As little Jack continued to progress towards convalescence, the
attention of the household became increasingly absorbed by the
astounding fact of Pixie's projected engagement. Bridgie, detained at
home by malapropos ailments on the part of the children, wrote urgent
letters by daily posts, contradicting herself on every point saving one
alone--the advisability of delay. Geoffrey Hilliard as host, Dick
Victor as guardian, Jack, Pat, and Miles as brothers, proposed,
seconded, and carried by acclamation the same waiting policy. And no
one who has the faintest knowledge of human nature will need to be told
that such an attitude had the effect of rousing the youthful lovers to
the liveliest impatience.
Stanor in particular was moved to rebellion. His pride was hurt by so
lukewarm a reception of his addresses, which was all the more
disagreeable for being unexpected. The Hilliards had shown so much
friendship and hospitality to him as a friend, that he had taken for
granted that they would welcome him in a closer relationship. He was
not a great _parti_ it was true, but then by her own confession Pixie
had no fortune of her own, and had been accustomed to modest means.
Stanor did not say to himself in so many words that he happened to
possess an exceptionally handsome and popular personality, he refused
even to frame a definite thought to that effect; nevertheless the
consciousness was there, and added to his chagrin.
Lounging along the country lanes, his hands thrust deep into his
pockets, Stanor told himself that it was a disappointing old world: a
fellow always imagined that when he got engaged he would have the time
of his life; in books a fellow was represented as walking upon air, in a
condition of rapture too intense for belief--it was disappointing to
find his own experience fall so short of the ideal!
Sweet little Pixie, of course, was a beguiling creature. Stanor would
not admit any shortcomings in his _fiancee_, but he did allow himself to
wonder tentatively if he had spoken too soon: if she were not, perhaps,
a trifle young to understand the meaning of the new claim. The daily
interviews which he had been vouchsafed had been full of interest and
charm, but they had not succeeded in stifling the doubt which had marred
the first minutes of acceptance, for alas! it was when Pixie was the
most affectionate that her lover was most acutely conscious of the
subtle want. And then, as if there was not already enough worry and
trouble, there was the Runkle. ... The Runkle would be bound to put in
his oar!
Stanor had delayed sending word of his engagement to the man who stood
to him in the place of a father, silencing his conscience by the
assertion that there was yet nothing to announce. Until Pixie's
guardians came down from their present unnatural position, there might
be an understanding, but there could not be said to be a formal
engagement.
It was Pixie herself who finally forced him to dispatch the news. It
was Stanor's first experience of arguing a point with a woman, and a
most confusing experience he found it. Pixie invariably agreed with
every separate argument as he advanced it, saw eye to eye with him on
each separate point, sympathised warmly with his scruples, and then at
the very moment when she was expected to say "yes" to the final
decision, said "no," and stuck to it with conviction. Questioned as to
the reason of such inconsistency, she had only one excuse to plead, and
she pled it so often and with such insistence that it seemed easier to
give in than to continue the argument. "Yes, but he's lame!" came back
automatically as the answer to every remonstrance, till Stanor shrugged
his shoulders and sat down to write his letter.
Pixie _was_ indeed, as the family had it, "the soft-heartedest
creature!" He loved her for it, but none the less depression seized him
anew. Now there would be the Runkle to tackle! More arguments! More
objections! A fellow ought to be jolly happy when he was married, to
make up for all the fuss and agitation which went before...
Stanor's letter of announcement was short and to the point, for he was
not in the mood to lapse into sentiment. By return of post came the
Runkle's reply, short also, and non-committal--nothing more, in fact,
than the announcement that he preferred to discuss the matter in person,
and would the following day arrive at a certain hotel, where he bade his
nephew meet him. Stanor therefore made his excuses to his hostess,
packed his bag, and dispatched a letter of explanation to his _fiancee_,
unconscious of the fact that she was at that very hour receiving
information first hand.
