Stanor Vaughan stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets looking
down upon Pixie's pale, unconscious face. He had motored thirty miles
to hear the latest news of the little patient--that was certainly _one_
reason of his visit; but a second had undoubtedly been to see once more
the little patient's aunt! At the house he had been informed that Miss
O'Shaughnessy was in the garden, and had tracked her without difficulty
to her favourite seat, and now there she lay, poor, sweet, tired little
soul! With her head tilted back against the hedge, and the wee mites of
hands crossed upon her lap--an image of weariness and dejection.
Stanor Vaughan felt within him the stirrings of tenderness and pity with
which a strong man regards weakness in any form. Pixie was by nature
such a jaunty little thing that it seemed doubly pathetic to see her so
reduced. A fellow wanted to take her up in his arms, and comfort her,
and make her smile again. A flush rose in Stanor's cheeks as he
recalled an incident of the night of the accident. After the hurried
return to the house, the three guests had sat alone, waiting in
miserable suspense for the doctor's verdict, but Pixie had disappeared.
No one knew where she had gone. Honor searched for her in vain, and at
last in an access of anxiety Stanor himself took up the quest. He found
her at last, perched on the wide window-seat of an upper window, but all
his persuasions could not move her from her post.
"Let me stay here!" she persisted. "It comforts me. I can see--I can
see the _lights_!"
"You mean the motor lamps as they come up the drive?"
"No," she said simply, "I mean the stars."
Stanor was as unimaginative as most men of his age, and his first
impression was that the poor little thing was off her head. He crept
downstairs and rang for a basin of the good warm soup with which he and
his companions had been provided an hour before. When it was brought he
carried the tray carefully up three long flights of stairs, and besought
of Pixie to drink it forthwith.
She shook her head, and all his persuasions could not rouse her to the
exertion; but being an obstinate young man, he but set his lips and
determined to succeed.
This time, however, he resorted to force instead of persuasion, for,
having placed the tray on a corner of the sill, he filled the spoon with
soup and held it determinedly to the girl's lips. Now, if she moved or
made a fuss, the soup would assuredly be spilled, and no living girl
would voluntarily pour soup over her frock! But Pixie made no fuss.
Meekly, obediently as a little bird, she opened her lips, and swallowed,
and swallowed again and again, until the bowl was emptied of its
contents. There was something so trustful and unconscious about the
action that the young man felt the smart of tears in his eyes--the first
tears he had known for many a long year.
When the soup had been finished he went away again, and came back with a
warm shawl which he had procured from a maid. In wrapping it round the
quiescent figure his hands had accidentally come in contact with hers,
and finding them cold as ice, it seemed the natural thing to chafe them
gently between his own. Quite natural also Pixie appeared to find the
action, for the cold little fingers had tightened affectionately round
his own. It was left to him to flush and feel embarrassed; Pixie
remained placidly unmoved.
The memory of those moments was vivid with Stanor as he stood this
morning looking down on the sleeping girl. All through the three days
of separation her image had pursued him, and he had longed increasingly
to see her again. The tragic incidents of that long night had had more
effect in strengthening his dawning love than many weeks of placid,
uneventful lives. It had brought them heart to heart, soul to soul; all
the little veneers and conventions of society had been thrust aside, and
it seemed to him that the crisis had revealed her altogether sweet and
true.
When a young man is brought suddenly face to face with death, when it is
demonstrated before his eyes that the life of the youngest among us
hangs upon a thread, he is in the mood to appreciate the higher
qualities. Stanor had told himself uneasily that he had been "too
slack," that he had not thought enough about "these things." The
friends with whom he had consorted were mostly careless pleasure-lovers
like himself, but this little girl was made of a finer clay. To live
with her would be an inspiration: she would "pull a fellow together."
... There was, however, to be quite honest, another and less worthy
impetus which urged Stanor forward, but over this he preferred to draw a
mental veil. We are all guilty of the absurdity of posing for our own
benefit, and Stanor, like the rest, preferred to believe himself
actuated wholly by lofty motives rather than partially by the wounded
pride of a young man who has just discovered that he has been "managed"
by an elder!
He sat down on the seat beside Pixie, and laid his hand gently over
hers. They opened automatically to receive it; even before she lifted
her lids he felt the welcoming touch; and felt it characteristic of her
nature.
"_You_!" she cried gladly, "Mr Vaughan, 'tis you! Oh, that's nice!
