The immediate cause of Geoffrey's displeasure having been in connection
with the bazaar, it appeared to Joan that it was in that connection also
that she must make an amend. He had complained that she had failed in
interest and personal energy: by a supreme effort, then, she must
demonstrate how his words had taken root.
It was the eleventh hour; any one but an impulsive Irish woman would
have realised the futility of organising any fresh feature, and would
have contented herself with doing well what was already planned, but
such tame methods were not for the woman who had been Esmeralda
O'Shaughnessy. She was accustomed to acting in haste; at home, at
Knock, the most extensive entertainments had been organised at a few
hours' notice, and how much easier it would be now with a staff of
trained servants at her command and a purse full of money to buy the
necessary accessories, instead of being obliged to manufacture all that
was required out of ordinary household goods. Joan heaved a sigh of
regret for the memory of those gay old days when a sheet and a
pillow-case had provided a fancy costume which had captivated Geoffrey
at a glance, then knitted her brows afresh in the effort to think out
some scheme appropriate to the occasion.
The vicar's wife had lamented a lack of music which would afford
variation from the prosaic business of buying and selling. At the time
Joan had suspected a hint, and had resolutely turned a deaf ear. She
hated singing to strangers, she hated singing in a building notably
deficient in acoustic properties, she had not the faintest intention of
victimising herself for the sake of a village throng. But now, with the
new impetus driving her on, nothing seemed too hard or distasteful. The
vicar's wife should have her music--music with such accessories as it
had never entered her modest head to imagine, music which should be the
feature _par excellence_ of the bazaar. Joan's was a quick, inventive
brain; within half an hour she had mentally arranged her programme, made
a list of the necessary accessories, and planned how they should be
procured.
When the little party were again assembled for luncheon she was able to
state her plans with an air of complete assurance which left them
breathless with astonishment. She had decided to provide two short
concerts, one in the afternoon, one in the evening. She would sing two
songs; Pixie should do the same. They would all join in appropriate
part songs. By way of a climax the last number on the programme should
be illustrated by a _tableau vivant_. She proposed to write special
words to a well-known air which, together with the tableau, should
illustrate the benefits which the bazaar was destined to provide for the
villagers. The tableau should represent a scene in a cottage interior
in which were grouped four figures--a child suffering from an accident,
a distraught mother, a helpless father, and in the background, bending
beneficently over the patient, the parish nurse.
Esmeralda looked around for approval, and met the stare of blank and
doubtful faces.
"Er--a bit lugubrious, isn't it, Mrs Hilliard?" ventured Stanor at
last, voicing the general impression so strongly that Esmeralda's
imagination instantly took another leap.
"Certainly not, for I should have a second tableau to follow to show the
happy convalescence--child sitting up in bed, pale but smiling, nurse
bringing in bunch of flowers, father and mother, with outstretched
hands, pouring out thanks."
"That's better! That's more like it!"
The murmur of approval passed down the table. Pixie laid her head on
one side in smiling consideration. Yes, it would go; arranged with
Esmeralda's skill and taste the scenes would be pretty and touching,
especially when seen to the accompaniment of her beautiful voice. The
shortness of the time allowed for preparation troubled Pixie no more
than her sister. She smiled at Esmeralda and nodded a cheery
encouragement.
"I'll be the distracted mother, and weep into my apron. Honor will look
a duck in a cap. Who's to be the little victim?"
"Jack, of course. He'll look too sweet," said Jack's proud mother.
"Can't you imagine him, sitting up in bed with his curls peeping out
beneath his bandages--he must have bandages--smiling like a little
angel! He'd bring down the house. The people would love to see him."
Then for the first time Geoffrey spoke. So far he had listened to the
conversation in a silence which both his wife and sister-in-law felt to
be disappointingly unsympathetic. Now his objections were put into
words--
"Isn't Jack rather young and--er--sensitive for such a public role? I
should have thought that your concert would be complete without
troubling about a tableau. In any case, there are plenty of village
children."
"Not with Jack's face. He is sensitive, of course, but he's not shy;
he'd enjoy the excitement. And we should be there; he could come to no
harm."
"And the evening performance? Would you propose that he sat up for that
also?"
Joan pressed her lips together in the struggle for patience. Really
Geoffrey was too bad! What did he mean? What did he want? The whole
scheme had been planned to give him pleasure, and here he was, silent,
disapproving, throwing cold water. The effort at restraint made her
voice sound unnatural even in her own ears.
"If we had the tableau in the afternoon, it would hardly do to leave it
out in the evening--the only time when the villagers themselves will be
able to be present."
