Stanor Vaughan was deputed to take Pixie in to dinner that evening, an
arrangement which at the beginning of the meal appeared less agreeable
to him than to his partner. He cast furtive glances at the small,
plain, yet mysteriously attractive little girl, who was the sister of
the beautiful Mrs Hilliard, the while she ate her soup, and found
himself attacked by an unusual nervousness. He didn't know what to say:
he didn't know how to say it. He had made a bad start, and he wished
with all his heart that he could change places with Carr and "rot" with
that jolly Miss Ward. All the same, he found himself curiously
attracted by this small Miss O'Shaughnessy, and he puzzled his handsome
head to discover why.
There was no beauty in the little face, and, as a rule, Stanor, as he
himself would have expressed it, had "no use" for a girl who was plain.
What really attracted him was the happiness and serenity which shone in
Pixie's face, as light shines through the encircling glass, for to human
creatures as to plants the great necessity of life is sun, and its
attraction is supreme. Walk along a crowded street and watch the
different faces of the men and women as they pass by--grey faces, drab
faces, white faces, yellow faces, faces sad and cross, and lined and
dull, faces by the thousand blank of any expression at all, and then
here and there, at rare, rare intervals, a _live_ face that speaks. You
spy it afar off--a face with shining eyes, with lips curled ready for
laughter, with arching brows, and tilted chin, and every little line and
wrinkle speaking of _life_.
That face is as a magnet to attract not only eyes, but hearts into the
bargain; the passers-by, rouse themselves from their lethargy to smile
back in sympathy, and pass on their way wafting mental messages of
affection.--"What a _dear_ girl!" they cry, or "woman," or "man," as the
case may be. "What a charming face! I should like to know that girl."
And the girl with the happy face goes on _her_ way, all the happier for
the kindly, thoughts by which she is pursued.
When strangers were first introduced to Pixie O'Shaughnessy they
invariably catalogued her as a plain-looking girl; when they had known
her for an hour they began to feel that they had been mistaken, and at
the end of a week they would have been prepared to quarrel with their
best friend if he had echoed their own first judgment. The charm of her
personality soon overpowered the physical deficiency.
Stanor Vaughan was as yet too young and prosperous to realise the real
reason of Pixie's attraction. He decided that it was attributable to
her trim, jaunty little figure and the unusual fashion in which she
dressed her hair. Also she wore a shade of bright flame-coloured silk
which made a special appeal to his artistic eye, and he approved of the
simple, graceful fashion of its cut.
"Looks as if she'd had enough stuff!" he said to himself, with all a
man's dislike of the prevailing hobble. He pondered how to open the
conversation, asking himself uneasily what punishment the girl would
award him for his _faux pas_ of the afternoon. Would she be haughty?
She didn't look the kind of little thing to be haughty! Would she be
cold and aloof? Somehow, glancing at the irregular, piquant little
profile, he could not imagine her aloof. Would she snap? Ah! Now he
was not so certain. He saw distinct possibilities of snap, and then,
just as he determined that he really must make the plunge and get it
over, Pixie leaned confidentially toward him and said below her breath--
"_Please_ talk! Make a start--any start--and I'll go on. ... It's your
place to begin."
"Er--er--" stammered Stanor, and promptly forgot every subject of
conversation under the sun. He stared back into the girl's face, met
her honest eyes, and was seized with an impulse of confession. "Before
I say anything else, I--I ought to apologise, Miss O'Shaughnessy. I'm
most abominably ashamed. I'm afraid you overheard my--er--er--w-what I
said to Miss Ward at tea--"
"Of course I heard," said Pixie, staring. "What could you expect? Not
four yards away, and a great bass voice! I'm not _deaf_. But there's
no need to feel sorry. I thought you put it very nicely, myself!"
"Nicely!" He stared in amaze. "_Nicely_! How could you possibly--"
"You said I had given Esmeralda my share. I'd never once looked at it
in that way; neither had any one else. And it's _so soothing_. It
gives me a sort of credit, don't you see, as well as a pride."
