More about Pixie Part 23

It sounded like a fairy-tale to the girl in the unfas.h.i.+onable 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 st.u.r.dily 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 fas.h.i.+oned 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 pa.s.sed! 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 pa.s.sed 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 refres.h.i.+ng 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 rea.s.surement.

"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 Ma.r.s.eilles. '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 fas.h.i.+on.

"There is a train from Charing Cross at four o'clock," she said presently. "I should arrive in Paris at midnight, and at Ma.r.s.eilles 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 pa.s.sing 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 fas.h.i.+on, 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 ma.s.s 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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 pa.s.sed by, the natural hopefulness of youth rea.s.serted itself, and she began to think that she had been too hasty in taking it for granted that her father was hopelessly ill.

After all he had not despatched the telegram; it had been signed by his 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 sh.o.r.es 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 s.p.a.ce 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 Ma.r.s.eilles, 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 pa.s.sed. "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 G.o.d 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.