Sylvia's expression changed once and again, and finally settled into one
of incredulous dismay. It was not that the news was bad; on the
contrary, it was good--very good indeed--the thing above all others
which she would have wished to hear, but it threatened a complete
uprooting of her life just as it was growing most interesting, and full
of possibilities. Dad was coming home, was even now on his way, and had
desired her to meet him on his arrival at Marseilles. It was
incredible, quite incredible in its startling unexpectedness. She
turned again to the wonderful paragraph, and read it over once more
slowly and carefully.
"And now, my darling, I have a piece of news, which I hope and believe
will be welcome to you. Certain business changes have taken place of
late, which you would not understand even if I tried to explain them,
but such as they are they set me free to return home at my own
convenience. I have been impatiently waiting this settlement of
affairs for some time back, as I have been most anxious to see you
after your long illness, and to satisfy myself that the best means are
being used to restore the full use of your foot.
"I have made inquiries here, and believe that a course of baths of the
German Spa B--- would probably put the final touch to what has already
been done. I propose, therefore, that you engage in good time a
trustworthy lady courier from an office in London, and travel in her
company to Marseilles, where I will meet you in the first week of
June, having previously spent a week or ten days in Italy with my old
friends the Nisbets, who return in the same boat.
"Come prepared for a summer abroad, and we can fit you up with any
extras that are needed before we start on our travels. After you have
finished your course of treatment and are, I trust, thoroughly
convalescent, we will have a tour through Switzerland, and settle down
at some mountain hotel, where the air will brace us up after our
sufferings, climatic and otherwise.
"For the future, I have as yet no definite plans, except that, of
course, you will not return to your present quarters. Perhaps we may
eventually find a house that suits us in the south of England, but I
can't face English winters after my long residence in this sunny land,
and you must make up your mind to humour a restless old Anglo-Indian
for the next few years to come. Perhaps by that time I may have
regained my old strength and nerve, which have sadly failed of late.
I will wire from Brindisi as to definite arrangements."
Sylvia let the letter drop on her lap, and stared before her with blank
eyes. Through the curtains could be seen a glimpse of the house
opposite, the blind at Bridgie's window drawn up at its usual rakish
angle.
In three weeks, in less than three weeks, she would say good-bye for
ever to Rutland Road and its inhabitants; good-bye to England itself, it
appeared, for at least a year to come, and at two-and-twenty a year is
as long as a lifetime, if it divides us from those we love. She would
drift away out of sight, and the last six months would become but an
episode in her own life and those of her friends.
"D'ye remember Sylvia,--the girl with the bark on the road?" In
imagination she could hear Pixie putting the question in the years to
come, and Bridgie would remember quite well, because she had not the
faculty of forgetting, but other people--other people were reputedly
fickle, and tempted to forget old friends in favour of new! Other
people would probably be in love with a fair-haired beauty by that time,
and have forgotten all about Sylvia Trevor!
The pain which shot through the girl's heart at these reflections was so
sharp that it startled her into a realisation of her own position. Dad
was coming home, she was going to live with him once more, and instead
of being happy and elated she was miserable--miserable! She was going
to leave her aunt's home, with the restrictions and lack of sympathy
which had made it so trying, and was once more to live with the fondest
and most indulgent of parents, and instead of filling her with delight
the news seemed like a sentence of banishment from all that made life
worth living!
To do Sylvia justice she was shocked at her own thoughts, and made a
valiant effort to look at the prospect in a more dutiful spirit. At
least, she determined, no one should suspect a want of loyalty to that
best and kindest of men! Aunt Margaret would take for granted that she
felt nothing but delight, and she would postpone breaking the news to
Bridgie until she had grown accustomed to the idea of separation, and
could discuss it with composure.
It would be easier than usual to keep this resolve, for since
Esmeralda's arrival the neighbours necessarily saw less of each other
than in the long winter days when there had been no rival claims on
their time and attention. Aunt Margaret would be pleased to find that
she was chosen as counsellor and adviser-in-chief, and during the short
time which was left she must do her utmost to gratify the old lady, who
had been on the whole very kind and forbearing during the two years
which they had spent together.
