friends, the Nisbets, who, no doubt, were unwilling to accept a position
of responsibility. When she arrived she would nurse him so devotedly,
would surround him with such an atmosphere of love and care, that he
could not help recovering and growing strong once more. He would be
longing to see her, poor dear old dad, working himself into an invalid's
nervous dread lest they might never meet again, as she herself had done
a few months earlier, and the sight of his child would be his best
medicine.
They left the train and took their places in the boat. It was a
cloudless summer afternoon, and the white cliffs stood out in striking
contrast to the blue sky and sea. What a change from the big grey city
which even now was beginning to grow close and dusty, what a glorious
open prospect for one who had been shut up for months in the confines of
a narrow street, and yet Rutland Road had been far more beautiful to one
voyager at least, for at that moment, exactly at that moment, as timed
by the little watch at her wrist, Jack O'Shaughnessy would have turned
the corner of the main road to saunter towards his own home.
Jack always sauntered, with the air of a gentleman at large who had
never known the necessity of hurry. Sylvia had watched him many times
from the shelter of her window curtains, and knew exactly how he would
carry his head, and twirl his stick, and glance rapidly across the road
as he unlatched the gate. Pixie would open the door and breathlessly
unfold the news with which she had by this time been made acquainted,
and how would Jack look then? Would the smile fade away, would he feel
as if all zest and interest had departed from the evening entertainment,
or would he make the best of things in happy O'Shaughnessy fashion and
console himself in Mollie's smiles?
The breeze grew fresher and more chill, and the stars began to peep; the
travellers had reached the shores of France; and far-away in London
Esmeralda's guests were beginning to arrive, the carriages were jostling
one another in the narrow street. Then came Paris, and a space for rest
and refreshment before starting on the next stage of the journey.
Sylvia had hoped that a telegram might be waiting for her at this point,
but none was forthcoming, and its absence was a bitter disappointment
despite the old adage that no news is good news. She sat in the big
deserted buffet, drinking bouillon and eating poulet and salad; and
catching sight of her own pallid reflection in one of the mirrors,
smiled feebly at the contrast between the present and the "might have
been"! This white-faced, weary-looking girl was surely not the Sylvia
Trevor whose day-dreams had woven such golden things about this very
hour.
The lady courier engaged a sleeping compartment for the first stage of
the long journey to Marseilles, but though it was a comfort to lie down
and stretch her weary limbs, there was little sleep for Sylvia that
night. She was up and gazing out of the window by six o'clock in the
morning, and the day seemed endless despite the interest of the scenes
through which she passed. "Through thy cornfields green, and sunny
vines, O pleasant land of France."
The lines which she had read in her youth came back to memory as the
train crossed the broad waters of the Loire and sped through valleys of
grapes and olives, surrounded by hills of smiling green. The sun was
hot in these southern plains, and the dust blew in clouds through the
windows; it was a relief when evening fell again, and brought the end of
the long journey.
Sylvia stepped on to the platform and looked around with eager gaze.
Although she had never met her father's friends, she knew their
appearance sufficiently well from photographs and descriptions to be
able to distinguish them from strangers, but nowhere could she see
either husband or wife. It was unkind to leave her unwelcomed and with
no word to allay her anxiety, and she had hard work to keep back her
tears as her companion ran about collecting the scattered pieces of
luggage.
She was so tired mentally and physically that this last disappointment
was too much for her endurance, and she thanked God that in a few
minutes the strain would be over, and she would be seated by her
father's side. They drove along the quaint, foreign streets, and
presently arrived at the hotel itself, a large building set back in a
courtyard in which visitors sat before little tables, smoking and
drinking their after-dinner coffee.
They looked up curiously as Sylvia passed, but no one came forward to
meet her, and the waiter gesticulated dumbly in answer to her
questionings, and led the way upstairs without vouchsafing a word in
reply. It was humiliating to think that her accent had so degenerated
as to be unrecognisable in his ears, but there was no other explanation,
and it was at least evident that she was expected, since he seemed in no
doubt as to where to conduct her first. He turned down a corridor to
the right, stopped at the second door, and threw it open, and Sylvia saw
with surprise that it was not a bedroom, but a sitting-room, in which a
lady and a gentleman were already seated.