She was speaking honestly, transparently honestly; it was impossible to
doubt that, with her clear eyes beaming upon him, her lips curling back
in laughter from her small white teeth. There was not one sign of
rancour, of offence, of natural girlish vanity suffering beneath a blow.
"Good sport!" cried Stanor, in a voice, however, which could be heard by
no one but himself. His embarrassment fell from him, but not his
amazement; _that_ seemed to increase with each moment that passed. His
glance lingered on Pixie's face, the while he said incredulously--
"It's--it's wonderful of you. I've known heaps of girls, but never one
who would have taken it like that. You don't seem to have a scrap of
conceit--"
"Ex-cuse me," corrected Miss O'Shaughnessy. For the first time she
seemed to be slightly ruffled, as though the supposition that she could
be bereft of any quality, or experience common to her kind was
distinctly hurtful to her pride. "I _have_! Heaps! But it's for the
right things. I've too much conceit to be conceited about things about
which I've no _right_ to be conceited. I'm only conceited about things
about which I'm--"
"Conceited enough to know are worth being jolly well conceited about,"
concluded Stanor, and they laughed together in merry understanding.
"That's it," agreed Pixie, nodding. "I used to be conceited about being
plain, because it was so unusual in our family that it was considered
quite distinguished, and my father used to boast at the hunt that he had
the ugliest child in the county, though it was himself that said it.
But," she gave the slightest, most ephemeral of sighs, "I've lived
through that. I'm conceited now about--other things."
"Lots of them, I'm sure. There must be lots," agreed Stanor, with a
sincerity which condoned the banality of the speech. "About your good
nature for one thing, I should say, and your generosity in forgiving a
blundering man, and your jolly disposition which makes you smile when
another girl would have been wild. I can understand all those and a lot
more, but, just as a matter of curiosity, I should like to know what are
you conceited about _most_?"
Pixie O'Shaughnessy smiled. There was evidently no doubt in her own
mind as to her reply. The slim figure straightened, the little head
tilted in air. Quick and crisp came the reply--
"I can make people do what I like!"
"Can you, though!" exclaimed Stanor blankly. The statement seemed to
threaten a mysteriously personal application, and he relapsed into a
ruminating silence, the while his companion employed herself cheerfully
with her dinner and the looks and conversation of her companions.
It was one of Pixie's special gifts to be able to do at least three
things at the same time with quite a fair amount of success. She could,
for instance, write a business-like letter while carrying on an animated
conversation with a friend, and keeping an eye on a small child
tottering around the room. Brain, eyes, and limb were alike so alert
that what to slower natures would have been impossible, to her involved
no effort at all.
Therefore, when about two minutes later Stanor opened his lips again to
utter a short, urgent "_How_?" she had not the slightest difficulty in
switching back to the subject, though she had been at the moment in the
midst of an absorbing calculation as to the number of yards of lace on a
dress of a lady farther down the table, and in drawing mental designs of
the way it was put on, to enclose to Bridgie in her next letter home.
"How?"
"I _understand_ them," said Pixie deeply. "You can open any door if you
have the key, but most people go on banging when it's shut. I wait till
I find my key, and then I keep it ready until the moment arrives when I
wish to get in."
Stanor's broad shoulders gave an involuntary movement which might almost
have been taken for a shiver. Once again he felt a mysterious
conviction of a personal application. All his life long the phrase had
rung in his ears, "I don't understand you!" "If I could once understand
you!" and for lack of that understanding there had been trouble and
coldness between himself and his nearest relative. Proverbially he was
difficult to understand; and he had prided himself on the reputation.
Who wanted to be a simple, transparent fellow, whom any one could lead?
This was the first time in his life that he had come into contact with a
girl who announced herself an expert understander of human nature. He
wondered vaguely what, given the initial success, Pixie would wish him
to do, hesitated on the point of inquiry, thought better of it and
turned the conversation to impersonal topics.
