all that had
befallen him, and wished to smooth his path.'

Sylvia put several more questions, and to all of them Sidwell replied
with a peculiar decision, as though bent on making it clear that there
was nothing remarkable in this fact of the bequest. The motive which
impelled her was obscure even to her own mind, for ever since receiving
the letter she had suffered harassing doubts where now she affected to
have none. 'She knew, then,' was Sylvia's last inquiry, 'of the
relations between you and Mr. Peak?'

'I am not sure--but I think so. Yes, I think she must have known.'

'From Mr. Peak himself, then?'

Sidwell was agitated.

'Yes--I think so. But what does that matter?'

The other allowed her face to betray perplexity.

'So much for the past,' she said at length. 'And now?'----

'I have not the courage to do what I wish.'

There was a long silence.

'About your wish,' asked Sylvia at length, 'you are not at all
doubtful?'

'Not for one moment.--Whether I err in my judgment of him could be
proved only by time; but I know that if I were free, if I stood
alone'----

She broke off and sighed. 'It would mean, I suppose,' said the other,
'a rupture with your family?'

'Father would not abandon me, but I should darken the close of his
life. Buckland would utterly cast me off; mother would wish to do
so.--You see, I cannot think and act simply as a woman, as a human
being. I am bound to a certain sphere of life. The fact that I have
outgrown it, counts for nothing. I cannot free myself without injury to
people whom I love. To act as I wish would be to outrage every rule and
prejudice of the society to which I belong. You yourself--you know how
you would regard me.'

Sylvia replied deliberately.

'I am seeing you in a new light, Sidwell. It takes a little time to
reconstruct my conception of you.'

'You think worse of me than you did.'

'Neither better nor worse, but differently. There has been too much
reserve between us. After so long a friendship, I ought to have known
you more thoroughly. To tell the truth, I have thought now and then of
you and Mr. Peak; that was inevitable. But I went astray; it seemed to
me the most unlikely thing that you should regard him with more than a
doubtful interest. I knew, of course, that he had made you his ideal,
and I felt sorry for him.'

'I seemed to you unworthy?'----

'Too placid, too calmly prudent.--In plain words, Sidwell, I do think
better of you.'