The gentleman leapt to his feet, wheeled round and stood with his face
to the window; the lady shrank back into her chair, then suddenly jumped
up and ran forward with outstretched hands. It was Mrs Nisbet, though
looking older and more worn than Sylvia had expected to see her, and
nothing could have been kinder or more affectionate than her greeting.
"My dear child--my poor dear child, how tired you must be! You have had
an awful journey. Come in, dear, and rest a few minutes while I will
make some tea for you. English people always like tea, don't they? And
I will make it myself, so that it shall be good. Come, dear, sit down!
Let me take off your hat."
She stroked the girl's cheek with her hand--such a hot, trembling hand--
and there was an odd, excited thrill in her voice which filled Sylvia
with a vague alarm. She stepped back a step, and drew herself up
straight and determined.
"Thank you very much, but I don't want any tea. I want to go at once to
father. It has been such a long, long journey. I mustn't waste any
more time!"
"No, no, but you are not ready just this moment. You must have
something to strengthen you first. If you won't wait for tea, here is
some wine. Drink a glass, dear, do. To please me!"
Sylvia stared at her fixedly, and from her to that other figure which
stood motionless by the window without so much as a glance for his
friend's child. A cold fear seized her in its grip, the room swam
before her eyes, and out of the confusion she heard a weak voice saying
brokenly, "Tell me quickly, please! It won't help me to drink wine.
Father--"
Mrs Nisbet burst into a passion of tears, and clasped the girl tightly
in her arms.
"You are too late, dear. An hour too late! We did everything we could.
He left you his last love and blessing."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was all over. The two long days of waiting, the last glimpse of
dad's still face, the funeral in the foreign cemetery, and Sylvia sat
alone in the hotel sitting-room, striving to recover sufficiently from
the shock to decide on the next step which lay before her.
In the crushing weight of the new sorrow it seemed as if it were
impossible to go on living at all, yet it was absolutely necessary to
make her plans, for she could not be an indefinite burden on her
father's friends. They had come home to enjoy a hard-earned rest, and
as the holiday had begun so sadly there was all the more reason why the
remainder should be passed under cheerful conditions. Mr and Mrs
Nisbet had pressed the girl to spend the next few months travelling in
their company, but Sylvia was resolute in her refusal.
"I should be a constant care to you, and a constant kill-joy, and that
would be a poor return for all you have done for me," she said sadly.
"It will comfort me all my life to remember that you were with dad
during those last dreadful days, and some day I should like very much to
visit you when I can be a pleasure instead of a burden. It does not
seem now as if I could ever be happy again, but I suppose it will come
in time."
"It will, if you trust in God and ask Him to help you. He sends
troubles to teach us lessons, dear, and to draw our thoughts to Him, but
never, never to make us miserable," said Mrs Nisbet softly. "You did
not feel that you had lost your father when he was far-off in India, and
he is a great deal nearer to you now in the spirit world. Never think
of him as in the grave, think of him in heaven, and it will grow dear
and home-like to you just because he is there. It would have grieved
him to the heart to see your young life clouded, so you must try to be
happy for his sake. I don't mean by that that you can be lively, or
care for the old amusements; that can only come with time; but
unhappiness comes from rebellion against God's will, and if you submit
to that and leave your life in His hands, you will find that all the
sting has gone out of your trouble."
The slow tears rose and stood in Sylvia's eyes.
"Thank you!" she said meekly. "I will try, but it's hard to be resigned
when one is young, and all one's life seems shattered. I don't know
what to do next. Every arrangement so far has been made, `till dad
comes home,' and now that hope has gone, and what am I to do? I have no
home, and no work, and nobody needs me. Aunt Margaret would take me in,
of course, but she would not like it as a permanency any more than I
should myself. She has her own way, and I have mine, and we did not
agree very well. She was very kind when she thought I was going away,
but at the bottom of her heart she was glad. She doesn't need me, you
see! I don't help her at all."
"But you could _make_ her need you! You could help her if you went back
determined to make it your work in life!"
