CHAPTER V

THE MIRACLE

“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Ingleton, rising to kiss her step-daughter on the following morning, “I consider you are a very—­lucky—­girl.”

Sylvia received the kiss and passed on without reply.  She was very pale, but the awful inertia of the previous night had left her.  She was in full command of herself.  She took up some letters from a side table, and sat down with them.

Her step-mother eyed her for a moment or two in silence.  Then:  “Well, my dear?” she said.  “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

“Nothing particular,” said Sylvia.

The letters were chiefly letters of congratulation.  She read them with that composure which Mrs. Ingleton most detested, and put them aside.

“Am I to have no share in the general rejoicing?” she asked at length, in a voice that trembled with indignation.

Sylvia recognized the tremor.  It had been the prelude to many a storm.  She got up and turned to the window.  “You can read them all if you like,” she said.  “I see Dad on the terrace.  I am just going to speak to him.”

She passed out swiftly with the words before her step-mother’s gathering wrath could descend upon her.  One of Mrs. Ingleton’s main grievances was that it was so difficult to corner Sylvia when she wanted to give free vent to her violence.

She watched the girl’s slim figure pass out into the pale November sunshine, and her frown turned to a very bitter smile.

“Ah, my girl, you wait a bit!” she murmured.  “You’ve met your match, or I’m much mistaken.”

The squire was smoking his morning pipe in a sheltered corner.  He looked round with his usual half-surly expression as his daughter joined him.

She came to him very quietly and put her hand on his arm.

“Well?” he said gruffly.

She stood for a moment or two in silence, then: 

“Dad,” she said very quietly, “I am going to cable to Guy.  I haven’t heard from him lately.  I must know the reason why before—­before——­” A quiver of agitation sounded in her voice and she stopped.

“If you’ve made up your mind to marry Preston, I don’t see why you want to do that,” said the squire curtly.

“I am going to do it,” she answered steadily.  “I only wish I had done it sooner.”

Ingleton burrowed into his paper.  “All right,” he growled.

Sylvia stood for a few seconds longer, but he did not look up at her, and at length, with a sharp sigh, she turned and left him.

She did not return to her step-mother, however.  She went to her room to write her message.

A little later she passed down the garden on her way to the village.  A great restlessness was upon her, and she thought the walk to the post-office would do her good.

She came upon Jeffcott in one of the shrubberies, and he stopped her with the freedom of an old servant.