It came about in the most natural, and simple fashion. As Pixie,
roaming the grounds bareheaded to gather a bouquet of wild flowers to
present to the little invalid, emerged suddenly upon the drive, she
found a tall, grey-coated stranger leaning against a tree in an attitude
expressive of collapse. He was very tall, and very thin; the framework
of his shoulders was high and broad, but from them the coat seemed to
flap around a mere skeleton of a frame. His hair was dark, his
complexion pale, and leaning back with closed eyes he looked so
alarmingly ill and spent, that, dropping the flowers to the ground,
Pixie leaped forward to the rescue.
"You're ill. ... Let me help! There's a seat close by. ... Lean on
me!"
The stranger opened his eyes, and Pixie started as most people _did_
start when they first looked into Stephen Glynn's eyes, which were of
that deep, intense blue which is romantically dubbed purple and fringed
with dark lashes, which added still further to their depth. They were
sad eyes, tired eyes, eyes of an exceeding and pitiful beauty, eloquent
of suffering and repression. They looked out under dark, level brows,
and with their intense earnestness of expression flooded the thin face
with life. As she met their gaze Pixie drew a quick, gasping breath of
surprise.
The stranger in his turn looked surprised and startled; he bent his head
in involuntary salute, and glanced down at the tiny arm offered for his
support. Six foot two he stood in his stockinged feet, and there was
this scrap of a girl offering her little doll-like arm for support! His
lips twitched, and Pixie pounced on the meaning with her usual agility.
"But I'm wiry," she announced proudly. "You wouldn't believe my
strength till you try it. Just for a few yards. ... Round the corner
by the oak-tree. _Please_!"
"You are too kind. I am not ill, but the walk from the station is very
steep and I found it tiring, that's all. I shall be glad to rest for a
moment, but I assure you no help is needed."
He took a step forward as he spoke, a quick, halting step, and Pixie
looking on, exclaimed sharply--
"_The Runkle_! Stanor's Runkle! It is _You_!"
The stranger looked down sharply, his dark brows puckering in
astonishment.
"I am Stephen Glynn--`The Runkle,' as my nephew is pleased to call me.
But you--you cannot be--"
Pixie nodded vehemently.
"I _am_!--Pixie O'Shaughnessy. Going to be your niece. I made Stanor
write to tell you.--"
They seated themselves on the bench under the oak-tree, and turning,
faced each other in a long, curious silence, during which each face
assumed a puzzled expression.
"But you are younger than I expected!" cried Pixie.
"That is exactly what I was on the point of saying to _you_," returned
Mr Glynn.
"And yet we know exactly how old we both are--twenty and thirty-five!"
Pixie continued volubly. "But you know how it is with young men--they
have no patience to explain! You'd be amused if you could see the image
I'd made of you in my own mind. I expect 'twas the same with yourself?"
"It was," agreed Mr Glynn, and for a moment imagined that his
disappointment was his own secret--only for a moment, however, then
Pixie tilted her head at him with a sideways nod of comprehension.
"Knowing, of course, that I was a sister of the beautiful Mrs Hilliard!
No wonder you are disappointed!" The eyes smiled sympathy at him, and
the wide lips parted in the friendliest of smiles. "You'll like me
better when you know me!"
"I--I am quite sure," stammered Mr Glynn, and then drew himself up
suddenly, as if doubtful if agreement were altogether polite under the
circumstances. Once more his lips twitched, and as their eyes met he
and Pixie collapsed together into an irresistible laugh. He laughed
well, a rare and charming accomplishment, and Pixie regarded him with
benign approval.
"Quite romantic, isn't it? The noble kinsman journeying in state to
demand the hand of the charming maid, falls ill of the perils of the
way, and encounters a simple cottage maid gathering flowers, who
succours the stranger in distress. Their identity is then revealed. ...
I _do_ love romances!" cried Pixie gushingly. "And it's much nicer
having an interview out here than in a stuffy room ... Please, Mr
Kinsman--begin!"
He frowned, bit at his under lip, and moved restlessly on the seat,
glancing once and again at the girl's bright, unclouded face.
"I'm afraid," he began slowly, "that the matter is not altogether as
simple as you suppose. Stanor is not in a position to marry without my
consent. I think he has not sufficiently appreciated this fact. If he
had consulted me in the first instance I should have endeavoured to
prevent--"
She turned her eyes upon him like a frightened child. There was no
trace of anger, nor wounded pride--those he could have faced with ease--
but the simple shock of the young face smote on his heart.
