"I'll stay! I'd like to, if you will just excuse me one moment while I
telephone to my man. You have a telephone, I think, in the basement?"
Pixie shuddered.
"They have; in an ice-box, where every draught that was ever born whirls
around your feet, and if you speak loud enough, every maid in the place
will hear what you say. It's quite diverting to listen!"
Stephen went off laughing, and Pixie shook up Pat's pillows, bathed his
hands, and kissed him several times on the tip of his nose, a proceeding
which he considered offensive to his dignity, and then went off to
change the crushable velvet skirt for a house dress of her favourite
rose hue--a quaint little garment made in a picturesque style, which had
no connection whatever with the prevailing fashion. When she returned
to the sitting-room she seated herself on the floor beside the fire, and
Pat, now entirely restored to equanimity and a little ashamed of his
previous ill-humour, himself inquired about the morning's experiences.
Like all the O'Shaughnessys he was intensely musical, and during his
sojourn in London had taken every opportunity to hear all the good
concerts within reach. He now wanted to hear about the music in the
Abbey, and especially of the anthem, and at the mention of it Pixie drew
a deep sigh of enjoyment.
"Oh, Pat, a boy sang `Oh, for the wings'! If you could have heard it!--
A clear, clear voice, so thrillingly sweet, soaring away up to that
wonderful roof. And he sang with such feeling." ... She began softly
humming the air, and Stephen knew then for a certainty whence had come
those rich, soft notes which had come to his ears in the Abbey.
"Sing it, Pixie, sing it!" cried Pat impatiently. "You promised, and
it's one of my favourites. Go on; I'll accompany!"
Stephen looked round inquiringly. No piano was in the room, no musical
instrument of any kind, and Pat lay helpless upon his bed. How, then,
could he accompany? The O'Shaughnessy ingenuity had, however, overcome
greater difficulties than this, and it was not the first time by many
that Pat had hummed an effective and harmonious background to his
sister's songs. As for Pixie, she opened her mouth and began to sing as
simply and naturally as a bird. She had a lovely voice, mezzo-soprano
in range, and though she now kept it sweetly subdued, the hearer
realised that it had also considerable power. She sang as all true
singers do--as if the action gave to herself the purest joy, her head
tilted slightly on one side, as if to listen more intently to each
clear, sweet note as it fell from her lips. ... "_Oh, for the wings,
for the wings of a dove; far away, far away would I roam_." ... The
words blotted out for the hearers the gathering twilight in the prosaic
little room; far away, far away soared their thoughts to heights lofty
and beautiful. "_In the wilderness build me a nest, and remain there
for ever at rest_." ... How had so young a thing learnt to put so
wonderful a meaning into that last word? Pat's rolling accompaniment
swelled and sank; now and again for a phrase he softly joined in the
words, and in the concluding phrase still another voice joined in in a
soft tenor note agreeable to hear.
Pixie's eyes met Stephen's with a glow of triumph. "He _sings_!" she
cried quickly. "Pat, he sings--pure tenor! Oh, what music we can have,
what trios! Isn't it delightful? You can have real concerts now, old
man, without leaving the flat!"
"It was a very beautiful solo, Miss O'Shaughnessy," said Stephen
gravely. He was still too much under the influence of the strain to
think of future events. As long as he lived he would remember to-day's
experience, and see before him the picture of Pixie O'Shaughnessy in her
rose frock, with the firelight shining on her face. Her unconsciousness
had added largely to the charm of the moment, but now that the tension
was relaxed there was a distinct air of complacence in her reply.
"'Tis a gift; we all have it. The concerts we had at Knock, and every
one playing a separate instrument, with not a thing to help us but our
own hands! I was the flute. D'ye remember, Pat, the way I whistled a
flute till ye all stopped to listen to me?"
"I do not," said Pat. "I was the 'cello myself, fiddling with a ruler
on me own knees, double pedalling with _two_ knees! I had no thought
for flutes. Ye made the most noise, I'll say that for ye!"
As usual in any discussion, brother and sister fell back to the brogue
of their youth, which time and absence had softened to just an agreeable
hint of an Irish accent. Stephen smiled with amusement, and expressed a
wish to hear the exhibition on another day.
"But do sing us something else now," he said; "something worthy to come
after `The Wings.'"
And for the next hour, while the light waned till they could no longer
see one another across the room, Pixie sang one beautiful strain after
another, always in the same soft, restrained voice, which could neither
disturb the neighbours above or below, nor be too strong for the size of
the little room. It was not show singing--rather was it a series of
"tryings over," prefaced by "Oh, do you know this?" or "Don't you love
that bit?" so that each man felt at liberty to join in as the impulse
took him, till at times all three were singing together.