Was I sleeping, that I didn't see you come? I thought I should never
sleep again. Jack can't sleep! If he slept he might get well."
"He is sleeping now," said Stanor quietly. "A man was sent to the lodge
to answer all inquiries, so that there should not be even a crunch on
the path. He is sleeping soundly and well. If he sleeps on--"
Pixie nodded, her face aglow.
"Oh, thank God! _How_ I thank Him! Sleep will make all the difference.
... Till now it's been nothing but a moment's nap and awake again, with
a scream. We've _agonised_ for sleep! I could not have gone off so
soundly if I hadn't known, _inside_, that Jack was asleep too. When you
love anyone very, very much, what touches them touches you. You can't
keep apart. You mayn't always know it with your _mind_, but the best
part of you, the part that feels, _it_ knows!"
She smiled in his face with frank, glad eyes, but Stanor flushed and
looked at the ground.
"Should you know it, if _I_ were unhappy, Pixie? I should know it about
you. I came this afternoon partly, mostly, because I knew how you'd be
feeling, and I thought, I hoped, that I might help. Does it help you,
Pixie, to have me sitting beside you, instead of being alone? Ought I
to have come, or stayed away?"
"I'm glad you came; I love to have you. I've been sad before this, but
I've never been sad by myself! Esmeralda isn't my sister at this
moment, she's just Jack's mother, and there's only one person who can
help her, and that is Jack's father. Later on 'twill change!" A flash
of joy lit up the white face. "Do you know what I'm waiting for? If
Jack lives, as soon as he's conscious and out of pain he'll send for me!
He'll want me to tell him stories, and the stronger he grows the more
stories he'll want! He'll need me then--they'll all need me!"
"Of course they'll need you. Other people need you, Pixie, besides your
relations. Why do you always go back to them? I was speaking of
myself. _I_ need you! I've felt all at sea without you these last
days. I never met a girl like you before. Most girls are all one way
or another--so serious that they're dull, or so empty-headed that it's a
waste of time to talk to them. You--you are such a festive little
thing, Pixie; a fellow could never be dull in your company, and yet
you're so good! You have such sweet thoughts; you are so unselfish, so
kind."
"_Go_ on!" cried Pixie urgently. "_Go_ on!" Her cheeks had flushed,
her eyes sparkled with animation. "It's the most reviving thing in the
world to hear oneself praised, I could listen to it for hours. In what
particular way, now, would you say that I was `_sweet_?'"
She peered at him, complacent, curious, blightingly unconscious of his
emotions, and the young man felt a stirring of hot impatience.
Insinuation and innuendo were of no use where Pixie O'Shaughnessy was
concerned; an ordinary girl might scent a proposal afar off and amuse
herself by an affectation of innocence, but nothing short of a plain
declaration of love would convince Pixie of his sincerity.
"Pixie," he said suddenly, "look at me!" He took her hands in his, and
drew her round so as to face him as they sat. "Look at me, Pixie," he
repeated. "Look in my eyes. Tell me, what do you see?"
Pixie looked, her own eyes wide and amazed. Her fingers stirred within
his hands with a single nervous twitch, and then lay still, while into
her eyes crept an expression of wonder and awe.
"I don't know.--I don't know. ... What do I see?"
"Love, Pixie! My love. My love for you. ... I've fallen in love with
you, darling; didn't you know? I knew it that last evening when we were
together upstairs. I've known it better and better each day since; and
to-day I couldn't stay away, I couldn't wait any longer. ... Pixie, do
you love me too?"
"Of course I love you. How could I help it?" cried Pixie warmly. Her
fingers tightened round his with affectionate pressure, her eyes beamed
encouragingly upon him.
Never could there have been a warmer, a more spontaneous response, and
yet, strange to relate, its very ardour had a chilling effect, for
Stanor, though young, was experienced enough to realise that it is not
in this fashion that a girl receives a declaration of love from the man
of her heart. He himself had struggled with shyness and agitation; he
was conscious of flushed cheeks, of a hoarseness of voice, of the
beating of pulses; then surely a girl taken by surprise, faced suddenly,
with the question of such enormous import, should not be less moved than
he.
The words died upon his lips; involuntarily his hands relaxed their
grasp. There was a moment of impossible impasse and strain before, with
a realised effort, he forced himself to express a due delight.
"That makes me very happy, Pixie. I--I was afraid you might not care.
I'm not half good enough for you, I know that, but I'll do my best.