"I had not seen you, remember!" he cried quickly. "My decision had no
personal element. I object at this stage to Stanor becoming engaged
to--anybody. He has, no doubt, explained to you our relationship. His
parents being dead, I made myself responsible for his training. He may
have explained to you also my wish that for a few years he should be
free to enjoy his youth without any sense of responsibility?"
Pixie nodded gravely.
"He has. I understood. You had missed those years yourself, and knew
they could never come back, so you gave them to him as a gift--young,
happy years without a care, that he could treasure up in his mind and
remember all his life. 'Twas a big gift! Stanor, and I are grateful to
you--"
Stephen Glynn looked at her: a long, thoughtful glance. The programme
which he had mapped out for his nephew had been unusual enough to
attract much notice. He had been alternately annoyed and amused by the
criticism of his neighbours, all of whom seemed incapable of
understanding his real motives. It seemed a strange thing that it
should be reserved for this slip of a girl to see into his inmost heart.
He was touched and impressed, but that "Stanor and I" hardened him to
his task.
"Thank you. You _do_ understand. At the moment Stanor may perhaps be
inclined to question the wisdom of my programme, but I think in after
years he will, as you say, look back. The fact remains, however, that
he has not yet tackled the real business of life. He has had, with my
concurrence, plenty of change and variety, which I believe in the end
will prove of service in his life's work, and he has stood the test.
Many young fellows of his age would have abused their opportunities. He
has not done so. My only disappointment has been that he has developed
no definite taste, but has been content to flit from one fancy to the
next, always carried away by the latest novelty on the horizon."
Once again she tilted her head and scanned him with her wide, clear
eyes.
"You mean _Me_?" she said quickly. "I'm the `Latest Novelty!' You mean
that he'll change about me, too? Isn't that what you mean?"
"My dear--Miss O'Shaughnessy," (incredible though it appeared, Stephen
had been on the verge of saying "Pixie," pure and simple) "you leap too
hastily to conclusions. I am afraid I must appear an odious person!
Believe me, I had no intention of rushing into the very heart of this
matter as we have done. My plan was to call upon your sister and
explain to her my position--"
"'Tis not my sister's business, 'tis mine," interrupted Pixie firmly.
"And it would be a waste of time talking to her, for she'd agree with
every word you said. They don't _want_ me to be engaged. They think
I'm too young. If you have anything to say, say it to _Me_. _I'm_ the
person to be convinced."
She settled herself more comfortably as she spoke, turning towards him
with one arm resting on the back of the bench, and her head leaning
against the upturned hand. The sun shone on her face through the
flickering branches. No, she was not pretty; not in the least the sort
of girl Stanor was accustomed to fancy. Yet there was something
extraordinarily attractive about the little face, with its clear eyes,
its wide, generous mouth, its vivacity of expression. Already, after a
bare ten minutes' acquaintance, Stephen Glynn so shrank from the
prospect of hurting Pixie O'Shaughnessy that it required an effort to
keep an unflinching front.
"I agree with your people," he said resolutely, "that you and Stanor are
too young, and that this matter has been settled too hastily. Apart
from that, I should object to any engagement until he has proved his
ability to work for a wife. I have a position in view for him in a
large mercantile house in New York. After a couple of years' experience
there he would come back to the London house, and, if his work justified
it, I am prepared to buy him a partnership in the firm. He would then
be his own master, free to do as he chose, but for these two years he
must be free, with no other responsibility than this work."
"You think," queried Pixie slowly, "that I should interfere ... that he
would do his work better without me?"
"It's not a question of thinking, Miss O'Shaughnessy. I am not content
to think. I want to make _sure_ that Stanor will settle seriously to
work and keep in the same mind. He is a good fellow, a dear fellow,
but, hitherto at least, he has not been stable."
"He has never been engaged before?"
"Not actually. I have been forewarned in time to prevent matters
reaching that length. Twice over--"
A small hand waved imperiously for silence.