After dinner Pixie sat on a sofa in the drawing-room enjoying a
temporary _tete-a-tete_ with the other girl visitor. Miss Ward's hair
was, if possible, smoother than ever, and she wore a velvet dress almost
exactly matching it in shade, which seemed to Pixie's unsophisticated
eyes an extraordinarily sumptuous garment for a young girl to wear. Her
eyes were brown, too--bright, quick-glancing eyes full of interest and
curiosity. When she spoke her nationality became once more conspicuous.
"Miss Pat-ricia O'Shaughnessy, I guess you and I have got to be real
good friends! I've been spoiling for another girl to enjoy this trip
with me. If you're having a good time, it makes it twice as good to
have a girl to go shares, and compare notes, and share the jokes. You
look to me as if you could enjoy a joke."
"I was brought up to them," Pixie affirmed. "I couldn't live without.
There's nothing to eat, nor to drink, nor to do, nor to have that I
couldn't give up at a pinch, but a sense of humour I--must have! If you
feel the same, we're friends from this minute. ... Would you mind
telling me as a start just exactly who you are?"
Miss Ward's face fell. Her white brows knitted in a frown.
"I'm an Amurrican," she announced. "Mr and Mrs Hilliard had an
introduction to my people when they visited the States, and when I came
over to Europe they invited me here. I'm proud to death of being an
Amurrican; that's of course! But there's something else. You might as
well know it first as last." She straightened herself and drew a
fluttering breath. "I'm in trade! I'm Ward's Unrivalled Piquant
Pickles!"
"Wh-what?" Pixie stammered in confusion, as well she might, for the
announcement was unusual, to say the least of it.
"Pickles! Cauliflower, and cabbage, and little snippets of vegetables
floating in piquant sauce, in fat, square bottles. I make them in my
factory. If you went over to the States you'd see my placards on every
wall, and inside magazines, and on the back sheets of newspapers--a big,
fat man eating a plate of cold meat with Ward's unrivalled piquants by
his side. They used to be my father's: now they're mine. _I_ am the
Unrivalled Piquant Pickles. I run the factory. The profits grow more
e-normous every year. There's no other partners in it, only Me!"
If at the beginning of her speech the speaker had made an affectation of
humility, she certainly ended on a note of pride, and Pixie's admiration
was transparently evident.
"Think of that now! A whole factory, and pickles, too! I adore
pickles, especially the fat, cauliflowery bits. And to see one's own
name on the hoardings! I'd be so proud!"
"Honest Injun, you would? You don't feel proud and lofty because I'm in
trade, and had a grandfather who couldn't read, while _your_ ancestors
have been grandees for centuries? Many English people _do_, you know.
They have a way of looking at me as if I were a hundred miles away, and
stunted at that. And others who _do_ receive me don't trouble to hide
that it's for the sake of the dollars. A girl likes to be cared for for
_herself_: she wants people should judge her by what she _is_. It's a
big handicap, Pat-ricia, to be too rich."
"I'll take your word for it, me dear, having no experience," said Pixie
graciously; "but I'd like to be tried. As for caring--no one could help
it. I do already, and I've only known you three hours, and Esmeralda
said you were nice enough to be Irish, and it isn't the easiest thing in
the world to please _her_ fancy."
"She's a beautiful princess. She's been real sweet to me over here.
I'm crazy about her!" Honor affirmed in the slow, dragging voice which
went so quaintly with her exaggerated language. "But one Mrs Hilliard
don't make a world. You've got to be just as good to me as you know
how, Pat-ricia, for I've got no one belonging to me on this side nearer
than an elderly cousin, twice removed, and it's a lonesome feeling.