Before Geoffrey could reply the heel of Pixie's shoe pressed firmly on
his foot beneath the table, and a warning glance silenced his words. A
moment later, when the discussion of pros and cons waxed loud at the far
end of the table, she whispered an explanation--
"Don't object, don't argue. It's to _please you_! You said she had
taken no trouble."
Geoffrey Hilliard's glance of comprehension had in it more of weariness
than elation. Pixie noting the fact, felt a rising of irritation, and
mentally dubbed him ungracious and unreasonable, as Esmeralda had done
before her. Both failed to appreciate the fact that sudden spasms of
energy were by no means an innovation in the family history, and what
the tired man was really longing for was that ordered peace and
tranquillity which form the English idea of home. He made no further
objections, however, and Joan threw herself whole-heartedly into her
preparations, determined on a success which must win approval as by a
_tour de force_.
The three days following were far from peaceful, but if the master of
the house kept aloof from the stir and bustle, his guests threw
themselves into it with every appearance of enjoyment. Strains of music
sounded from the drawing-room and mingled with the tap-tapping of
hammers from an upper room where realistic scenery was being
manufactured under Joan's able supervision. The new system of
thoroughness demanded, moreover, that the stored-up cases should be
opened, and the contents unpacked, dusted, and re-priced, a work in
itself of many hours.
The four guests started thereon with equal vigour, but Honor took an
early opportunity of slipping away. She was tired, she had a headache,
she must finish a book, there were half a dozen stock excuses, each one
of which seemed to demand an instant adjournment to the garden. She
made the announcement in a high, clear drawl and sailed out of the room
without leaving time for protest. Whereupon Robert Carr attacked the
work on hand with feverish zeal, worked like a nigger for five or ten
minutes by the clock, and finally bolted out of the door, without, in
his case, going through the form of an excuse. Then the two workers who
were left looked out of the window and beheld the truants seated at
extreme ends of a garden seat, hardly speaking to each other, looking on
the most stiff and formal of terms.
Stanor laughed at the sight, but Pixie's practical mind could not
reconcile itself to such contradictory behaviour.
"Where's the sense of it?" she asked. "Where's the fun? To play truant
to sit on a bench and sulk! Wouldn't it be far more fun, now, to work
up here with nice cheerful people like yourself and--me?"
But Stanor knew better.
"Not a bit of it," he returned. "They'd rather quarrel by themselves
all day long than be happy with outsiders, even such fascinating people
as ourselves. It's a symptom of the disease. Of course, you have
grasped the fact that they _are_ suffering from a disease?"
"I have. I can use my eyes. But _why_?" cried Pixie, rounding on him
with sudden energy, "_why_, will you tell me, can't they be happy and
comfortable and get engaged and be done with it? What's the sense of
pretending one thing when you mean another, and sulking and quarrelling
when you might--"
"Quite so," assented Stanor, laughing. "Odd, isn't it; but they _will_,
you know. Never any knowing what they _will_ do when it takes them like
that. Besides, in this case there are complications. Miss Ward has
pots of money, and poor old Carr has nothing but what he makes. He'll
get on all right--a fellow with that chin is bound to get on--but it
takes time, and meantime it's a bit of an impasse. A fellow doesn't
mind his wife having _some_ money--it's a good thing for her as well as
for himself--but when it comes to a pile like that--well, if he has any
self-respect, he simply can't do it!"
"If _I_ had a pile, I'd expect my lover to accept it from me as gladly
as I'd take it from him. If he didn't, I should feel he didn't love me
enough."
"You'd be wrong there. He might love you enough to wish to save you
from a jolly uncomfortable position. It's not right that a man should
be dependent upon his wife. Puts him in a false position."
"Not if he really loved her. How could it? He'd realise then that in a
life together there would be no `yours' or `mine.' It would all be
`_ours_.'"
Stanor lifted his head to look at her, and Pixie's clear eyes met his in
a full frank gaze which held no shadow of embarrassment. Here was
something quite new--a girl who could speak about love to a young man
without a trace of self-consciousness or flirtation, yet with an
earnestness which demonstrated a keen personal interest. Stanor had
many girl friends with whom he had often discussed the subject, but
invariably a certain amount of self-consciousness had crept in, which
had shown itself alternately in cynicism or sentimentality.
Now, to his own amazement, he realised that _he_ was the one to feel
embarrassment, while Pixie confided her sentiments as placidly as if he
had been a maiden aunt. He stared at her as she stood before him, a
trim, quaint little figure enveloped in a print overall, beneath which
her feet appeared absurdly small and doll-like, and as he looked his
heart gave a curious, unexpected leap. He had felt that leap before,
and the meaning of it was no mystery to him, though in this particular
instance it was sufficiently astonishing.