Mrs Nisbet took the girl's hand in hers and pressed it gently, and
Sylvia looked into her face with miserable, honest eyes.
"Yes--I could! I could shut my lips up tight and never answer back, and
look interested when I was bored, and go little walks up and down the
terrace, and play cribbage when I wanted to read, and read aloud dull
books when I wanted to read lively ones to myself, and pretend to like
what I really hate and detest."
"Poor lassie! It does sound dull. I'll tell you a secret, though. It
would not be pretence very long, for it is one of the blessed
recompenses in life that if we conquer self, and perform a duty whole-
heartedly and cheerfully, it is distasteful no longer, but becomes more
interesting than we could have believed possible in the old rebellious
days."
"Does it? But I don't think I quite want to be satisfied with that kind
of life," Sylvia said slowly. "I don't wish to seem disrespectful, but
really and truly Aunt Margaret's ideas are terribly narrow and old-
fashioned, and I shouldn't like it a bit if I were like her when I was
old. I have managed pretty well so far, for I had nice friends, and was
always looking forward to the time when I should have my own home, but
don't you understand how different it is now, and how dreary it seems to
settle down to it as a permanency?" She looked up wistfully in Mrs
Nisbet's face, and met a smile of kindest understanding.
"But there is no necessity to grieve over the future, child! At your
age arrangements are rarely `permanent,' and you are concerned only with
the next step. It seems for the moment as if it were the right course
to return to London, so try to look upon the situation from a new
standpoint, and face it bravely. Forget your aunt's shortcomings, and
remember only that she is your father's only remaining relative, the
playmate and companion of his youth, and that you are connected by a
common sorrow and a common loss. Set yourself to brighten her life, and
to fill it with wider interests; forget yourself, in short, and think
about other people. When you have learned that lesson, dear, you will
have solved the great secret of life, and found the key to happiness and
peace of mind."
"Yes," sighed Sylvia faintly. It sounded very sweet and very beautiful,
but, oh, so terribly difficult to accomplish! If it had been a big
thing, on great, heroic sacrifice which she was called upon to make, she
could have braced herself to the effort, and have borne it with courage,
but the little daily pin-pricks, the chafings of temper, the weariness
of uncongenial companionship--these were the hardest test, the most
cruel tax upon endurance.
Day after day, week after week, month after month, the same uneventful,
monotonous existence--and suppose for one moment that Jack married
Mollie Burrell, and Bridgie returned to her Irish home! Sylvia shivered
and shut her eyes as at an unbearable prospect, and Mrs Nisbet's voice
said softly in her ear--
"`I do not ask to see the distant scene. One step enough for me!' Take
each day as it comes, dear, and try to live it bravely without thinking
of to-morrow. We will travel with you as far as Paris, and have a few
days together before you go on to London. I wish you would have stayed
with us longer, but perhaps it will be better for us all to be apart for
a time, and meet again later on. We shall be in London in autumn, and
one of my first visits will be to you. Your father has been like a
brother to my husband for years past, and we shall always feel a very
close interest in your welfare.
"By the way, dear, how are you off for money? Would it be a convenience
if I lent you some to pay for mourning and the return journey? You came
away expecting to be responsible for a few days only, and, as you know,
when a man dies it is not possible to touch his money until certain
legal formalities have been observed. We should be only too delighted
to act as your bankers until matters are settled."
"Thank you very much, but I think I shall have enough. I drew out what
money was in the bank before leaving home, and I would rather not get
into debt until I know exactly how I am placed. There may be very
little left. Father always spoke as if he were poor."
"He told you nothing about his affairs, then? You know nothing about
them?"
Mrs Nisbet looked at her curiously as she spoke, and Sylvia's heart
gave a throb of fear. She knew something; there was evidently some
secret with which she herself was unacquainted, and in her present
depressed condition of mind and body it was only natural that she should
leap to the conclusion that the news must be bad, and, ostrich-like,
tried to hide her head in the sand.
"He told me there had been some changes lately, which I should not
understand. His lawyers will write to me some time, I suppose, but I
don't want to think about money yet. I have sufficient for the next few
months, for I shall go nowhere, and need no more clothes."