"You see, it isn't only what people think of _me_, it's the mean,
suspicious feelings I've gotten towards _them_, as the result of being
brought up an heiress. If I could tell you all I've endoored! The
things I've been told! The things I've overheard! Twenty-three men
have asked me to marry them, and there wasn't an honest heart among the
crowd. I'm not a new-fashioned girl: I'm made so's I'd love my own
home; but sure as fate I'll die an old maid, for _I_ run away from
fortune-hunters, and the honest men run away from me. If a man happened
to be poor and proud, it would be a pretty stiff undertaking to propose
to the biggest pickle factory in the world, and I guess I don't make it
any easier. You see it's like this: the more I'm anxious that--that,
er--er," she stammered uncertainly for a moment, then with forcible
emphasis brought out a plural pronoun, "_they_ should care for me really
and truly for _myself_, the more I think that they only think--"
"Exactly!" interrupted Pixie, nodding. "I quite understand." And
indeed she looked so exceedingly alert and understanding that Honor
flushed all over her small, pale face, and made haste to change the
conversation.
"How did you get on with your partner at dinner? Pretty well, eh? He
can be real charming when he likes, and there's no doubt but he's good
to look at. I've met him quite a good deal since I've been over here,
for he's been staying at several houses at the same time. From a
European point of view, we seem quite old friends, and I've a kind of
fellow-feeling for him, poor boy, for he's a sufferer from my complaint
of being too well off for his own good."
Pixie nodded several times without speaking, her lips pursed in knowing,
elderly fashion.
"That accounts for it," she said, and when Honor queried eagerly as to
her meaning, her reply had a blighting insinuation.
"I'm accustomed to soldiers--men who can fight."
"That's not fair!" cried Honor sharply. She straightened herself and
tilted her head at an aggressive angle. "That's not fair. I guess
Stanor Vaughan and I have to go through our own military training, and
it's a heap more complicated than marching round a barrack yard! We're
bound to make our own weapons, and our enemies are the worst that's
made--the sort that comes skulking along in the guise of friends. There
aren't any bands playing, either, to cheer us along, and when we win
there are no medals and honours, only maybe an aching heart!"
She drew herself up with a startled little laugh.
"Mussy! Listen to me sermonising.--I guess I'd better get back to facts
as fast as I know how. ... When I said Stanor was _too_ well off, I
didn't mean money exactly, but things are too easy for him all round.
He's handsome, and strong, and clever, and charming, and there's an
uncle in the background who plays fairy godfather and plans out his life
ahead, so that he has nothing to worry about like other young men. He's
not an old uncle really: he's almost young, but he had an accident as a
boy which laid him up for quite a spell, and turned him into a shy
recluse. Then when at last he recovered, he was lame, so of course he
was cut off from active life, and I guess from what I've heard that he's
sensitive about it. Anyway, he lives all alone, and has adopted Stanor
as a kind of son, and fusses over him like a hen with one chick--a bit
more than the young man appreciates, I fancy."
"How fuss? In what way?"
"Oh! Ambitious, don't you know," Miss Ward explained vaguely. "All the
things he ever wanted to be and to do, and couldn't, he is determined
that Stanor shall do for him. He is clever, and studious, and serious,
so he is set on it that the poor boy should be a book-worm, too, and put
study before everything else, and have serious ideas on--er--er--the
responsibility of property." Honor frowned at the tips of her small
satin shoes. "Drains, you know, and cottages, and overcrowding the
poor. Of course that kind of thing comes easy enough when you are
thirty-five and lame, but poor Stanor is only twenty-four, and as
handsome as paint. It's difficult to be serious-minded at twenty-four,
and patient with people who fuss!"
Pixie knitted her brows with an air of perturbation.
"But I hope he is nice to his uncle. It would be so hard to be hurt in
your body and hurt in your mind at the same time. It's bad enough for
him, poor creature, to have to sit still and live his life through
another. His heart is not crippled, nor his mind, nor his will, and
fancy, me dear, going on being patient, day after day, year after year,
while your body held you back, and you longed, and couldn't, and felt
the spirit to move a mountain, and were obliged to lie still on a sofa!"
Pixie bounced in a characteristic fashion on her own sofa corner, and
whisked a minute pocket-handkerchief to her eyes. "Excuse me, me dear,
will you change the conversation? I was always soft-hearted, but red
eyes at a dinner party are not _a la mode_. ... Let's talk about
pickles!--"