When Mrs. Kettering heard of Sylvia’s intention to attend the gymkana, she gave her consent, and said that, as she had an invitation, she would make up a party to go.  This was not what Bland required.  It was, however, a four-seated car that he had been promised the use of; and counting Sylvia and himself and the driver, there was only one place left.  While he was wondering to whom it would be best to offer it, Sylvia thought of Ethel West, who had announced that she would not attend the function.  By making a short round, they could pass through a market town of some importance.

“You mentioned that you wished to buy some things; why not come with us?” she said to Ethel.  “We could drop you going out and call for you coming home.  Susan will have the big car full, so she couldn’t take you, and it’s a long drive to the station and the trains run awkwardly.”

Sylvia’s motive was easy to discern, but Ethel agreed.  She was, on the whole, inclined to pity Captain Bland; but he was a stranger and George was a friend.  If Sylvia must choose between them, it would be much better that she should take the soldier.  For all that, Ethel had an uncomfortable feeling that she was assisting in a piece of treachery when she set off soon after lunch on a fine autumn day; and the car had gone several miles before she began to enjoy the ride.

For a while the straight white road, climbing steadily, crossed a waste of moors.  The dry grass gleamed gray and silver among the russet fern; rounded, white-edged clouds floated, scarcely moving, in a sky of softest blue.  The upland air was gloriously fresh, and the speed exhilarating.

By and by they ran down into a narrow dale in the depths of which a river brawled among the stones, and climbed a long ascent, from which they could see a moving dust-cloud indicating that Mrs. Kettering’s car was only a mile or two behind.  After that there was a league of brown heath, and then they sped down to a wide, wooded valley, in the midst of which rose the gray walls of an ancient town.  On reaching it, Ethel alighted in the market-square, hard by the lofty abbey, and turned to Bland.

“I have one or two calls to make after I’ve finished shopping, but if it takes longer than I expected or you can’t get here in time, I’ll go back by train,” she said.  “In that case, you must bring me home from the station.”

Bland promised, and Ethel watched the car with a curious expression until it vanished under a time-worn archway.  She was vexed with herself for playing into Sylvia’s hands, though she had only done so in what she regarded as George’s interest.  If Sylvia married Bland, the blow would no doubt be a heavy one to George, but it would be better for him in the end.

In the meanwhile, the car sped on up the valley until it reached an ancient house built on to a great square tower, where Bland was welcomed by a lady of high importance in the district.  Afterward he was familiarly greeted by several of her guests, which Sylvia, who had strong ambitions, duly noticed; these people occupied a different station from the one in which she had hitherto moved.  When Bland was called away from her, she was shown to a place at some distance from Mrs. Kettering’s party, and she sat down and looked about with interest.  From the smooth lawn and still glowing borders before the old gray house, a meadow ran down to the river that wandered, gleaming, through the valley, and beyond it the brown moors cut against the clear blue sky.  In the meadow, a large, oval space was lined with groups of smartly-dressed people, and in its midst rose trim pavilions outside which grooms stood holding beautiful glossy horses.  Everything was prettily arranged; the scene, with its air of gayety, appealed to Sylvia, and she enjoyed it keenly, though she was now and then conscious of her somber attire.

Then the entertainment began, and she admitted that Bland, finely-mounted, was admirable.  He took his part in several competitions, and through them all displayed a genial good-humor and easy physical grace.  He had for the most part younger men as antagonists, but Sylvia thought that none of them could compare with him in manner or bearing.

After a while Sylvia noticed with a start of surprise and annoyance that Herbert Lansing was strolling toward her.  He took an unoccupied chair at her side.

“What brought you here?” she asked.

“That,” he said, “is easily explained.  I got a kind of circular of invitation, and as I’ve had dealings with one or two of these people, I thought it advisable to make an appearance and pay my half-guinea.  Then there’s a man I want a talk with, and I find that the atmosphere of an office has often a deterrent effect on those unused to it.  But I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“Susan and some of the others have come; I’ve no doubt you’ll meet her.”

The explanation appeared adequate on the face of it, but a moment later Herbert glanced at Bland, who was dexterously controlling his restive horse.

“The man looks well in the saddle, doesn’t he?” he said.

“Yes,” assented Sylvia in an indifferent tone, though she was slightly disturbed.  Herbert was keen-witted, and she would rather not have had him take an interest in her affairs.

“I’m inclined to think it’s fortunate I didn’t bring Muriel,” he resumed with a smile.  “She’s rather conventional, and has stricter views than seem to be general nowadays.”

