More about Pixie Part 24

They looked up curiously as Sylvia pa.s.sed, 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 gla.s.s, 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 pa.s.sion 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 crus.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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 amus.e.m.e.nts; that can only come with time; but unhappiness comes from rebellion against G.o.d'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 n.o.body 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 la.s.sie! 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- fas.h.i.+oned, 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 accomplis.h.!.+ 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-p.r.i.c.ks, the chafings of temper, the weariness of uncongenial companions.h.i.+p--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 s.h.i.+vered 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 advertis.e.m.e.nts, 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 pa.s.sed away quietly, but more pleasantly than she could have believed possible under the circ.u.mstances; 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 h.o.a.rd was diminis.h.i.+ng 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 sh.o.r.es.

The great shock through which she had pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sed 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.