The immediate consequence of the Pixie pronouncement was a
correspondence between her two elder sisters, wherein Bridgie ate
humble-pie, and Esmeralda rode the high horse after the manner born.
"You were right about Pixie, darling. It _is_ dull for her here in this
strange town, where we have _so_ few friends; and now that she is nearly
twenty-one it does not seem right to shut her up. She ought to go about
and see the world, and meet boys and girls of her own age. And so,
dear, would it be convenient to you to have her for a few months until
you go up to town? Your life in the country will seem a whirl of gaiety
after our monotonous jog-trot, and she has been so useful and diligent,
helping me these last years with never a thought for her own enjoyment,
that she deserves all the fun she can get. I am sad at parting from
her, but if it's for her good I'll make the effort. She has two nice
new frocks, and I could get her another for parties." Thus Bridgie.
Esmeralda's reply came by return--the big, slanting writing, plentifully
underlined--
"_At last_, my dear, you have come to your senses. For a sweet-tempered
person, you certainly have, as I've told you before, a surprising amount
of obstinacy. In future do try to believe that in matters of worldly
wisdom I know best, and be ruled by me!
"Pixie can come at once--the sooner the better, but for pity's sake, my
dear, spare me the frocks. Felice can run her up a few things to last
until I have time to take her to town. If I am to take her about, she
must be dressed to please _me_, and do _me_ credit.
"We have people coming and going all the time, and I'll be thankful to
have her. I wouldn't say so for the world, Bridgie, but you _have_ been
selfish about Pixie! Never a bit of her have I had to myself; she has
come for the regular Christmas visits, of course, and sometimes in
summer, but it's always been with you and Dick and the children; it's
only the leavings of attention she's had to spare for any one else. Now
my boys will have a chance! Perhaps she can keep them in order--_I_
can't! They are the pride and the shame, and the joy and the grief, and
the sunshine and the--thunder and lightning and earthquake of my life.
Bridgie, did you ever think it would feel like that to be a mother? I
thought it would be all pure joy, but there's a big ache mixed in--
"Geoff was so naughty this morning, so disobedient and rude, and I
prayed, Bridgie--I shut myself in my room and prayed for patience, and
then went down and spoke to him so sweetly. You'd have loved to hear
me. I said: `If you want to grow up a good, wise man like father, you
must learn to be gentle and polite. Did you ever hear father speak
rudely to me?'--`Oh, no,' says he, quite simply, `_but I've often heard
you speak rudely to him_!' Now, what was a poor misguided mother to say
to that? Especially when it was True! You are never cross, so your
youngsters can never corner you like that; but I am--often! Which
proves that I need Pixie more than you do, and she'd better hurry
along."
Pixie came lightly into the dining-room, just as Bridgie was reading the
last words of the letter. She was almost invariably late for breakfast,
a fact which was annoying to Captain Victor's soldierly sense of
punctuality. He looked markedly at the clock, and Pixie said genially,
"I apologise, me dear. The young need sleep!" Then she fell to work at
her porridge with healthy enjoyment. She wore a blue serge skirt and a
bright, red silk shirt, neatly belted by a strip of patent-leather. The
once straggly locks were parted in the middle, and swathed round a
little head which held itself jauntily aloft; her eyes danced, her lips
curved. It was a bare eight o'clock in the morning, a period when most
people are languid and half-awake. But there was no languor about
Pixie; she looked intensely, brilliantly alive. A stream of vitality
seemed to emanate from her little form and fill the whole room. The dog
stirred on the rug and rose to his feet; the canary hopped to a higher
perch and began to sing; Dick Victor felt an access of appetite, and
helped himself to a second egg and more bacon.
"This is Wednesday," announced Pixie genially, "and it's fine. I love
fine Wednesdays! It's a habit from the old school-time, when they were
half-holidays, and meant so, much. ... I wonder what nice thing will
happen to-day."
Husband and wife exchanged a glance. They knew and loved this habit of
expecting happiness, and looking forward to the joys rather than the
sorrows of the future, which had all her life, been characteristic of
Pixie O'Shaughnessy. They realised that it was to this quality of mind,
rather than to external happenings, that she owed her cheerful serenity,
but this morning it was impossible not to wonder how she would view the
proposed change of abode.
"I've had a letter from Esmeralda," announced Bridgie baldly from behind
the urn, and, quick as thought, Pixie's sharp eyes searched her face.
