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<h3>Chapter Twenty Three.</h3> <h4>A Telegram.</h4> 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-à-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 tête-à-tête 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!” <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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