"I don't _think_," said Pixie sternly, "that you have any right to tell
me things like that. If Stanor wants me to know, he can tell me
himself. It's his affair. I am not at all curious." She drew a
fluttering breath, and stared down at the ground, and a silence followed
during which Stephen was denouncing himself as a hard-hearted tyrant,
when suddenly a minute voice spoke in his ear--
"Were they--_pretty_?"
It was impossible to resist the smile which twitched at his lips.
Unpleasant as was the nature of his errand, he, the most unsmiling of
men, had already twice over been moved to merriment. Stephen was
reflecting on the incongruity of the fact, when Pixie again answered his
unspoken retort.
"It's not curiosity, it's interest. _Quite_ a different thing! And
even if they _were_, it's much more serious when a man cares for a girl
for her--er--mental attractions, because they go on getting better,
instead of fading away like a pretty face. It's very difficult to know
what is right. ... I've promised Stanor, and he has promised me, and it
seems a poor way of showing that you know your own mind, to break your
word at the beginning!"
"I don't ask you to break your word, Miss O'Shaughnessy; only to hold it
in abeyance. I am speaking in Stanor's interests, which we have equally
at heart. I know his character--forgive me!--better than you can do,
and I am asking you to help me in arranging a probation which I _know_
to be wise under the circumstances. Let him go to New York a free man;
let him work and show his mettle, and at the end of two years, if you
are both of the same mind, I will give you every help in my power: but
meantime there must be no engagement, no _tie_, no regular
correspondence. You must both be perfectly free. I am sorry to appear
hard-hearted, but these are my conditions, and I can't see my way to
alter them."
"Well--why not?" cried Pixie unexpectedly. "What's two years? They'll
pass in no time. And men hate writing. Stanor will be relieved not to
have to bother about the mails. He can do without letters. He will
know that I am waiting." She held out her hand with a sudden, radiant
smile. "And _you_ will be pleased! It is the least we can do to
consider your wishes. If I persuade Stanor--if I send him away alone to
work," the small fingers tightened ingratiatingly over his, "you _will_
like me, won't you? You will think of me as a real niece?"
Stephen Glynn's deep blue eyes stared deeply into hers. He did not
deliberately intend to put his thoughts into speech; if he had given
himself a moment to think he would certainly not have done so, but so
strong was the mental conviction that the words seemed to form
themselves without his volition.
"You don't love him! You could not face a separation so easily if you
loved him as you should..."
For the first time a flash of real anger showed itself on Pixie's face.
Her features hardened; the child disappeared and he caught a glimpse of
the woman that was to be.
"What right have you to say that?" she asked deeply. "You prove to me
that it would be for Stanor's good to wait, and then say I cannot love
him because I agree! _You_ love him, yet you can hurt him and bring him
disappointment when you feel it is right. I understood that, so I was
not angry, but in return you might understand _me_!"
"Forgive me!" cried Stephen. "I should not have said it. You deserved
a better return for your kindness. I suppose I must seem very
illogical, but it did not occur to me that the two cases were on a
parallel. The love of a _fiancee_ is not as a rule as well balanced as
that of an uncle, Miss O'Shaughnessy!"
"It _ought_ to be," asserted Pixie. "It ought to be everything that
another love is, and more! A man's future wife ought to be the person
of all others to be reasonable, and unselfish, and logical where he is
concerned, even if it means separation for a _dozen_ years."
No answer. Stephen gazed blankly into space as if unconscious of her
words.
"_Oughtn't_ she?"
"Er--theoretically, Miss O'Shaughnessy, she _ought_!"
"Very well, then. I am proud that I _am_, and so ought you to be, too.
... It's strange how I'm misunderstood! My family say the same thing--
Esmeralda, Geoffrey, Stanor himself, and it hurts, for no one before has
ever doubted if I could love..." She was silent for a minute, twisting
her fingers together in restless fashion, then looking suddenly into his
face she asked: "What do you know about it to be so sure? Have _you_
ever been in love?"
Stephen flushed.
"Never. No. I was--My accident cut me off from all such things."
"What a pity! She would have helped you through." She smiled into his
eyes with a beautiful sweetness. "Well, Mr Glynn, if I am too
reasonable to please you, perhaps Stanor will make up for it. You
mayn't find it so easy to influence _him_."