"I wish I had been nicer to her!" sighed Sylvia regretfully. "I was
always meaning to be, but now it's too late. That's the worst of
putting off things in this world; the chance may never come again!"
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
GREAT EXPECTATIONS.
A whole week passed by before Sylvia had an opportunity of telling her
great news to her friend. To begin with, Bridgie was absent from home
for three days and nights, attending a ball and a water-party given by
Esmeralda for the entertainment of her house-party, and to neither of
which Sylvia had received an invitation. To be sure, it was no use
going to a dance when dancing was an impossibility, and the getting in
and out of boats would have been painful and difficult, but all the same
Sylvia felt slighted and out in the cold, and, though absent in the
flesh, mentally followed every stage in the two entertainments, and
tortured herself by imagining Jack's light-hearted enjoyment and
absorption in other company than her own.
When Bridgie returned home, Miss Munns insisted on several expeditions
to town, and also to surrounding suburbs, where lived those family
connections to whom it was clearly the girl's duty to say good-bye. The
old lady was quite inclined to enjoy the little stir of preparation
involved by the trip abroad, and would allow no one but herself to
interview the lady in whose charge her niece was to travel. That she
was entirely satisfied was the best possible guarantee for Sylvia's
safety, and Mistress Courier Rickman promised to be ready to start the
moment the expected wire was received.
Miss Munns laid in a store of patent medicines, stocked her niece's
workbox with every imaginable useful, and waxed quite affectionate in
her manner, but all the same it was easy to see that she would be
relieved to get rid of her charge, and settle down once more in the old
groove. It requires a great deal of forbearance and unselfish
imagination to enable a young person and an old to live together
happily, and the lack of these qualities is the explanation of many
miserable homes.
Old people should remember that the peaceful monotony which has become
their own idea of happiness, must by the laws of nature spell a very
different word to buoyant, restless youth, and also that there comes a
stage when the children are not children any longer, when they are
entitled to their own opinions, and may even--most reverently be it
said--understand what is best for themselves, better than those of a
different generation; and the young people in their turn should remember
the long years of tender care and devotion which they have received, and
be infinitely patient in their turn. They, who are so impatient of
passing ailments, should try to imagine how it would feel to be always
feeble, and to see in the future the certainty of growing more and more
suffering and incapable. They should realise that it is in their power
to make the sunshine of declining days, and thereby to store up for
themselves a lasting joy, instead of a reproach.
In looking back upon those two years spent in Rutland Road, Sylvia
forgot her aunt's lack of sympathy, her prosy talk, and repeated fault-
finding; they were lost in remembering the true kindness of heart which
lay beneath all mannerism. What she was never able to forget was her
own impatience and neglect of opportunity.
Once or twice as the days passed by, Bridgie O'Shaughnessy ran to the
gate to intercept her friend as she passed, and exchange a hurried
greeting, but Sylvia would not trust her great news to such occasions as
these. She waited until an opportunity arose for an uninterrupted talk,
and as she waited a desire awoke and grew in intensity, to herself tell
Jack of the coming separation. Bridgie must, of course, be informed of
the journey to France and Germany, but she would wait until the evening
of Esmeralda's reception before disclosing the full extent of her
travels.
When she and Jack were sitting together in one of the charming little
niches in which the rooms abounded, he would naturally begin to talk of
her journey, and she would smile and look unconcerned, and, in the most
cheerful and natural of tones, announce that she was not coming back to
Rutland Road, that it would probably be a year at least before she saw
England again.
Surely when he heard this for the first time, when it was burst upon him
as an utter surprise, she would read in his face whether she had been
right in imagining that he really "cared," or if it had been a delusion
born of girlish vanity. She would be quite calm and serene, would not
in any way pose as a martyr or seem to expect any expression of
distress, but she could not--could not bring herself to go away without
making this one innocent little effort to solve the mystery which meant
so much to her happiness and peace of mind.