"Yes, yes, dear! It's all right. You will get along nicely, I'm sure,"
said the other soothingly, and Sylvia felt another thrill of foreboding.
"Get along nicely!" Did that mean that she would have to earn her own
living? She dared not inquire further, shrinking from the possibility
of another blow, but it was impossible to keep from wondering what she
should do if indeed there was no provision for her support.
Pixie's adventures in search of employment had proved how difficult it
was for an inexperienced girl to escape becoming the prey of fraudulent
advertisements, and it was humiliating to reflect on her own incapacity.
What could she do that a thousand other girls could not accomplish
equally well? She could play fairly well, sing fairly well, paint
fairly well, trim a hat so that it did not look obviously home-made,
make a trifle or creams, though she was densely ignorant about boiling a
potato. She possessed, in fact, a smattering of many things, but had
not really mastered one which, if needs be, would be a staff through
life.
A hundred poor girls find themselves in this position every year, yet
their short-sighted sisters continue to fritter away their time,
oblivious of the fact that to them also may come the rainy day when they
must face the world alone. Learn to do one thing _well_, compare your
productions, whatever they may be, not with those of other amateurs, but
with perfected professional specimens, and do not be content until your
own reach the same standard. This is a golden rule, which every girl
ought to take to heart.
During the ten days which elapsed before Sylvia's return to London, she
was haunted by the fear of monetary troubles which would make her either
dependent on her own efforts, or a burden upon her aunt's narrow income,
but neither Mrs Nisbet nor her husband referred again to the subject,
and some time must still elapse before she could hear from her father's
lawyer in Colombo.
The week in Paris passed away quietly, but more pleasantly than she
could have believed possible under the circumstances; for nothing could
have been kinder or more considerate than the way in which she was
treated by her father's friends, while the brilliant sunshine acted as a
tonic to the spirits. Every day they went long drives in the Bois, or
took the train to Versailles, and spent long quiet hours in the woods,
and Sylvia even found herself able to enjoy a visit to one of the huge
Magasins, where Mrs Nisbet invested in quite a collection of presents
to send home to English friends. Sylvia was tempted to buy some on her
own account, and it was a new and depressing experience to feel that she
must not spend an unnecessary penny. Her little hoard was diminishing
rapidly, and she was growing more and more anxious to be safest home,
and free from at least immediate anxiety.
There was no lady courier to accompany her on this journey, for the days
of independence had begun, and she preferred to be alone to wrestle with
her forebodings, and try to bring herself into a fitting frame of mind
for that trying return to the old scenes.
The parting from the Nisbets was like saying good-bye once more to the
dear dad, and she felt hopelessly adrift without their wise and tender
counsels, and the feeling of loneliness grew ever deeper and deeper as
she approached the English shores.
The great shock through which she had passed had loosened all the ties
in life, and made the friends of a few weeks ago seem but the merest of
acquaintances. Bridgie had written the sweetest of sympathetic letters,
but sorry though she might be, the force of circumstances kept the two
girls so far apart, that what had been the saddest time in her friend's
life had seen the climax of her own gaiety. She had been dancing, and
singing, and pleasure making while Sylvia shed the bitter tears of
bereavement, and in a few weeks more she would be spirited off in
Esmeralda's train to another scene of gaiety. The O'Shaughnessys were
by nature so light of heart that they might not care to welcome among
them a black-robed figure of grief!
Sylvia felt as though the whole wide world yawned between her and the
old interests, and did not yet realise that this feeling of aloofness
from the world and its interests is one of the invariable accompaniments
of grief. She was young and not given to serious reflection, and she
knew only that she was tired and miserable, that the white cliffs about
which she had been accustomed to speak with patriotic fervour, looked
bleak and cheerless in the light of a wet and chilly evening.
June though it was, she was glad to wrap herself in her cloak, and pull
her umbrella over her head as she passed down the gangway on to the
stage. In Paris it had been a glorious summer day, and the change to
wet and gloom seemed typical of the home-coming before her. The cloaked
and mackintoshed figures on the stage seemed all black, all the same.