"I'm sure of that. I look forward to a stiff time, but if you are on my
side we shall bring him round. Now perhaps I had better continue my way
to the house and see Mrs Hilliard. This is pre-eminently your
business, as you say, but still--"
"She'll expect it! Yes--" Pixie rose to her feet with an air of
depression--"and she'll _crow_! They'll _all_ crow! It's what they
wanted, and when you come and lay down an ultimatum, they'll rejoice and
triumph." Her small face assumed an aspect of acute dejection. "That's
the worst of being the youngest. ... It's a trying thing when your
family insist on sitting in committees about your own affairs, when you
understand them so much better yourself. I'm not even supposed to
understand the feelings of my own heart without a sister to translate
them for me. Shouldn't you think, now, a girl of twenty--nearly
twenty-one--is old enough to know that?"
"I don't think it is a foregone conclusion. More things than years go
to the formation of character, Miss O'Shaughnessy, and if you will allow
me to say so, you seem to me very young for your age."
"_I_ always was," sighed Pixie sadly. "They've said that all my life.
Some people always _are_ young, and some are old. There was a girl at
school, middle-aged at thirteen, poor creature, and had been from her
birth. My sister Bridgie will never be more than seventeen if she lives
to a hundred, and I mean myself to stick at twenty. It doesn't mean
trying to look younger than you are, or being ashamed of your age, and
silly, and frivolous: it's just keeping your _heart_ young!"
The man, who was young in years and old in heart, looked down at the
girl with a very sad smile. She spoke as if it were such an easy thing
to do: he knew by bitter experience that under such circumstances as his
own it was of all tasks the most difficult. To stand aside during the
best years; to see the tide of life rush by, and have no part in the
great enterprise; and then to regain his powers when youth had passed,
and the keen savour of youth had died down into a dull indifference; to
be dependent for love on the careless affection of a lad,--how was it
possible for a man to keep his heart warm in such circumstances as
these?
"Life has been kind to you," he answered dryly, and Pixie flung him a
quick retort--
"I have been kind to _it_! If I'd chosen I might have found it hard
enough. We were always poor. I never remember a time when I hadn't to
pretend and make up, because it was impossible to get what I wanted.
Then I was sent to school, and I hated going, and my father died when I
was away, and they told me the news with not a soul belonging to me
anywhere near, and I loved my father _far_ more than other girls love
theirs! ... Then we left Knock. ... If _you'd_ lived in a castle, and
gone to a villa in a street, with a parlour in front and a dining-room
behind looking out on the kitchen wall, _you_ wouldn't talk about life
being kind--!
"I was in France for years being educated, and not able to repine
because it was a friend and she'd taken me cheaply. Perhaps you'd say
that was luck, and an advantage, and it _was_, but all the same it's
hard on a young thing to have to enjoy herself in a foreign language,
and spend the holidays with a maiden lady and a snuffy old _Pere_,
because there wasn't enough money to come home. Yes," concluded Pixie,
with a smirk of satisfaction, "I've had my trials, and now I'm to be
crossed in love, and have my young lover rent from me. ... You couldn't
have the audacity to call life easy after that!"
Stephen tried valiantly to look sympathetic, but it was useless; he was
obliged to smile, and Pixie smiled with him, adding cheerily--
"Anyway, it's living! ... And I do love it when things happen. It's so
_dreadfully_ interesting to be alive."
The man who was old before his time looked down upon the girl with a
wistful glance. Small as she was, insignificant as she had appeared at
first sight, he had never seen any one more intensely, vitally alive.
Her tiny feet skimmed the ground, her tiny head reared itself jauntily
on the slender neck, the brilliance of her smile, the embracing
kindliness of her glance more than compensated for the plainness of her
features. Like most people who made the acquaintance of Pixie
O'Shaughnessy, Stephen Glynn was already beginning to fall under her
spell and marvel at the blindness of his first impression. She was
_not_ plain; she was _not_ insignificant; she was, on the contrary,
unusually fascinating and attractive!
"But she does not love him," Stephen repeated to himself. "She does not
know what love means. When she does--when she has grown into a woman,
and understands--what a wife, what a companion she will make!"