Handsome, accomplished, the presumptive heir to a fortune, Stanor
Vaughan had been a pet of society for the last half-dozen years, and
being by nature susceptible to girlish charm had more than once imagined
himself seriously in love. There had been, for example, that beautiful
blonde whose society had turned a summer holiday into a veritable idyll.
He had been on the verge of proposing to her when his uncle had
suddenly summoned him home, and--well, somehow the restless misery of
the first few days had disappeared with surprising rapidity, the vision
had grown dim, and finally faded from sight.
Again it had been a charming brunette, and this time he had been sure of
himself, perfectly sure. He was awaiting an opportunity to speak when
again a summons had arrived, a pleasant one this time, since it took the
form of an invitation to accompany his uncle on a prolonged continental
tour. There had been no time to think. He had barely time to pack his
bag and be off. And at the end of a month, well! He had begun to
hesitate and doubt, and the episode ended like the first.
Curious, when he came to think about it, how the Runkle had in both
cases played the part of _deus ex machina_. It was coincidence, of
course, pure coincidence, for the old fellow had not known the girls
even by name, but it _was_ odd! As for his own part in the proceeding,
both girls had been unusually charming specimens of the modern society
girl, it was natural enough that he should have been impressed, but if
it was really the fact that he was falling in love with this Irish
Pixie, that was another, and a very different matter.
With a darting thought Stanor recalled his impressions on first meeting
the girl a week before, and his own outspoken surprise at the
insignificance of the sister of his beautiful hostess. A plain, odd
little creature, that had been the involuntary verdict, but almost
immediately it had been amended. Plain, but charming; distinctly the
little thing had charm! Now, at the expiration of six days it had come
to this, that his eyes no longer noted the faulty outline, but found a
continual joy in watching the play of expression, the vivid life and
interest of the sparkling little face. This was the real thing at last,
Stanor told himself: it must be the real thing! Mingled with all his
excitement and perturbation, he was conscious of a thrill of
self-appreciation. It was not every man of his age who would put beauty
of character before that of feature. He threw a deliberate
_empressement_ into his gaze, and said meaningly--
"Your husband, Miss Pixie, will be a lucky man!"
"He will so," agreed Pixie warmly. She gave a soft, musical laugh as if
the thought were a pleasant one to dwell on, but Stanor was sensitive
enough to realise that his own image played no part in her dreams. She
took up her pen and returned to the scribbling of prices on small paper
labels. "Russian lace, five shillings a yard. Russian lacquer
collar-box. Don't you hate that shiny red? Of course, when I talked of
fortunes I was only putting myself in her place. I've nothing. None of
us have. When My lover comes, there'll be only--_Me_!" The words
sounded modest enough, but there was a complacence in the tilt of the
head which told another story. Pixie O'Shaughnessy had no pity to waste
on the man who should win herself.
Stanor's lip twisted in a self-conscious smile. The other girls had
been rich. He pondered for a moment, and then said suddenly--
"I wonder, Miss Pixie, with your temperament, and--er--under the
circumstances that you have not been fired with the modern craze to do
something before now. Girls nowadays don't seem happy unless they have
some work--"
"But I _have_, I have! Did you think I was idle?" She looked at him
with reproachful eyes. "This is a holiday. I'm sampling luxury for a
change, and I won't deny it's agreeable, but at home all the year I'm at
work from morning to night. I don't know how to get _through_ my work."
So she had a profession then, after all! Stanor felt an amused
conviction that whatever the post might be the little thing would fill
it uncommonly well. Small and child-like as she appeared, she yet
carried with her that air of assurance which is the heritage of the
capable. It interested him to consider for a moment what particular
role she had adopted, and more than one possibility had passed through
his head before he put the question into words--
"And what exactly _do_ you do, Miss Pixie?"
She stared at him blankly.
"Now, if you'd asked me to say what I do _not_ do, it would have been
easier. Have you any sort of idea what it means to keep a home going
with big ideas and little means, and a cook-general to thwart your
efforts? If you have, you can imagine the list. Dusting, sewing,
mending, turning, making, _un_-making, helping Bridgie, amusing the
children, soothing the servants, humouring Dick, making dresses,
trimming hats, covering cushions, teaching the alphabet, practising
songs, arranging flowers, watering plants, going to shops, making up
parcels, writing notes, making--"
Stanor held up his hands in protest.
