UPROOTED
The time was rather after five o’clock on a dark afternoon a week later.
The train lamps had been lit two hours ago, and cast a vivid, unshaded
light upon a comfortable first-class railway carriage, with its
well-stuffed seats, well-covered floors, and tasselled blinds shutting
out the winter darkness.
Even particular Mr. Fenton thought the light good enough to read by, and
was leaning back luxuriously in his corner of the carriage, immersed in
the _Westminster Gazette_.
But Sydney, who sat opposite him, could not read. A pile of magazines
considered by Mr. Fenton to suit her age and sex lay around her, and she
was idly turning up the pages of one on her knee. But her eyes were fixed
dreamily upon the wall before her, and her thoughts were leagues away
from the swiftly-moving train, which was carrying her ever nearer and
nearer to the new, strange life.
It did not seem possible that she could be the same Sydney who, only a
week ago, had been so wildly happy over the letter from the Editor of
_Our Girls_. Why, though six copies of the paper with her story in it had
arrived for her, “With the compliments of the Editor,” that morning, she
had not even looked at them. No one had cared: all that happiness and
excitement had been years and years ago!
And yet had ever a week gone so quickly?
The days seemed all too short for everything she wanted to do in them.
In the end she had done little except follow mother round the house,
from kitchen to larder, from larder to store-room, and from store-room
to linen-cupboard. The idea of going round to say good-bye to all her
friends had to be given up; after all, it was mother that she wanted most.
At night she and Dolly, who shared a room, used to hold to each other and
cry; but in the daytime Sydney shed few tears. She was very quiet and
wistful-eyed, but trustful of father’s judgment, only growing a little
more silent as the days went on.
There came a letter from Lady Frederica Verney, Lord St. Quentin’s aunt,
beginning, “Dear Miss Lisle,” which opening was in itself a shock, and
asking Sydney if she would be ready to come to Castle St. Quentin on
Tuesday next, under the escort of Mr. Fenton. A maid, whom Lady Frederica
had engaged to wait upon her, would come up to town the day before, spend
the night at an hotel, and meet Sydney at Waterloo in time for the two
o’clock train down to Blankshire.
Nobody in the Chichester household could quite see what use the maid
could be to Sydney on the journey; but, by mother’s orders, she wrote a
little note to Lady Frederica, thanking her for taking so much trouble,
and saying that she would be ready to go with Mr. Fenton on the day and
by the train suggested.
The first copy of that note had two blots upon it, and Sydney had to
write it again. Poor little heiress! she quite longed to hear Mildred
say, “How careless!” and “When _will_ you grow up, Sydney!” But there
were no scoldings now, only a great tenderness from one and all.
Then there was packing to be done, and great discussions whether the
frocks which were to have been “let down” next month when Sydney’s hair
went up, should be altered now. Would Lady Frederica expect to see Miss
Lisle in quite grown-up array, or would skirts to her ankles pass muster?
Sydney took very little interest in the discussion, only, when pressed,
gave her voice in favour of leaving them alone. “She hated everything
that reminded her of what was going to happen!” she said.
The children took the prospect cheerfully until the very end. Nurse had
enlightened them on the grandeur of a title. “Miss Sydney would ride in
her own carriage, pretty dear! with powdered footmen on the box, and
silver on the harness, and wear satin every day. It would do her old eyes
good to see her!”
“You needn’t be such a silly ass about it, Syd,” Freddie had said,
after one of nurse’s conversations. “_I_ don’t mind you being a
Lady-what-do-you-call-it myself! You’ll keep lots of horses and ponies
and merry-go-rounds in your park, and we’ll all come and stay with you
and ride ’em!”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind!” Hugh told him, rather savagely, and was
not greatly mollified by Freddie’s answer:
“Well, _you_ needn’t! But Syd’s promised to ask me and Prissie, haven’t
you, Syd?”
“Oh, I shall want you all!” poor Sydney had cried. “I do hope Lord St.
Quentin will be kind, and ask you all to come and stay soon, very soon!”
“No chance of that!” Hugh had muttered beneath his breath; and then had
put his arm round Sydney, calling himself “a beast to make her cry, and,
of course, they would meet again, yes, very soon indeed!”