She would not look at them lest their presence should make her realise
more keenly her own loneliness; but someone came up beside her as she
struggled through the crowd, and forcibly lifted the bag from her hand.
She turned in alarm and saw a man's tall figure, lifted her eyes, and
felt her troubles and anxieties drop from her like a cloak.
It was Jack O'Shaughnessy himself!
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
A COMFORTER.
Think of it! Think of it! The grey, inhospitable skies, the rain-swept
stage, the feeling of hopeless loneliness, as one traveller after
another was greeted with loving exclamations, and borne away by friendly
watchers; and then suddenly to feel your hand grasped, and laid tenderly
on a protecting arm, and to see, looking into your own, the face of all
others which you would have wished for, had the choice been given! To
feel no longer a helpless unit, belonging to no one, and having no
corner of the earth to call your own, but to know that someone had
watched for your arrival, and to read how you had been missed, in the
flash of eloquent eyes.
"Oh, Jack!" cried Sylvia involuntarily; "oh, Jack!" and clung to his arm
with a sob of pure joy and thanksgiving. "Oh, I'm so glad! I was so
lonely. How did you--whatever made you come?"
"A great many reasons, but principally because I couldn't stay away!"
replied Jack, not smiling as was his wont, but looking down upon her
with an intent scrutiny, which aroused Sylvia's curiosity. She did not
realise how changed she was by the experience of the last few weeks, or
what a pathetic little face it was which looked up at him between the
dead black of hat and cape.
The brown eyes looked bigger than ever, the delicate aquiline of the
features showed all the more distinctly for their sharpened pallor, and
Jack looked down at her through the mist, and thanked God for the health
and strength which made him a fitting protector for her weakness. The
sound of that involuntary "Oh, Jack!" rang sweetly in his ears, and gave
a greater confidence to his manner, as he steered her through the crowd.
"Miss Munns told us when you were expected, and we talked of meeting you
at the station, but I decided that I had better stay away; then I wrote
a letter to welcome you, and tore it up; then for no purpose at all I
began looking at Bradshaw, and it seemed there was a train which I could
catch. And it rained! It's dismal arriving in the rain. Next thing I
knew I was in the station, and the train started when I was sitting
inside, and--here I am!"
Sylvia laughed softly, it was such an age since she had laughed, and it
was such a happy, contented little sound that she was quite startled
thereat. The custom-house officials were going through the farce of
examining the luggage, and while the rest of the passengers groaned and
lamented at the delay, Jack and his companion stood together in the
background, blissfully unconscious of time and damp.
"Are you glad to see me, Sylvia?" he asked, for the joy of hearing her
say in words what voice and eyes had already proclaimed; and she waved
her hand round the bleak landscape, and said tersely--
"Look! It felt like that; black and empty, and heart-breaking, and all
the others seemed to have friends--everyone but me. I think I was never
so glad before. I shall bless you for coming all my life!"
Jack laughed softly, and pressed her hand against his arm. "Poor little
girl! I knew just how you would be feeling; that's why I came.
Wouldn't you have come to meet me, if you had been the man and I the
girl?"
"Yes, to the ends of the earth!" Sylvia replied, but not with her lips,
for there are some things which a self-respecting girl may not say,
however much she may feel them. Instead she murmured a few non-
committal phrases, and gave the conversation a less personal tone, by
inquiring after the various friends at home--Miss Munns, Bridgie, Pixie
and the boys, and Jack answered in his usual breezy fashion, relating
little incidents which made Sylvia smile with the old happy sense of
friendship, repeating loving speeches, which brought the grateful tears
to her eyes. The world was not empty after all, while she possessed
such faithful, loving friends.
When the luggage had passed the inspection of the custom-house and
received the magic mark in chalk, Jack led the way down the platform,
before which the train was already drawn up, and passed by one carriage
after another, until at last an empty compartment was discovered, of
which he immediately took possession.
"Now we can talk!" he said, and sat himself down opposite Sylvia,
looking at her with compassionate eyes.
"I have gone through it myself," he said. "Tell me all you can."