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 Marseilles, 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 passed. “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 God 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.
They looked up curiously as Sylvia passed, 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!”