And then had come the last evening of the old happy, childish life. Hugh had been very white and silent as it drew on, and Mildred’s eyes kept filling with tears, so that she could not see to work, and Dolly was crying quietly in a corner, and the boys gave up talking about the hunters Sydney would keep and the motor-cars she would drive, and relapsed into a gloomy silence; and Fred and Prissie realised suddenly what “good-bye” meant, and broke down and howled.
Perhaps that was rather a good thing, after all, for everybody was so busy comforting them and making auguries of future meetings that there was not very much time to be miserable.
And when one is not yet eighteen, one is sleepy when ten o’clock comes round, however wretched one may be feeling. Sydney fully expected to lie awake all night, but she and Dolly were both sound asleep when father and mother looked, shading their candle, into the small room where to-morrow night one would be all alone.
The morning had been unreal, like a dream.
They all had a kind of Sunday-manner towards the one who was to leave them. Mother packed for Sydney; Mildred mended her gloves so beautifully that one could not see where the mend was; old nurse came and brushed out the mane of fine brown hair, combed back loosely from the small face and tied at the back of the neck with ribbon; and Freddie rushed out to the nearest flower-shop to buy her a bunch of violets to wear on the journey. He even bore with calmness the hug with which she received them, though in general he objected strongly to such demonstrations from anyone but mother.
Father was to take her to the station, and she had her last words with mother in her little bedroom.
“Be a good girl, my darling, and try as well to be a cheerful one. I know this is a hard thing for you, but God doesn’t call us to do anything that is too hard for us. Be brave, my little Sydney, and make the best, in every sense, of this new life. God bless you, my darling!”
“I will try, mother,” said poor Sydney, choking back her tears, and then father called that the cab had come, and mother put the girl’s hat straight, and down they went.
The hat grew rather disarranged again in the hall over the various embracings; but Sydney did not feel as though that or anything else mattered. Somehow she stumbled, blinded with tears, to the cab, and waved a farewell to the crowd of dear faces round the well-known door. Then father said “Right—Waterloo!” and away they drove.
The hot tears rose again to Sydney’s eyes, as she recalled the scene, and blurred the page before her. Not four hours since she had said good-bye to home, but oh, how long it seemed!