So Sylvia purposely kept out of Bridgie's way during the ten days after
the receipt of her letter, and when they met it was easy to tell just
what she chose, and keep silent about the rest, for Bridgie was not one
of the curious among womenkind, and never dreamt of questioning and
cross-questioning as to the plans of another. She simply took for
granted that Sylvia would return to her old quarters, after a pleasant
summer holiday, just as she was happily assured that her friend felt
nothing but purest joy and satisfaction in the prospect before her.
"Oh, me darling," she cried rapturously, "I am delighted for you! Isn't
that the very best news that could happen? So soon, too, and a lovely
jaunt together in the beautiful summer weather. 'Twill make you strong
again in no time, and you will write me long letters telling me all your
adventures, and 'twill be almost as good as having them myself. I
couldn't tell you when I've been so pleased!"
"Humph!" said Sylvia disconsolately. Would Jack be delighted also, and
hail her departure with rapturous congratulations? "Won't you miss me?
Won't you feel lonely when I'm not here?" she questioned earnestly, and
Bridgie smiled a cheery reassurement.
"I'll have Esmeralda, you see! She will be here until the end of the
season, and then we are going up to Scotland with her. We shall be so
busy and taken up with one thing and another that I shan't have time to
miss you, darling."
"Humph!" said Sylvia once more. This was intended for comfort, she was
aware, but it was not the kind of comfort that was required. Bridgie
O'Shaughnessy might be so unselfish as to rejoice because a friend did
not suffer by her absence, but Sylvia longed to hear that she was
indispensable, and that nothing and no one could fill her place. It was
another bitter drop in her cup to realise that the O'Shaughnessy girls
were so closely united that any friend must needs be at a discount in
comparison with a sister.
"Ye don't seem as excited as I should have expected. Is anything
worrying you, dear?" Bridgie inquired, and Sylvia hurriedly searched
for a plausible excuse and found it in her father's health.
In reality she was not disquieted by his reference to his own weakness,
for he had been complaining for months back without apparently growing
worse, and she was convinced that the coming rest would speedily restore
him to health. It made an excuse, however, and Bridgie sympathised and
offered a dozen kindly, unpractical suggestions as her custom was.
Then the conversation drifted to the all-important reception which was
so close at hand, and to which both girls were looking forward with such
expectation. Bridgie related the latest arrangements for the
entertainment of some three hundred guests, while her friend listened
with eager attention. Esmeralda was sparing neither money nor pains to
make the evening one of the events of the season. Singers and musicians
whose names were known throughout Europe were to perform at intervals in
the great drawing-room; the hall and staircase were to be transformed
into a bower of roses, pink La France roses here, there, and everywhere,
wreathed round the banisters, massed on the window-sills and
mantelpieces, hanging in great golden baskets from the ceiling. Rose-
coloured shades were to soften the glare of the electric lights; the air
was to be kept cool by great blocks of ice, and scented fountains rising
from banks of moss and ferns; the conservatory was to be illuminated by
jewelled lanterns.
It sounded like a fairy-tale to the girl in the unfashionable suburb,
and she would have been less than human if she had not counted the hours
which must elapse before the evening arrived. Bridgie thought it a pity
that the guests could not be labelled for the edification of the
unsophisticated, but Sylvia's greatest interest was centred on figures
which were too familiar to be mistaken. The whole entertainment was, in
truth, but a gorgeous setting to that conversation with Jack, which
might be their last _tete-a-tete_ for so long to come.
The dressmaker who was preparing Miss Trevor's dress for the great
occasion had seldom had more difficulty in satisfying an employer, and
the sum total expended on fineries would have horrified Miss Munns if
she had been allowed to see the bills. Even Sylvia winced when she
added up the figures, but she repeated sturdily the old phrase, "Dad
won't mind!" and felt secure that she would meet with no worse reprimand
than a little good-natured banter. On the whole she had been very
economical during her stay in England, and her conscience did not
upbraid her concerning this one extravagance.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
A TELEGRAM.
