The Top of the World by Ethel May Dell (best book club books for discussion TXT) 📕

cloak-room people looked at her oddly, but beyond ordinary greetings no one spoke to her. She did not know that it was solely her utter wretchedness that kept them at a distance.
She entered the ballroom behind Mrs. Ingleton, and at once Preston descended upon her again. He had scrawled his name against half a dozen dances on her card before she realized what he was doing. She began to protest, but again that deadly feeling of apathy overcame her. She was worn out--worn out. What did it matter whether she danced with the man or not?
Young Vernon Eversley, a friendly boy whom she had always liked, pursed his lips when he saw her programme.
"It's true then, is it?" he said.
"What is true?" She looked at him questioningly, not feeling greatly interested in his answer.
He met her look with straight, honest eyes. "I saw the announcement of your engagement in the paper this morning; but somehow I didn't believe it. He's a dashed lucky man."
That startled her out of her lethargy. She began a quick disclaimer, but they were interrupted. One of the stewards came up and swept young Eversley away.
The next moment Preston came and took possession of her. He was laughing still as he whirled her in among the dancers, refusing to give her any breathing-space.
"I want to see a little colour in those cheeks of yours, Cherry-ripe," he said. "What's the Ingleton dragon been doin' to you, my pretty?"
She danced with him with a feeling that the net was drawn close about her, and she was powerless to struggle any longer. When he suffered her to stand at last, her head was whirling so that she had to cling to him for support.
He led her to a secluded corner and put her into a chair. Then he bent over her and spoke into her ear. "Look here! I'm not such a bad sort. They've coupled our names together in the local rag. Why not let 'em?"
She looked up at him, summoning her strength with a great effort. "So it was your doing!" she said.
"No, it wasn't!" he declared. "I swear it wasn't! I'm not such a fool as that. But see here, Sylvia! Where's the use of holdin' out any longer? You know I want you, and there's no sense in goin' on pinin' for a fellow in South Africa who's probably married a dozen blacks already. It isn't like you to cry for the moon. Put up with me instead! You might do worse, and anyone can see you're havin' a dog's time at the Manor now. You'll be your own boss anyway if you come to me."
She heard him with her eyes fixed before her. Her brief energy had gone. Her life seemed to stretch before her in a long, dreary waste. His arguments were unanswerable. Physical weariness, combined with the despair which till then she had refused to acknowledge, overwhelmed her. She was down.
He put his hand upon her. "Come, I say! Is it a bargain? I swear I won't bully you. I'm awfully fond of you, Cherry-ripe."
She raised herself slowly. It was her last effort. "One thing first," she said, and put his hand away from her. "I must--cable to Guy, and get an answer."
"Oh, rot!" he said. "What for?"
"Because I haven't heard from him lately, and I must know--I must know"--she spoke with rising agitation--"the reason why. He might be--I don't say it is likely, but he might be--on his way home to me. I can't--I can't give him up without knowing."
Preston grimaced wryly, but he was shrewd enough to grasp and hold such advantage as was his. "Well, failing him, you'll have me, what? That's a promise, is it?"
She looked at him again. "If you want me under those conditions."
He put his arms about her. "Of course I want you, Cherry-ripe! We'd be awfully happy together, you and I. I'll soon make you forget him, if that's all. You can't be very deeply in love with the fellow after all this time. I don't suppose he's in the least the sort of person you take him for. You're wastin' your time over a myth. Come, it's settled, isn't it? We're engaged."
He pressed her closer. He bent to kiss her, but she turned her face away. His lips only found her neck, but he made the most of that. She had to exert her strength to free herself.
"No," she said. "We're not engaged. We can't be engaged--until I have heard from Guy."
He suppressed a short word of impatience. "And suppose you don't hear?" he asked.
She made a blind movement with her hands. "Then---I give in."
"You will marry me?" he insisted.
"If you like," she answered drearily. "I expect you will very soon get tired of me."
"There's a remedy for everything," he answered jauntily. "But we needn't consider that. I'm just mad to get you, you poor little icicle. I'll warm you up, never fear. When you've been married to me a week, you won't know yourself." She shivered and was silent.
He turned in his tracks, perceiving he was making no headway. "Then we're engaged provisionally anyway," he insisted. "There's no need to contradict the general impression--unless we're obliged. We'll behave like lovers--till further notice."
She got to her feet. Her knees were trembling. The net was close at last. She seemed to feel it pressing on her throat. "You are not--to kiss me," she managed to say.
He frowned at the condition, but he conceded it. The game was so nearly his that he could afford to be generous. Besides, he would exact payment in full later for any little concessions she wrung from him now.
"I'm bein' awfully patient," he said pathetically. "I hope you'll take that into account. You really might just as well give in first as last."
But Sylvia had given in, and she knew it. Nothing but a miracle could save her now. The only loophole she had for herself was one which she realized already was highly unlikely to serve her. She had been practically forced into submission, and she did not attempt to disguise the fact from herself.
Yet if only Guy had not failed her, she knew that no power on earth would have sufficed to move her, no clamour of battle could ever have made her quail. That had been the chink in her armour, and through that she had been pierced again and again, till she was vanquished at last.
She felt too weary now, too utterly overwhelmed by circumstances, to care what happened. Yes, she would cable to Guy as she had said. But her confidence was gone. She was convinced already that no word would come back in answer out of the void that had swallowed him,
She went through the evening as one in a dream. People offered her laughing congratulations, and she never knew how she received them. She seemed to be groping her way through an all-enveloping mist of despair.
One episode only stood out clearly from all the rest, and that was when all were assembled at supper and out of the gay hubbub she caught the sound of her own name. Then for a few intolerable moments she became vividly alive to that which was passing around her. She knew that George Preston's arm encircled her, and that everyone present had risen to drink to their happiness.
As soon as it was over she crept away like a wounded thing and hid herself. Only a miracle could save her now.


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.
"Beggin' your pardon, missie, but you'll let me wish you joy?" he said. "I heard the good news this morning."
She stood still. His friendly look went straight to her heart, stirring in her an urgent need for sympathy.
"Oh, Jeffcott," she said, "I'd never have given in if Mr. Ranger hadn't stopped writing."
"Lor!" said Jeffcott. "Did he now?" He frowned for an instant. "But---didn't you have a letter from him last week?" he questioned. "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