburned face. On the whole, however, it was a reposeful face, with something in it that suggested a steadfast disposition. His gray eyes met one calmly and directly; his brown hair was short and stiff; the set of his lips and the contour of his jaw were firm. George had entered on his thirtieth year. Though he was strongly made, his appearance was in no way striking, and it was seldom that his conversation was characterized by brilliancy. But his friends trusted him.

”It's difficult to speak of,” Sylvia began. ”When, soon after our wedding, d.i.c.k lost most of his money, and said that we must go to Canada, I felt almost crushed; but I thought he was right.” She paused and glanced at George. ”He told me what you wished to do, and I'm glad that, generous as you are, he wouldn't hear of it.”

George looked embarra.s.sed.

”I felt his refusal a little,” he said. ”I could have spared the money, and I was a friend of his.”

He had proved a staunch friend, though he had been hardly tried. For several years he had been Sylvia's devoted servant, and an admirer of the more accomplished Marston. When the girl chose the latter it was a cruel blow to George, for he had never regarded his comrade as a possible rival; but after a few weeks of pa.s.sionate bitterness, he had quietly acquiesced. He had endeavored to blame neither; though there were some who did not hold Sylvia guiltless. George was, as she well knew, her faithful servant still; and this was largely why she meant to tell him her tragic story.

”Well,” she said, ”when I first went out to the prairie, I was almost appalled. Everything was so crude and barbarous--but you know the country.”

George merely nodded. He had spent a few years in a wheat-growing settlement, inhabited by well-bred young Englishmen. The colony, however, was not conducted on economic lines; and when it came to grief, George, having come into some property on the death of a relative, returned to England.

”Still,” continued Sylvia, ”I tried to be content, and blamed myself when I found it difficult. There was always so much to do--cooking, was.h.i.+ng, baking--one could seldom get any help. I often felt worn out and longed to lie down and sleep.”

”I can understand that,” said George, with grave sympathy. ”It's a very hard country for a woman.”

He was troubled by the thought of what she must have borne for it was difficult to imagine Sylvia engaged in laborious domestic toil. It had never occurred to him that her delicate appearance was deceptive.