As soon as her room was in order on the day of the reception, Sylvia
began the delightful task of opening boxes and parcels, and laying their
contents on the bed. The satin skirt was spread out with careful
fingers, and over it a foam of frills and flounces which must surely
have grown, since it was inconceivable that they could have been
fashioned by mortal hands. Fan, and gloves, and little lacy
handkerchief lay side by side on the pillows; little satin shoes stood
at a jaunty angle, the crystal buckles shining in the sun. The pearl
necklace, which had been a present from dad on her twenty-first
birthday, lay on the toilet-table ready to be snapped on, and a spray of
white roses and maiden-hair floated in a basin of water.
All was ready, and Sylvia beamed with delight at the result of her
preparations. She had come upstairs ostensibly to rest, but in reality
she was far too excited to settle down even to read, and could only
wander about the room inventing one little duty after another, and
weaving endless day-dreams. In a corner of the room stood her
travelling-box, a convenient receptacle into which to put the new
purchases as they arrived from the shops.
The travelling dress, the piles of cool garments for summer wear lay
neatly packed away, looking fresh and dainty enough to have charmed any
girl's heart, but this afternoon Sylvia had no thought for the future;
every hope and ambition was centred on the events of the next few hours.
Three o'clock! How slowly the time passed! Four, five, six, seven,
eight, nine--six hours still to while away before she would drive from
the door with Pixie by her side, and Jack _vis-a-vis_, leaning forward
to look her over, and exclaim in admiration at her fine feathers.
Sylvia could almost imagine that she heard him speak, and saw the sudden
softening of the handsome eyes, and for once in her life she was
inclined to rejoice that Bridgie was again staying at Park Lane, since
Pixie and Pat would be so much engrossed in their own discussions as to
ensure a virtual _tete-a-tete_ for their companions. She rose
restlessly from her seat and walked to the window. Was Pixie occupied
even as she had been herself in laying out her dress for the evening?
She peered curiously through the opposite windows, but no sign of the
inhabitants was to be seen; she yawned, drummed her fingers against the
pane, and stared idly down the road.
It was not a lively neighbourhood at the best of times, and to-day it
seemed even duller than usual. A nurse was wheeling a perambulator
along the pavement, a milkman's cart was making slow progress from door
to door, a telegraph-boy was sauntering down the middle of the road
whistling a popular air. Sylvia wondered where he was going, and what
was the nature of the message which he bore. Some people were so
nervous about telegrams--Aunt Margaret, for instance! It was so rarely
that her quiet life was disturbed by a message of sufficient importance
to make it worth while for the sender to expend sixpence on its
delivery.
Sylvia's heart gave a leap of apprehension as the thought arose that
perhaps the message was for the O'Shaughnessy household to tell of some
dire accident which had interfered with the festivity of the evening.
She had hardly time to breathe a sigh of relief as the boy passed the
gate of Number Three before apprehension re-awoke as he approached her
own doorway.
A telegram for Aunt Margaret! What could it be? Ought she to go
downstairs to lend the support of her presence, or stay in her room
where she was supposed to be enjoying a refreshing nap? She heard the
opening of the door and the sound of voices in the hall, then to her
surprise footsteps ascended the stairs, and someone whispered a gentle
summons--
"Sylvia! Are you awake? A telegram has arrived for you, my dear. You
had better see it at once."
Miss Munns looked flurried and anxious, but her niece smiled a placid
reassurement.
"I expect it is from father, fixing the date of my journey. He said he
would wire." She tore open the envelope and glanced hurriedly at the
address. "Yes, it is! He is at Marseilles. `Come at--'" Her voice
died away, and she stood staring at the words in horrified incredulity,
while Miss Munns stepped forward hurriedly, and peered over her
shoulder.
"Come at once. Father dangerously ill. Remain in charge till you
come.--Nisbet."
"Nisbet! Nisbet! That was the name of the friends with whom he was to
travel. `Dangerously ill!' `At once!' What can it mean?"
Sylvia laid the paper on the bed and pressed her hands against her head.
She was deathly pale, but perfectly composed and quiet, and the
expression of her eyes showed that so far from being stunned, she was
thinking in quick, capable fashion.
"There is a train from Charing Cross at four o'clock," she said
presently. "I should arrive in Paris at midnight, and at Marseilles
some time to-morrow. It is three now. My box is more than half packed.
