Bridgie Victor sat gazing at her sister in a numb bewilderment. It was
the first, the very first time that the girl had breathed a word
concerning the romantic possibilities of her own life, and even
Bridgie's trained imagination failed to rise to the occasion. Pixie!
Lovers! Lovers! Pixie! ... The juxtaposition of ideas was too
preposterous to be grasped. Pixie was a child, the baby of the family,
just a bigger, more entertaining baby to play with the tinies of the
second generation, who treated her as one of themselves, and one and all
scorned to bestow the title of "aunt."
There was a young Patricia in the nursery at Knock Castle, and a second
edition in the Victor nursery upstairs; but though the baptismal name of
the little sister had been copied, not even the adoring mothers
themselves would have dreamed of borrowing the beloved pet name, Pixie's
nose might not be to her approval; it might even scoop--to be perfectly
candid, it _did_ scoop--but it had never yet been put out of joint. The
one and only, the inimitable Pixie, she still lived enthroned in the
hearts of her brothers and sisters, as something specially and
peculiarly their own.
So it was that a pang rent Bridgie's heart at the realisation that the
little sister was grown-up, was actually twenty years of age--past
twenty, going to be twenty-one in a few more months, and that the time
was approaching when a stranger might have the audacity to steal her
from the fold. To her own heart, Bridgie realised the likelihood of
such a theft, and the naturalness thereof: outwardly, for Pixie's
benefit she appeared shocked to death.
"L-lovers!" gasped Bridgie. "Lovers! Is it you, Pixie O'Shaughnessy, I
hear talking of such things? I'm surprised; I'm shocked! I never could
have believed you troubled your head about such matters."
"But I do," asserted Pixie cheerfully. "Lots. Not to say _trouble_,
exactly, for it's most agreeable. I pretend about them, and decide what
they'll be like. When I see a man that takes my fancy, I add him to the
list. Mostly they're clean-shaved, but I saw one the other day with a
beard--" She lifted a warning finger to stay Bridgie's cry of protest.
"Not a straggler, but a naval one, short and trim; and you wouldn't
believe how becoming it was! I decided then to have one with a beard.
And they are mostly tall and handsome, and rolling in riches, so that I
can buy anything I like, nose included. But one must be poor and sad,
because that," announced Pixie, in her most radiant fashion, "would be
good for my character. I'd be sorry for him, the creature! And, as
they say in books, 'twould soften me. Would you say honestly, now,
Bridgie, that I'm in _need_ of softening?"
"I should not. I should say you were soft enough already. _Too_ soft!"
declared Bridgie sternly. "`Them,' indeed! Plural, I'll trouble you!
Just realise, my child, that there are not enough men to go round, and
don't waste time making pictures of a chorus who will never appear. If
you have _one_ lover, it will be more than your share; and it's doubtful
if you ever get that."
"I doubt it," maintained Pixie sturdily. "I'm plain, but I've a way.
You know yourself, me dear, I've a way! ... I'm afraid I'll have lots;
and that's the trouble of it, for as sure as you're there, Bridgie, I'll
accept them all! 'Twouldn't be in my heart to say no, with a nice man
begging to be allowed to take care of me. I'd love him on the spot for
being so kind; or if I didn't, and I saw him upset, it would seem only
decent to comfort him, so 'twould end the same way. ... It breaks my
heart when the girls refuse the nice man in books, and I always long to
be able to run after him when he leaves the room--ashy pale, with a
nerve twitching beside his eye--and ask him will I do instead! If I
feel like that to another girl's lover, what will I do to my own?"
Bridgie stared aghast. Her brain was still reeling from the shock of
hearing Pixie refer to the subject of lovers at all, and here was yet
another problem looming ahead. With a loving grasp of her sister's
character, she realised that the protestations to which she had just
listened embodied a real danger. Pixie had always been "the
soft-heartedest creature," who had never from her earliest years been
known to refuse a plea for help. It would only be in keeping with her
character if she accepted a suitor out of pure politeness and
unwillingness to hurt his feelings. Bridgie was a happy wife, and for
that very reason was determined that if care and guidance, if authority,
and persuasion, and precept, and a judicious amount of influence could
do it, Pixie should never be married, unless it were to the right man.
She therefore adopted her elderly attitude once more, and said firmly--
"It's very wicked and misguided even to talk in such a way. When the
time comes that a man asks you to marry him--if it ever comes--it will
be your first and foremost duty to examine your own heart and see if you
love him enough to live with him all his life, whether he is ill or
well, or rich or poor, or happy or sad. You will have to decide whether
you would be happier with him in trouble or free by yourself, and you'd
have to remember that it's not always too easy managing a house, and--
and walking about half the night with a teething baby, and darning
socks, when you want to go out, and wearing the same dress three years
running, even if you love the man you've married. Of course, some girls
marry rich husbands--like Esmeralda; but that's rare. Far more young
couples begin as we did, with having to be careful about every shilling;
and that, my dear, is _not_ agreeable! You need to be _very_ fond of a
man to make it worth while to go on short commons all your life. You
need to think things over very carefully, before you accept an offer of
marriage."
