When Pixie O'Shaughnessy had reached her twentieth birthday it was borne
in upon her with the nature of a shock that she was not beautiful.
Hitherto a buoyant and innocent self-satisfaction, coupled with the
atmosphere of love and admiration by which she was surrounded in the
family circle, had succeeded in blinding her eyes to the very obvious
defects of feature which the mirror portrayed. But suddenly, sharply,
her eyes were opened.
"Did it ever occur to you, Bridgie, my dear, that I've grown-up
_plain_?" she demanded of her sister, Mrs Victor, as the two sat by the
fire one winter afternoon, partaking luxuriously of strong tea and
potato cakes, and at the sound of such a surprising question Mrs Victor
started as if a crack of thunder had suddenly pealed through the quiet
room. She stared in amazement; her big, grey eyes widened dramatically.
"My good child," she demanded sternly, "whatever made you think of
asking such a preposterous question?"
"'Twas borne in on me!" sighed Pixie sadly. "It's the way with life; ye
go jog-trotting along, blind and cheerful, until suddenly ye bang your
head against a wall, and your eyes are opened! 'Twas the same with me.
I looked at myself every day, but I never saw. Habit, my dear,
blindfolded me like a bandage, and looking at good-looking people all
day long it seemed only natural that I should look nice too. But this
morning the sun shone, and I stood before the glass twisting about to
try on my new hat, and, Bridgie, the truth was revealed! _My nose_!"
"What's the matter with your nose?" demanded Mrs Victor. Her own
sweet, delicately cut face was flushed with anger, and she sat with
stiffened back staring across the fireplace as if demanding compensation
for a personal injury.
Pixie sighed, and helped herself to another slice of potato cake.
"It scoops!" she said plaintively. "As you love me, Bridgie, can you
deny it scoops?" And as if to illustrate the truth of her words she
twisted her head so as to present her little profile for her sister's
inspection.
Truly it was not a classic outline! Sketched in bare outline it would
have lacerated an artist's eye, but then more things than line go to the
making up a girlish face: there is youth, for instance, and a blooming
complexion; there is vivacity, and sweetness, and an intangible
something which for want of a better name we call "charm." Mrs Victor
beheld all these attributes in her sister's face, and her eyes softened
as they looked, but her voice was still resentful.
"Of course it scoops. It always _did_ scoop. I like it to scoop."
"I like them straight!" persisted Pixie. "And it isn't as if it stopped
at the nose. There's my mouth--"
Bridgie's laugh had a tender, reminiscent ring.
"The Mammoth Cave of Kentucky! D'you remember the Major's old name? He
was _proud_ of your mouth. And you had no chin as a child. You ought
to be thankful, Pixie, that you've grown to a chin!"
"I am," cried Pixie with unction. "It would be awful to slope down into
your neck. All the same, me dear, if it was my eyes that were bigger,
and my mouth that was smaller, it would be better for all concerned."
She was silent for some moments, staring thoughtfully in the fire. From
time to time she frowned, and from time to time she smiled; Bridgie
divined that a thought was working, and lay back in her seat, amusedly
watching its development. "There's a place in Paris," continued Pixie
thoughtfully at last, "an institute sort of place, where they repair
noses! You sort of go in, and they look at you, and there are models
and drawings, and _you choose your nose_! The manager is an expert, and
if you choose a wrong style he advises, and says another would suit you
better. I'd love a Greek one myself; it's so _chic_ to float down
straight from the forehead, but I expect he'd advise a blend that
wouldn't look too _epatant_ with my other features.--It takes a
fortnight, and it doesn't hurt. Your nose is gelatine, not bone; and it
costs fifty pounds."
"Wicked waste!" cried Mrs Victor, with all the fervour of a matron
whose own nose is beyond reproach. "Fifty pounds on a nose! I never
heard of such foolish extravagance."
"Esmeralda paid eighty for a sealskin coat. A nose would last for life,
while if a single moth got inside the brown paper--whew!" Pixie waved
her hands with the Frenchiness of gesture which was the outcome of an
education abroad, and which made an amusing contrast with an Irish
accent, unusually pronounced. "I'd think nothing of running over to
Paris for a fortnight's jaunt, and having the nose thrown in. Fancy me
walking in on you all, before you'd well realised I was away, smart and
smiling with a profile like Clytie, or a sweet little acquiline, or a
neat and wavey one, like your own. You wouldn't know me!"