And then had come the last evening of the old happy, childish life.
Hugh had been very white and silent as it drew on, and Mildred’s eyes
kept filling with tears, so that she could not see to work, and Dolly
was crying quietly in a corner, and the boys gave up talking about
the hunters Sydney would keep and the motor-cars she would drive, and
relapsed into a gloomy silence; and Fred and Prissie realised suddenly
what “good-bye” meant, and broke down and howled.
Perhaps that was rather a good thing, after all, for everybody was so
busy comforting them and making auguries of future meetings that there
was not very much time to be miserable.
And when one is not yet eighteen, one _is_ sleepy when ten o’clock comes
round, however wretched one may be feeling. Sydney fully expected to lie
awake all night, but she and Dolly were both sound asleep when father and
mother looked, shading their candle, into the small room where to-morrow
night one would be all alone.
The morning had been unreal, like a dream.
They all had a kind of Sunday-manner towards the one who was to leave
them. Mother packed for Sydney; Mildred mended her gloves so beautifully
that one could not see where the mend was; old nurse came and brushed out
the mane of fine brown hair, combed back loosely from the small face and
tied at the back of the neck with ribbon; and Freddie rushed out to the
nearest flower-shop to buy her a bunch of violets to wear on the journey.
He even bore with calmness the hug with which she received them, though
in general he objected strongly to such demonstrations from anyone but
mother.
Father was to take her to the station, and she had her last words with
mother in her little bedroom.
“Be a good girl, my darling, and try as well to be a cheerful one. I know
this is a hard thing for you, but God doesn’t call us to do anything that
is too hard for us. Be brave, my little Sydney, and make the _best_, in
every sense, of this new life. God bless you, my darling!”
“I will try, mother,” said poor Sydney, choking back her tears, and
then father called that the cab had come, and mother put the girl’s hat
straight, and down they went.
The hat grew rather disarranged again in the hall over the various
embracings; but Sydney did not feel as though that or anything else
mattered. Somehow she stumbled, blinded with tears, to the cab, and waved
a farewell to the crowd of dear faces round the well-known door. Then
father said “Right—Waterloo!” and away they drove.
The hot tears rose again to Sydney’s eyes, as she recalled the scene, and
blurred the page before her. Not four hours since she had said good-bye
to home, but oh, how long it seemed!
The drive had been short enough; Sydney thought she would have liked to
go on driving for ever, holding father’s hand, and dreamily watching
blobs of mud fly up against the cab windows.
But Waterloo was reached very soon, and Mr. Fenton was outside upon
the station steps, and coming forward to hand her from the cab, and
regret that she had so dull a day for her journey, and wave forward a
fashionably-attired personage, whom Sydney took for some distinguished
traveller; but who was, it appeared, her maid, “Ward.”
Poor Sydney faltered, “How do you do?” in her shyest tone, and felt
supremely young and miserable. However, if Miss Lisle did not know what
to do with her maid, her maid knew perfectly well what to do with her.
She took Sydney’s umbrella, and inquired for her dressing-case. “I
haven’t one,” the heiress faltered, holding tight to father’s hand.
Ward was too well-bred to be at all surprised. She just said, “Certainly,
Miss Lisle,” and walked behind her to the carriage, where Mr. Fenton had
already ordered rugs and hot-water tins. She inquired if she could get
Miss Lisle anything, and, on a refusal, remarked that she was travelling
in the back part of the train, and would come to Miss Lisle at Donisbro’.
Sydney murmured, “Thank you very much,” and Ward, with a courtly bend of
her head, departed.
Mr. Fenton considerately said something rather inaudible about “papers,”
and left father and daughter for that precious last five minutes, and
then, after all, Sydney could not find anything to say, but could only
stand mutely holding to the worn cuff of his shabby overcoat and looking
at him with great, hungry eyes.
Dr. Chichester had to blow his nose more than once in the course of that
five minutes. “There, there, my dear!” he kept on saying, “things will
look brighter presently.... Be a good girl ... and write to us ... you’ll
like getting our letters, won’t you?... And I expect this Lady Frederica
will spoil you famously, eh, my dear?... There, there! don’t cry; it
won’t be as bad as you think, my little girl!”
