“Welcome back, dear. I’ve missed you badly. So have we all.” Then she looked at Jack, and smiled as if his presence were the most natural thing in the world. “You have brought her home safely. That’s right,” she said. It was one of Bridgie’s most lovable qualities that she never asked awkward questions, nor showed undue curiosity about the affairs of others.
Brother and sister said good-bye at the door, leaving aunt and niece alone, and, as the door closed behind them, Sylvia felt a spasm of loneliness and regret. It was hard to part from Jack with that formal shake of the hand, to feel that days might elapse before they met again, and, as she looked round the ugly little dining-room, she felt like a prisoned bird which longs to break loose the bars and fly to its mate.
It seemed impossible to settle down to the old monotonous life, and yet—and yet—how much, much worse it might have been! How thankful she ought to be! If one hope had been taken away, another had been granted in its stead. The path ahead was still bright with promise, and a sudden pity seized her for the woman whose youth was gone, and who had lost the last tie to the past. She returned her aunt’s kisses with unusual affection, and roused herself to notice and show appreciation of the efforts which had been made on her behalf.
The table was laid with the best china, the red satin tea-cosy had been brought from its hiding-place upstairs and divested of its muslin bag and holland wrappings; the centre mat presented by Cousin Mary Ferguson two Christmases ago was displayed for the first time; the serviettes were folded into rakish imitations of cocked hats.
It was half touching, half gruesome, to find the occasion turned into a fête, but Sylvia was determined to be amiable, and said gratefully—
“How kind of you to have supper ready for me, Aunt Margaret! I could not eat anything on the boat, but now I believe I am hungry. It all looks very good. The chickens one gets in France are not the least like the ones at home.”
“They don’t know how to feed them, my dear. I am glad you have an appetite. I always find that when I am in trouble nothing tempts me so much as a cup of tea and a slice off the breast. Just take off your hat, and sit down as you are. Everything is ready.”
Miss Munns was evidently gratified to receive an acknowledgment of her efforts, and insisted upon waiting upon her niece and loading her plate with one good thing after another; but after the meal was over there followed a painful half-hour, when Sylvia had to submit to a searching cross-questioning on the events of the past weeks.
Unlike Bridgie, Miss Munns insisted upon detail—had a ghoulish curiosity to know in exactly what words Mrs Nisbet had broken the sad news, in exactly what words Sylvia had replied, in exactly what manner the first black days had been spent. Her spectacles were dimmed with tears as she listened to what the girl had to tell, and her thin lips quivered with genuine grief; but she was still acutely interested to hear of the number of carriages at the funeral, of the meals in the hotel, and the purchase of Sylvia’s mourning garments.
“You must show them to me to-morrow. I expect they are very smart—coming from France. I always wear black, so there was not much to be done. I had the black satin taken off my cashmere dress, and folds of crape put in its place, and some dull trimming, instead of jet, on my cape. I haven’t decided about my bonnet. You must give me your advice. Of course, I wish to do everything that is proper, but it’s been an expensive year.”