I shall have time. Mary must go out and order a cab!"
"My dear, it is impossible! You cannot possibly leave to-day. I will
go with you myself, and I cannot get ready at an hour's notice. Wait
until to-morrow, and--"
Sylvia turned round with a flash of anger in her eyes, but suddenly
softened and took both the old lady's hands in her own, holding them in
a tender pressure.
"Listen," she said, and her voice, gentle though it was, had in it a new
quality which awed and impressed the hearer. "Listen!--there is not one
single minute to spare. If there was a train at half-past three, I
should catch that, box or no box, for father is dying, Aunt Margaret--he
would not have let me be summoned like this for any passing ailment.
Nothing in all the world would make me wait here until to-morrow, so
please, dear, do not hinder me now. I know it is impossible for you to
come with me, but I will telegraph the moment I arrive, and if--if there
is still time, you can follow then."
"But you can't travel alone! Edward would not like it. He is so
particular. How can you manage about the trains?"
"Listen! I have thought of that too. Put on your bonnet and go to the
telephone office at the corner. Ask the people at the agency if they
can possibly send a lady courier to meet me at the train at Charing
Cross. If they can, very well! If they can't, I am twenty-two, and can
speak French easily, and am not afraid of travelling by myself. I will
telegraph to Cook's agent to meet me in Paris, if it will make you any
happier, but I am going, auntie dear, and I have not a moment to spare.
I will get dressed now, and the cab must be here in half an hour."
Miss Munns turned without a word, and left the room. She had the sense
to know when she was beaten, and, having once faced the situation, set
to work in her usual business-like fashion, and proved the most capable
of helpers. Having been successful in arranging for a lady courier
through the convenient medium of the telephone, she returned home to
write labels, fasten together cloaks and umbrellas, and order a hasty
but tempting little meal for the refreshment of the traveller. This
accomplished, she returned once more to the bedroom, where Sylvia was
putting the last touches to her packing.
"Nearly finished? That's right, my dear. You have eight minutes still,
and tea is waiting for you downstairs. Don't trouble to tidy the room,
I'll attend to that after you have gone. All these things on the bed--
they had better be packed away in the attics, I suppose. It's a pity
they were ever bought, as things have turned out. You may never need
them now."
"No, I may never need them now!" said Sylvia steadily. "In one minute,
aunt, just one minute. You go down and pour out my tea, and I'll follow
immediately. I've just one thing more I want to do."
"Don't dawdle, then--don't dawdle! Mary will fasten the straps--don't
wait for that."
Miss Munns departed, unwillingly enough, and Sylvia shut the door after
her, and gave a swift step back towards the bed. The satin dress, and
the fan, and the gloves, and the jaunty little shoes lay there looking
precisely the same as they had done an hour ago--the only difference was
in the eyes which beheld them.
Sylvia had read of a bride who was buried in her wedding dress, and she
felt at this moment as if she were leaving her own girlhood behind, with
that mass of dainty white finery. What lay in the future she could not
tell; only one thing seemed certain, that those few words on the slip of
brown paper had made a great chasm of separation between it and the
past. The opportunity for which she had longed was not to be hers; she
must leave England without so much as a word of farewell to the friends
who of late had filled such a large part of her life.
If her plans had been frustrated by one of the annoying little
_contretemps_ of daily life, Sylvia would have exhausted herself in
lamentations and repinings, but she was dumb before this great
catastrophe, which came so obviously from a higher Hand. When her
father lay dying, there was no regret in her heart for a lost amusement,
but this hurried departure might mean more--much more than the
forfeiture of Esmeralda's hospitality. She stretched out her hand, and
smoothed the satin folds with a very tender touch.
"Good-bye!" she whispered softly, in the silence of the room. "Good-
bye, Jack!"
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.
TOO LATE.
Sylvia's journey was quiet and uneventful, and her companion was
tactfully silent, leaving her at peace to think her own thoughts. As
time passed by, the natural hopefulness of youth reasserted itself, and
she began to think that she had been too hasty in taking it for granted
that her father was hopelessly ill.