"I shouldn't!" said Bridgie eloquently.
"Now let's pretend!" Pixie hitched her chair nearer to the fire, and
placed her little feet on the fender with an air of intense enjoyment.
In truth, tea-time, and the opportunity which it gave of undisturbed
parleys with Bridgie, ranked as one of the great occasions of life.
Every day there seemed something fresh and exciting to discuss, and the
game of "pretend" made unfailing appeal to the happy Irish natures, but
it was not often that such an original and thrilling topic came under
discussion. A repaired nose! Pixie warmed to the theme with the zest
of a skilled _raconteur_. ... "You'd be sitting here, and I'd walk in
in my hat and veil--a new-fashioned scriggley veil, as a sort of screen.
We'd kiss. If it was a long kiss, you'd feel the point, being
accustomed to a button, and that would give it away, but I'd make it
short so you'd notice nothing, and I'd sit down with my back to the
light, and we'd talk. `Take off your hat,' you'd say. `In a moment,'
I'd answer. `Not yet, me dear, my hair's untidy.' `You look like a
visitor,' you'd say, `with your veil drawn down.' `It's a French one,'
I'd say. `It becomes me, doesn't it? Three francs fifty,' and you'd
frown, and stare, and say, `_Does_ it? I don't know! You look--
different, Pixie. You don't look--yourself!'"
The real Pixie gurgled with enjoyment, and Bridgie Victor gurgled in
response.
"Then I'd protest, and ask what was the matter, and say if there _was_
anything, it must be the veil, and if there _was_ a change wasn't it
honestly for the better, and I'd push up my veil and smile at you; smile
languidly across the room. I can see your face, poor darling! All
scared and starey, while I turned round s-lowly, s-lowly, until I was
sideways towards you, with me elegant Grecian nose..."
Bridgie shuddered.
"I'd not live through it! It would break my heart. With a Grecian nose
you might be Patricia, but you couldn't possibly be Pixie. It's too
horrible to think of!"
But Pixie had in her nature a reserve of obstinacy, and in absolutely
good-natured fashion could "hang on" to a point through any amount of
discouragement.
"Now, since you mention it, that's another argument in my favour," she
said quickly. "It's hard on a girl of twenty to be bereft of her legal
name because of incompatibility with her features. Now, with a Grecian
nose--"
Bridgie sat up suddenly, and cleared her throat. The time had come to
remember her own position as married sister and guardian, and put a stop
to frivolous imaginings.
"May I ask," she demanded clearly, "exactly in what manner you would
propose to raise the fifty pounds? Your nose is your own to do what you
like with--or will be at the end of another year--but--"
"The fifty pounds isn't! I know it," said Pixie. She did not sigh, as
would have seemed appropriate at such a moment, but exhibited rather a
cheerful and gratified air, as though her own poverty were an amusing
peculiarity which added to the list of her attractions.
"Of course, my dear, nobody ever dreamt for a moment it could be _done_,
but it's always interesting to pretend. Don't we amuse ourselves for
hours pretending to be millionaires, when you're all of a flutter about
eighteen-pence extra in the laundry bill? I wonder at _you_, Bridgie,
pretending to be practical."
"I'm sorry," said Bridgie humbly. A pang of conscience pierced her
heart, for had it not been her own extravagance which had swelled the
laundry bill by that terrible eighteen-pence? Penitence engendered a
more tender spirit, and she said gently--
"We love your looks, Pixie. To us you seem lovely and beautiful."
"Bless your blind eyes! I know I do. But," added Pixie astonishingly,
"I wasn't thinking of you!"
"_Not_!" A moment followed of sheer, gaping surprise, for Bridgie
Victor was so accustomed to the devotion of her young sister, so
placidly, assured that the quiet family life furnished the girl with,
everything necessary for her happiness, that the suggestion of an
outside interest came as a shock. "_Not_!" she repeated blankly.
"Then--then--who?"
"My lovers!" replied Pixie calmly.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
And looking back through the years, it always seemed to Bridgie Victor
that with the utterance of those words the life of Pixie O'Shaughnessy
entered upon a new and absorbing phase.