I'll do everything I can to make you happy. I'm not rich, you know,
darling; we should have to live on what I can make independently of the
uncle, for he has peculiar views. He doesn't wish me to marry."
"_Marry_!" repeated Pixie deeply. She sat bolt upright in her seat, her
eyes suddenly alight with interest and excitement. Incredible as it
might appear, Stanor realised that this was the first moment when the
idea of marriage had entered her brain. "Is it _marrying_ you are
talking about? You want _me_ to marry you?"
"You funny little soul. Of course I want it. Why else should I talk
about loving?"
"I thought," she said sighing, "it was just nice feeling! It's natural
for people to love each other. When they live together in the same
house and come through trouble. ... And we're both attractive. ... You
don't need to marry every one you love!"
"I do," declared Stanor, "when it's a girl--when it's _you_! I want to
have you for my own, and keep you to myself, and how can I do that if
you're not my wife? If you love me, you must want to be with me too.
Don't you, dear, don't you wish it? Shouldn't you like to be my wife?"
Pixie tilted her head in her well-known attitude of consideration.
"I--I think I should!" she pronounced judicially. "I liked you from the
moment we met, and you've a good disposition. Dispositions are
important in marriage. And I'm domestic; you like domestic girls, and
it's convenient when you're poor. ... On how much a head would you
expect me to keep house?"
But that was too much for Stanor's endurance; he seized her in his
strong arms and shook her with a tender violence.
"Pixie, you little witch, don't be so blightingly matter-of-fact! I'm
making you a declaration of love. Kindly receive it in a suitable
fashion. ... A--a fellow expects a girl to be a little--er--sentimental
and poetic, and--er--overcome, don't you know, not to begin at once to
talk of _how much a head_!"
"I've never been proposed to before. You must excuse me if I make
mistakes. I'm quite willing to be sentimental; I dote upon sentiment,"
declared Pixie in anxious propitiation. ... "Let's go back to where you
were talking about me! Tell me _exactly_ what it is that you most
admire?"
Stanor had been hoping for a little adulation for himself, but he
gallantly stifled his feelings and proceeded to offer the incense which
he believed would be most acceptable.
"Your character, darling. Your sweet and tender heart!"
"How nice," said Pixie flatly. She sat silent for a moment and then
ventured tentatively, "_Not_ my personal charm?"
"_And_ your personal charm. Both! You've more personal charm than any
girl I know."
This was something like! Pixie beamed content. At this moment she felt
really "engaged," and agreed rapturously with all the encomiums which
she had heard given to this happy condition. Success emboldened her to
further flights.
"The first time you met me you didn't admire me then! My _appearance_,
I mean! You remember you said--"
"I did. Yes! But you were so sweet in forgiving me that I admired you
instantly for _that_!" cried Stanor, skilfully turning the subject to
safer ground. "And when you're my wife, Pixie, you will seem the most
beautiful woman in the world in my eyes. It is very unworldly of you to
consent without asking more about my affairs, for I am a poor match for
you, little one. It takes years for a man to make a decent income in
business, and I have so little experience. My uncle has always promised
to buy me a partnership in some good firm, but of course there would
have to be some preliminary training. And if he did not ... approve..."
"But he _must_ approve; we must make him. We couldn't marry without his
consent. He's been so good to you!"
"He has, uncommonly good; but when it comes to marrying, it's a fellow's
own affair. I shall go my own way..."
"He's lame!"
"Dear little girl, what has that to do with the case in point?"
"Well, I think it has!" persisted Pixie obstinately. "It has to me. We
must be nice to him, Stanor, and _make_ him be pleased, whether he wants
to or not. ... Did you notice how naturally I called you `Stanor'?"
"I did! Couldn't you manage to put something before it by way, of
completion?"
"Nice Stanor! Handsome Stanor! Clever, sensible, discriminating
Stanor!"
"Quite so," said the discriminating one dryly, "but I should have
liked--" Suddenly he burst into a ringing boyish laugh. "This is the
_rummiest_ proposal that was ever made!"
Pixie looked anxious.
"Is it? `Rum'? What exactly does `rum' mean, applied to a proposal?
It didn't sound approving. It's my very own proposal, and I won't have
it abused. I've enjoyed it very much. ... I think we shall be very
happy, Stanor, when we are married and settled down in our own little
house."
Stanor looked at her keenly, and as he looked he sighed.
"Dear little Pixie," he said gently, "I hope we shall!"