Pixie sat listening, her head cocked to one side, with the air of a
bright, intelligent bird. When Bridgie had finished speaking she sighed
and knitted her brows, and stared thoughtfully into the fire. It was
obvious that she was pondering over what had been said, and did not find
herself altogether in agreement with the rules laid down.
"You mean," she said slowly, "that I should have to think altogether of
_myself_ and what would suit _Me_ and make _me_ happy? That's strange,
now; that's very strange! To bring a girl up all her life to believe
it's her duty in every small thing that comes along to put herself last
and her family in front, and then when she's a grown-up woman, and a man
comes along who believes, poor thing! that she could help him and make
him happy, _then_ just at that moment you tell her to be selfish and
think only of herself. ... 'Tis not that way I'll conduct my love
affairs!" cried Pixie O'Shaughnessy. Her eyes met Bridgie's, and
flashed defiance. "When I meet a man who needs me I'll find my own
happiness in helping _him_!"
"Bless you, darling!" said Bridgie softly. "I am quite sure you will.
... It's a very, very serious time for a woman when the question of
marriage comes into her life. You can't treat it _too_ seriously. I
have not thought of it so far in connection with you, but now that I do
I'll pray about it, Pixie! I'll pray for you, that you may be guided to
a right choice. You'll pray that for yourself, won't you, dear?"
"I will," said Pixie quietly. "I do. And for him--the man I may marry.
I've prayed for him quite a long time."
"The ... the _man_!" Bridgie was so surprised as to appear almost
shocked. "My dear, you don't know him!"
"But he is alive, isn't he? He must be, if I'm going to marry him.
Alive, and grown-up, and living, perhaps, not so far away. Perhaps he's
an orphan, Bridgie; or if he has a home, perhaps he's had to leave it
and live in a strange town. ... Perhaps he's in lodgings, going home
every night to sit alone in a room. Perhaps he's trying to be good, and
finding it very hard. Perhaps there's no one in all the world to pray
for him but just me. _Bridgie_! If I'm going to love him how can I
_not_ pray?"
Mrs Victor rose hurriedly from her seat, and busied herself with the
arrangement of the curtains. They were heavy velvet curtains, which at
night-time drew round the whole of the large bay window which formed the
end of the pretty, cosy room. Bridgie took especial pleasure in the
effect of a great brass vase which, on its oaken pedestal, stood sharply
outlined against the rich, dark folds. She moved its position now,
moved it back into its original place, and touched the leaves of the
chrysanthemum which stood therein with a caressing hand. Six years'
residence in a town had not sufficed to teach the one-time mistress of
Knock Castle to be economical when purchasing flowers. "I can't live
without them. It's not my fault if they are dear!" she would protest to
her own conscience at the sight of the florist's bill.
And in truth, who could expect a girl to be content with a few scant
blossoms when she had lived all her early age in the midst of prodigal
plenty! In spring the fields had been white with snowdrops. Sylvia
sent over small packing-cases every February, filled with hundreds and
hundreds of little tight bunches of the spotless white flowers, and
almost every woman of Bridgie's acquaintance rejoiced with her on their
arrival. After the snowdrops came on the wild daffodils and bluebells
and primroses. They arrived in cases also, fragrant with the scent
which was really no scent at all, but just the incarnation of everything
fresh, and pure, and rural. Then came the blossoming of trees. Bridgie
sighed whenever she thought of blossom, for that was one thing which
would _not_ pack; and the want of greenery too, that was another cross
to the city dweller. She longed to break off great branches of trees,
and place them in corners of the room; she longed to wander into the
fields and pick handfuls of grasses, and honeysuckle, and prickly briar
sprays. Who could blame her for taking advantage of what compensation
lay within reach?
This afternoon, however, the contemplation of the tawny chrysanthemums
displayed in the brass vase failed to inspire the usual joy. Bridgie's
eyes were bright indeed as she turned back into the room, but it was the
sort of brightness which betokens tears repressed. She laid her hand on
the little sister's shoulders, and spoke in the deepest tone of her
tender Irish voice--
"What has been happening to you, my Pixie, all this time when I've been
treating you as a child? Have you been growing up quietly into a little
woman?"
Pixie smiled up into her face--a bright, unclouded smile.
"Faith," she said, radiantly, "I believe. I have!"