"But that's not nice. It's given you a wrinkle. Take no notice, and
she'll write to-morrow to say she's sorry. She's got to worry or die,
but there's no reason why you should die too. Roll it up into spills,
and forget all about it."
"I can't--it's important. And she's not worrying. It's very--" Bridgie
paused for a moment, just one moment, to swallow that accusation of
selfishness--"_kind_! Pixie darling, it's about _You_."
"Me!" cried Pixie, and dropped her spoon with a clang. Bridgie had
already pushed back her chair from the table; Pixie pushed hers to
follow suit. Such a prosaic affair as breakfast had plainly vanished
from their thoughts, but Captain Victor had by no means forgotten, nor
did it suit him to face emotional scenes to an accompaniment of bacon
and eggs.
"_After_ breakfast, please!" he cried, in what his wife described as his
"barracks" voice, and which had the effect in this instance of making
her turn on the tap of the urn so hurriedly that she had not had time to
place her cup underneath. She blushed and frowned. Pixie deftly moved
the toast-rack so as to conceal the damage, and proceeded to eat a
hearty breakfast with undiminished appetite.
It was not until Captain Victor had left the room to pay his morning
visit to the nursery, that Bridgie again referred to her sister's
letter, and then her first words were of reproach.
"How you could sit there, Pixie, eating your breakfast, as calm as you
please, when you knew there was news--news that concerned yourself!"
"I was hungry," said Pixie calmly. "And I love excitement; it's the
breath of my nostrils. All the while I was making up stories, with
myself as heroine. I'm afraid it will be only disappointment I'll feel
when you tell me. Truth is so tame, compared to imagination. Besides,
there was Dick!" She smiled a forbearing, elderly smile. "You can't
live in the house with Dick without learning self-control. He's so--"
"He's not!" contradicted Dick's wife, with loyal fervour. "Dick was
quite right; he always is. It was his parents who were to blame for
making him English." She sighed, and stared reflectively out of the
window. "We ought to be thankful, Pixie, that we are Irish through and
through. It means so much that English people can't even understand--
seeing jokes when they are sad, and happiness when they are bored and
being poor and not caring, and miserable and forgetting, and interested,
and excited--"
"Every single hour!" concluded Pixie deeply, and they laughed in
concert. In the contemplation of the advantages of an Irish temperament
they had come near forgetting the real subject of discussion, but the
sight of the letter on the table before her recalled it to Bridgie's
remembrance. She straightened her back and assumed an air of
responsibility, a natural dramatic instinct prompting her to play her
part in appropriate fashion.
"Dick and I have been feeling, my dear, that as you are now really
grown-up, you ought to be having a livelier time than we can give you in
this strange town, and Esmeralda has been saying the same thing for
years past. She feels we have been rather selfish in keeping you so
much to ourselves, and thinks that it is her turn to have you to live
with her for a time. We think so too, Pixie. Not for altogether, of
course. For three or four months, say; and then you might go over to
Knock, and come back to us again for Christmas. Of course, darling, you
understand that we don't _want_ you to go!"
Pixie stared silently across the table. She had grown rather white, and
her brows were knitted in anxious consideration.
"Bridget Victor," she said solemnly, "is it the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth you are telling me, or is it just an excuse to
get me out of the way? If there's any trouble, or worry, or illness, or
upset coming on, that you want to spare me because I'm young, you'd
better know at once that it will only be the expense of the journey
wasted, for on the very first breath of it I'd fly back to you if it was
across the world!"
"I know it," said Bridgie, and blinked back a tear. "But it's the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth, Pixie, that we are the happiest, and
the healthiest, and the contentedest little family in the country, and
there's no need to worry about us. We were thinking only of you, and
you are free in this instance to think only of yourself."
"That's agreeable!" was Pixie's comment. The frown left her brow and
she smiled, the wide lips parting to show brilliantly white little
teeth, teeth very nearly as pretty and infantile as those belonging to
the small Patsie upstairs. Beholding that smile, Bridgie had no doubt
as to the verdict which she was about to hear, and suffered an
unreasoning pang of disappointment.
"Then I'll confess to you, my dear," continued Pixie affably, "that I
find myself just in the mood for excitement. So long as you are well
there's nothing on earth I'd love so much at this moment as to go off on
a junket. If Esmeralda wants to give me a good time, let the poor thing
have her way--_I'll_ not hinder her! I'll go, and I'll love it; but
I'll not promise how long I shall stay--all sorts of things may happen."
"Yes," said Bridgie dreamily, "all sorts of things!"
And so Pixie O'Shaughnessy went forth to meet her fate.