“Yes, to the ends of the earth!” Sylvia replied, but not with her lips, for there are some things which a self-respecting girl may not say, however much she may feel them. Instead she murmured a few non-committal phrases, and gave the conversation a less personal tone, by inquiring after the various friends at home—Miss Munns, Bridgie, Pixie and the boys, and Jack answered in his usual breezy fashion, relating little incidents which made Sylvia smile with the old happy sense of friendship, repeating loving speeches, which brought the grateful tears to her eyes. The world was not empty after all, while she possessed such faithful, loving friends.
When the luggage had passed the inspection of the custom-house and received the magic mark in chalk, Jack led the way down the platform, before which the train was already drawn up, and passed by one carriage after another, until at last an empty compartment was discovered, of which he immediately took possession.
“Now we can talk!” he said, and sat himself down opposite Sylvia, looking at her with compassionate eyes.
“I have gone through it myself,” he said. “Tell me all you can.”
And as the train steamed onward, Sylvia told the story of the past weeks, told it quietly, and without breakdown, though the dark eyes grew moist, and tears trembled on the lashes which looked so long and black against the white cheeks. It was a comfort to tell it all to one who understood, and was full of sympathy and kindness, and strange though it might seem, separation, instead of widening the distance between Jack and herself, had only drawn them more closely together.
The old formalities of intercourse had dropped like a cloak at the first moment of meeting; they were no longer Miss and Mr, but “Jack” and “Sylvia”; no longer acquaintances, but dear and intimate friends.
“Miss Munns has been terribly distressed,” Jack said, when at last the sad recital came to an end. “She loved your father more than anyone in the world, and you come next as his child. Poor old lady! it was quite pathetic to see her efforts to make your home-coming as cheerful as possible. Bridgie says she has put up clean curtains all over the house, and discussed the menu for supper for the last week. It’s her way of showing sympathy, the creature! and you understand better than myself all that it means. Different people have different ways, haven’t they, Sylvia? I came to Dover!”
“Yes!” assented Sylvia, with a flickering smile. “You came to Dover, and Aunt Margaret put up clean curtains, and ordered a roast fowl for supper—I know it will be a roast fowl!—and if you had not warned me in time, I should probably have said I could not eat anything, and gone to bed supperless, without even noticing the curtains. I am afraid I have been horrid to the poor old soul in that sort of way many times in the last two years. It is good of her to take such trouble, because, honestly speaking, she won’t be any more pleased to have me back as a permanency than I am to come. We have mutually comforted ourselves with the reflection that it was ‘only for a time,’ but now it is different. I want to be good—I have made, oh! such a crowd of good resolutions, but I don’t know how long they will last!”
Jack looked down at his boots, and drew his brows together thoughtfully.
“You—er—it’s too early, I suppose, to have made any plans for the future. You hardly know what you will do?”