Part 6 (1/2)
”Friday morning it were. I see Evans, the postman, and he said as there were a South African letter for you. Weren't that from Mr.
Ranger, missie?”
”What?” said Sylvia sharply.
”Last Friday it were,” the old man repeated firmly. ”Why, I see the letter in his hand top of the pile when he stopped in the drive to speak to me. We both of us pa.s.sed a remark on it.”
Sylvia was staring at him. ”Jeffcott, are you sure?” she said.
”Sure as I stand here, Miss Sylvia,” he returned. ”I couldn't have made no mistake. Didn't you have it then, missie? I'll swear to heaven it were there.”
”No,” Sylvia said. ”I didn't have it.” She paused a moment; then very slowly, ”The last letter I had from Guy Ranger,” she said, ”was more than six weeks ago--the day that the squire brought Madam to the Manor.”
”Lor!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed old Jeffcott again. ”But wherever could they have got to, Miss Sylvia? Don't Bliss have the sortin' of the letters?”
”I--don't--know.” Sylvia was gazing straight before her with that in her face which frightened the old man. ”Those letters have been--kept back.”
She turned from him with the words, and suddenly she was running, running swiftly up the path.
Like a young animal released from bondage she darted out of his sight, and Jeffcott returned to his hedge-tr.i.m.m.i.n.g with pursed lips. That last glimpse of Miss Sylvia's face had--to express it in his own language--given him something of a turn.
It had precisely the same effect upon Sylvia's step-mother a little later, when the girl burst in upon her as she sat writing letters in her boudoir.
She looked round at her in amazement, but she had no time to ask for an explanation, for Sylvia, white to the lips, with eyes of flame, went straight to the attack. She was in such a whirlwind of pa.s.sion as had never before possessed her.
She was panting, yet she spoke with absolute distinctness. ”I have just found out,” she said, ”how it is that I have had no letters from Guy during the past six weeks. They have been--stolen.”
”Really, Sylvia!” said Mrs. Ingleton. She arose in wrath, but no wrath had any effect upon Sylvia at that moment. She was girt for battle--the deadliest battle she had ever known.
”You took them!” she said, pointing an accusing finger full at her step-mother. ”You kept them back! Deny it as much as you like--as much as you dare! None but you would have stooped to do such a thing. And it has been done. The letters have been delivered--and I have not received them. I have suffered--horribly--because of it. You meant me to suffer!'
”You are wrong, Sylvia! You are wrong!” Shrilly Mrs. Ingleton broke in upon her, for there was something awful in the girl's eyes--they had a red-hot look. ”Whatever I have done has been for your good always. Your father will testify to that. Go and ask him if you don't believe me!”
”My father had nothing to do with this!” said Sylvia in tones of withering scorn. ”Whatever else he lacks, he has a sense of honour. But you--you are a wicked woman, unprincipled, cruel, venomous. It may be my father's duty to live with you, but--thank heaven--it is not mine. You have come into my home and cursed it.
I will never sleep under the same roof with you again.”
She turned with the words to leave the room, and found her father and George Preston just coming out of the library on the other side of the hall. Fearlessly she swung round and confronted them. The utter freedom of her at that moment made her superb. The miracle had happened. She had rent the net that entangled her to shreds.
Mrs. Ingleton was beginning to clamour in the room behind her. She turned swiftly and shut and locked the door. Then she faced the two men with magnificent courage.
”I have to tell you,” she said, addressing them both impersonally, ”that my engagement to Guy Ranger is unbroken. I have just found out that my step-mother has been suppressing his letters to me.
That, of course, alters everything. And--also of course--it makes it impossible for me to stay here any longer. I am going to him--at once.”
Her eyes went rapidly from her father's face to Preston's. It was he who came forward and answered her. The squire seemed struck dumb.
”Egad!” he said. ”I've never seen you look so rippin' in all my life! That's how you look when you're angry, is it? Now I shall know what to watch out for when we're married.”
She answered him with a quiver of scorn. ”We never shall be married, Mr. Preston. You may put that out of your mind for ever.
I am going to Guy by the next boat.”
”Not you!” laughed Preston. ”You're in a paddy just now, my dear, but when you've thought it over soberly you'll find there are a good many little obstacles in the way of that. You haven't been brought up to rough it for one. And Guy Ranger, as I think we settled last night, has probably married half a dozen blacks already. It's too great a risk, Cherry-ripe! And--if I know you--you won't take it.”