"Stop! Have pity on me! What an appalling list! Isn't it nearly done?
My ears are deafened! I am overcome with the thought of such
activity!" Nevertheless the smile with which he regarded her was
distinctly approving, for, like most men, he preferred domestic women
who did not despise home work. "I'll tell you what it is," he added
warmly, "Mrs Victor is like the other fellow--jolly lucky to have you!
There are precious few girls who would give up their whole lives to a
sister."
"Bridgie is more than a sister. She's meant father and mother and home
to me for over ten years. My parents died when I was so young."
"Like mine. That's a point of union between us. My uncle has played
the part of your Bridgie."
"He has; I know it. He's lame," answered Pixie swiftly, and was amazed
at the heat with which the young fellow replied--
"Lame? Who said so? Who told you? What does it matter if he _is_
lame?"
"Not one bit. I was only--sorry. I didn't mean to be unkind or to
repeat anything I shouldn't. Why are you vexed?"
He shrugged his shoulders, and snapped the scissors over a coil of
string.
"Oh, nothing. Gets on one's nerves a bit that's all. He's such a fine
fellow, he would have been such a brick, but that wretched lameness has
spoiled it all. Till he was eighteen he was as strong as a horse--a
fine, upstanding young giant he must have been. Then came the
accident--pitched from his horse against a stone wall--and for twelve
solid years he lay on his back. That made him only thirty, but you
would never have believed it to see him. He was a lot more like a man
of fifty."
Pixie laid her pen on the table, and rested her chin in the clasped
hands. Her eyes looked very large and wistful.
"Twelve years on one's back would be pretty long. One would live so
fast _inside_ all the while one's body was idle. 'Twould age you. If
it had happened when he was fifty, 'twould have been easier, but at
eighteen one feels so lively and awake. Anything, _anything_ would seem
better than to do just nothing! To wake each morning and know there was
nothing before one all the long hours, but to lie still! Other people
would get accustomed to it for you--that would be one of the bits which
would hurt the most--for you'd never be accustomed yourself. And which
would be worst, do you think--the days when it was dull and the room was
dark, or the days when the sun blazed, begging him to come out?"
Stanor shook himself with an involuntary shiver.
"Don't!" he cried sharply. "Don't talk like that! What an imagination
you have! I've been enough cut up about it, goodness knows, but I never
realised all that it meant. ... Well! He is better now, so we needn't
grouse about it any more. It's only that's it's left a mark! He was
turned in a moment from a boy into an old man--his youth was killed,
_and he can't get it back_! That's one reason why he's so jolly anxious
about me. Like most fellows he sets an exaggerated value on the things
he has missed himself, and it's a craze with him to--as he calls
it--`safeguard my youth.' He is trying to live his own lost days again
through me, poor fellow, and it's a poor game. Outsiders take for
granted that I'm his heir, but that's bosh. Fellows of thirty-five
don't worry about heirs. He has never mentioned the subject; all he
_has_ done is to give me every chance in the way of education, and to
promise me a good `start off.' I'd have been ready to tackle serious
work at once, but he is against a fellow having real responsibility
until he's had time to feel his feet. I've had to work, of course--he's
keen on that; but he's keen on recreation, too, and freedom from
responsibility. He believes, poor chap, that if a fellow has freedom
between twenty and thirty, he is better fitted to take up responsi--"
Stanor stopped short suddenly, and the blood rushed to his cheeks. "I
wonder!" he repeated blankly; "I wonder!"
For the first time revelation had come home to him with a flash that his
uncle's interference in those two incipient love affairs had not been
coincidence, but a deeply matured plan. He recalled occasions when
chance words had betrayed a surprising acquaintance with his own doings,
the houses at which he visited, and the feminine members of those
households. Unsuspecting himself, he had doubtless betrayed more than
he knew. In more ways than one his uncle had determined to safeguard
his freedom during these early years!
Stanor set his lips. The discovery was no more pleasant to him than it
would be to any other young man of his age. A certain amount of
"management" a fellow must be ready to accept from one who had been so
generous a friend, but this was going too far. The Runkle must be shown
that in purely personal matters his nephew would allow no one to
interfere!
The frown continued for several minutes, but finally gave place to a
smile, for a consideration of the present position had led him to a
comfortable conclusion. The Runkle would be on a wrong tack this time!
If he scented any attraction among the members of Mrs Hilliard's
house-party, it would of a certainty be attributed to the pretty
American heiress, Honor Ward. No one would suspect for a moment that
the fastidious Stanor Vaughan had been laid captive by a plain and
penniless Irish Pixie!