“I can’t see why I should remain in complete seclusion; it’s an irrational idea.  But I’ve no intention of concealing anything I think fit to do.”

“Of course not.  Are you going to mention that you attended this entertainment when you write to Muriel?”

Sylvia pondered her reply.  In spite of its dullness, Mrs. Lansing’s house was a comfortable and secure retreat.  She would have to go back to it presently, and it was desirable that she should avoid any cause of disagreement with her hostess.

“No,” she said candidly; “I don’t see any need for that; and I may not write for some time.  Of course, Muriel doesn’t quite look at things as I do, and on one or two points she’s unusually sensitive.”

Herbert looked amused.

“You’re considerate; and I dare say you’re right.  There doesn’t seem to be any reason why Muriel should concern herself about the thing, particularly as you’re in Susan’s hands.”

The implied promise that he would not mention his having seen her afforded Sylvia some relief, but when he went away to speak to Mrs. Kettering, she wished she had not met him.  Herbert was troubled by none of his wife’s prejudices, but on another occasion he had made her feel that she owed him something for which he might expect some return, and now the impression was more marked; their secret, though of no importance, had strengthened his position.  Herbert seldom granted a favor without an end in view; and she did not wish him to get too firm a hold on her.  The feeling, however, wore off, and she had spent a pleasant afternoon when Bland came for her as the shadows lengthened.

He reminded her of Ethel: 

“We’ll have to get off, if we’re to pick up Miss West.”

Sylvia said that she was ready, though she felt it would have been more satisfactory had Ethel been allowed to go back by train.  They began the journey, but after a few miles the car stopped on a steep rise.  The driver with some trouble started the engine, but soon after they had crossed the crest of the hill it stopped again, and he looked grave as he supplied Bland with some details that Sylvia found unintelligible.

“You must get her along another mile; then you can go back on a bicycle for what you want,” Bland told him, and turned to Sylvia.  “We’ll be delayed for an hour or so, but he can leave word for Miss West, and there’s an inn not far off where they’ll give us tea while we’re waiting.”

They reached it after turning into another road, though the car made alarming noises during the journey.  Sylvia viewed the old building with appreciation.  It stood, long and low and cleanly white-washed, on the brink of a deep ghyll filled with lichened boulders and russet ferns, with a firwood close behind it, and in front a wide vista of moors and fells that stood out darkly blue against the evening light.  Near the stone porch, a rustic table stood beside a row of tall red hollyhocks.

“It’s a charming spot,” Sylvia exclaimed.  “Can’t we have tea outside?”

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 analyze 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 amusement, 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 scraps 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; nobody 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.”

Bland was moved to pity; but he was also consoled.  As she had not mentioned Marston, she could not greatly have felt his loss.  Sylvia must have married young; no doubt, before she knew her mind.

“I wish,” he said quietly, “I could do something to make your life a little brighter.”

“But you can’t.  I’ve had one happy day ­and I’m grateful.  It must last me a while.”

He leaned forward, looking at her with an intent expression.

“Sylvia, give me the right to try.”

She shrank from him with a start that was partly natural, for she was not quite prepared for a bold avowal.

“No,” she said in alarm.  “How can I do that?”

“Don’t you understand me, Sylvia?  I want the right to take care of you.”

She checked him with a gesture.

“It is you who can’t understand.  Do you think I’m heartless?”

“Nothing could make me think hardly of you,” he declared.

“Then show me some respect and consideration.  It was what I looked for; I felt I was safe with you.”

Though he had not expected strong opposition, he saw that she was determined.  He had been too precipitate, and while he had no idea of abandoning his purpose, he bowed.

“If I’ve offended, you must forgive me ­I thought of nothing beyond my longing for you.  That won’t change or diminish, but I’ve been rash and have startled you.  I must wait.”

He watched her in keen anxiety, but Sylvia gave no hint of her feelings.  As a matter of fact, she was wondering why she had checked and repulsed him.  She could not tell.  A sudden impulse had swayed her, but she was not sorry she had yielded to it.  Her hold on the man was as strong as ever; the affair was not ended.

There was silence for the next few minutes.  It was growing dark; the hills had faded to blurs of shadows, and the moor ran back, a vast, dim waste.  Then a twinkling light moved toward them up the ascending road.  Bland rose and pointed to it.

“I dare say the man has got the things he needed.  We’ll be off again shortly,” he said in his usual manner; and Sylvia was grateful.

In another half-hour the car was ready, and when Bland helped Sylvia in and wrapped the furs about her, there was something new in his care for her comfort.  It was a kind of proprietary gentleness which she did not resent.  Then they sped away across the dusky moor.