'But, my dearest, I can't let you leave us under these circumstances. This is a terrible trial to me. You cannot possibly go until we understand each other!'
'Then I will write to you here—to-day or to-morrow.'
With this promise Martin was obliged to be contented, Sidwell left him, and was not seen, except by Sylvia, during the whole day.
Nor did she appear at breakfast on the morning that followed. But when this meal was over, Sylvia received a message, summoning her to the retreat on the top of the house. Here Sidwell sat in the light and warmth, a glass door wide open to the west, the rays of a brilliant sun softened by curtains which fluttered lightly in the breeze from the sea.
'Will you read this?' she said, holding out a sheet of notepaper on which were a few lines in her own handwriting.
It was a letter, beginning—'I cannot.'
Sylvia perused it carefully, and stood in thought.
'After all?' were the words with which she broke silence. They were neither reproachful nor regretful, but expressed grave interest.
'In the night,' said Sidwell, 'I wrote to father, but I shall not give him the letter. Before it was finished, I knew that I must write this. There's no more to be said, dear. You will go abroad without me—at all events for the present.'
'If that is your resolve,' answered the other, quietly, 'I shall keep my word, and only do what I can to aid it.' She sat down shielding her eyes from the sunlight with a Japanese fan. 'After all, Sidwell, there's much to be said for a purpose formed on such a morning as this; one can't help distrusting the midnight.'