And then Mr. Fenton gave a nervous little cough behind him, and said he
was afraid the train was just due to start, and Dr. Chichester apologised
for blocking up the doorway, and kissed Sydney, and said to Mr. Fenton,
in a rather husky voice, “Be good to my little girl, sir.”
And Mr. Fenton looked a little frightened, and said, “Yes, yes, you may
rely upon me; I will make a point of it.” And then a guard yelled, “Stand
clear, sir!” and the train was moving.
And Sydney had stood up and waved her handkerchief till the long
platform, with the tall, slightly stooping figure, was quite out of
sight—the last of home!
The letters on the page danced wildly and then disappeared, as Sydney’s
meditations reached this point. She got her handkerchief out furtively.
It certainly was not being very brave or sensible to cry at her age. She
dried her tears, and found Mr. Fenton looking at her in an anxious manner
over the top of his newspaper.
He had looked at her several times while her thoughts were travelling so
far away. He felt a distinct sense of responsibility with regard to her,
but was handicapped by small knowledge of girls and their ways.
He had done all that he could think of for her comfort. He had provided
her with a perfect armful of ladies’ papers, wrapped a travelling rug
about her knees, felt her hot-water tin to learn if it were really hot,
asked her more than once if he should completely close the window, and
seen to it that she had a cup of tea at Donisbro’.
But still he felt a vague uneasiness—a fear that he had not done
everything that he might have done. The girl’s eyes were very wistful—the
dark grey Lisle eyes, which he had noticed with professional interest.
They filled with tears rather often. Mr. Fenton felt distinctly uneasy—he
hoped the girl was not going to be hysterical!
She saw him looking at her, and forced a rather pathetic little smile.
Mr. Fenton put down his paper, folded it, and leaned forward.
“You are not cold, I trust?”
“No, thank you, not at all.”
“Or tired?”
Sydney considered, and thought perhaps she was a little tired.
“We shall be at Dacreshaw in less than twenty minutes,” he informed her,
looking at his watch. She thanked him, and then took a sudden resolution,
“Mr. Fenton, may I ask you a question?”
“Pray do, my dear Miss Lisle.”
Mr. Fenton felt a little happier about her now, and his tone was fatherly.
“I don’t know anything about my cousin,” she said, looking up at him
appealingly; “will he—will he be kind, do you think?”
Mr. Fenton rubbed his hands together in a considering kind of way. “I do
not think that you will see a great deal of Lord St. Quentin,” he said.
“Since his accident he has lived entirely in two rooms on the ground
floor—no, I don’t think you will see him very often.”
“And Lady Frederica?” ventured Sydney. “You told father that Lord St.
Quentin is thirty-four, so I suppose his aunt is very very old?”
Mr. Fenton never laughed outright at anything a lady said to him, but he
did smile, a little, half-apologetic smile, at Sydney’s question.
“My dear Miss Lisle, ladies nowadays are _never_ old, and it is
particularly difficult to connect that ungallant expression with Lady
Frederica. She is quite a woman of the world, I assure you, and—but you
will find out all about her for yourself. Ah! here is the train stopping
at Dacreshaw Station. Now, my dear young lady, we only have a drive of
six miles, and then we shall have reached our journey’s end!”
A footman in a long drab coat with silver buttons was opening the
carriage door with a touch of his cockade to Sydney; Ward was hurrying
towards her from the second-class compartments of the train; the old
station-master was lifting his gold-banded cap as she went by. Sydney
believed, in thinking over her arrival afterwards, that she clung in a
very undignified way to the arm Mr. Fenton had offered her, with his
old-fashioned gallantry. She was thankful when they reached the shelter
of the brougham sent to meet her, and Mr. Fenton had handed her into it,
and desired Ward to follow in a fly. He considerately made no further
attempt to talk to her, and she leaned back luxuriously on the cushions,
watching the reflections of the carriage lamps in the puddles, but hardly
conscious of anything except fatigue, until the opening of the lodge
gates roused her to the knowledge that she had nearly reached the place
which it seemed such a mockery to think about as home.