The hours sped by with wonderful quickness, and when tea-time arrived
Stephen insisted upon his right to help his hostess to clear away the
meal, and when they returned to the sitting-room, lo! Pat had fallen
asleep, and there was nothing to do for it but to return to the kitchen,
now immaculately clean and neat under the rule of the admirable Moffatt.
"We might as well begin to think about supper, and forage around," Pixie
suggested, but Stephen echoed her own dislike of thinking of meals too
far ahead, and pled for delay.
"It's rather a strain to sit and look at cold meat for a solid hour at a
stretch, don't you think?" he asked persuasively. "It would spoil my
appetite. Can't we just--be quiet?"
"You can," was Pixie's candid answer; "I'm going to write! I've the
greediest family for letters; do as I will, there's never a time when
somebody isn't grumbling! Never mind me, if you want to smoke; I
approve of men smoking, it keeps them quiet. Can I get you a book?"
Stephen shook his head. Pat's library did not appeal to his more
literary taste, and he announced himself content without further
employment.
"Oh, well then, _talk_! It won't disturb me," said Pixie easily; "I'll
just listen or not, according as it's interesting. I'm accustomed to it
with Bridgie. If you want to set her tongue going, just sit down and
begin to write..."
Stephen, however, had no intention of taking advantage of the
permission. He was abundantly content to sit in his comfortable chair,
enjoy his novel surroundings (how very cheerful and attractive a _clean_
kitchen could be!) smoke his cigarette, and watch Pixie scribbling at
fever pace over innumerable pages of notepaper. There were frequent
snatches of conversation, but invariably it was Pixie herself who led
the way.
"D'you illustrate your letters when you write them?" she asked at one
time. "I always do! Realistic, you know, and saves time. At this
present moment--" she drew back from the table, screwing up one eye, and
holding aloft her pen in truly professional fashion--"I'm drawing
_You_!"
"May I see?"
"You may. ... It's not _quite_ right about the chair legs, they get so
mixed up. Perspective never was my strong point," said Pixie, holding
out a sheet and pointing to the masterpiece in question with the end of
her pen. "There!"
Stephen looked and beheld a rough drawing of a preternaturally thin man,
with preternatural large eyes, holding a cigarette in a hand joined to
an arm which had evidently suffered severe dislocation. It was the type
of drawing affected by schoolboys and girls, yet it had a distinct
cleverness of its own. Despite the cart-wheel eyes and the skeleton
frame there _was_ a resemblance--there was more than a resemblance, it
was actually _like_, and Stephen acclaimed the fact by a shout of
laughter.
"I say! Could I have it? It's uncommonly good!"
Pixie shook her head.
"It's for Bridgie.--Ye notice the mouth? Did you know it twisted when
you thought? Aren't they _nice_, narrow boots? I'll do one for you
another day. ... Turn over the page! There's another of Pat, as he
will look at the supper to-night."
The second drawing was even rougher than the first, but again the
faculty for hitting off a likeness was displayed, for Pat, reclining on
a bed sloping at a perilous angle towards the floor, gazed at a fragment
of mutton-bone with drooping lids and peaking brows, which represented
so precisely his expression when injured, that Stephen shouted once
again.
"_Succes fou_!" commented Pixie jauntily, as she settled herself once
more to her work. "Quite a gift, haven't I? Couldn't do pretties to
save my life, but I _can_ caricature! Now, please, _do_ be quiet! I
must get on..."
Half an hour later a loud rapping on the wall announced the awakening of
the invalid, who was once more discovered in a fractious mood.
"Asleep! Nonsense! For two minutes, perhaps. How d'you suppose _any_
fellow could sleep, with you two shrieking with laughter every two
minutes! If you choose to keep your jokes to yourself, all right, it's
nothing to me; but it's half-past seven. ... Where's supper?"
Even as he spoke another rap sounded on the front door--a brisk,
imperative rap which brooked no delay. Pixie darted forward, imagining
a surprise visit from the doctor, and found herself confronted by a man
in black, standing sentinel over a hamper.
"Mr O'Shaughnessy's flat, madam? I have instructions from Mr Glynn--"
"All right, Saunders, bring it in, bring it in!" cried Stephen quickly.
He met Pixie's eyes, flushed, and stammered--
"It's ... supper!" he said lamely. "I telephoned. It seemed a good
plan, and I thought that, Pat.--Do you _mind_?"
"_Mind_!" repeated Pixie, laughing. "Faith I do! I mind very much; but
it's the right way about; it won't be cold mutton, after all! I'll have
to draw another picture."
The man carried the hamper into the sitting-room, unpacked it deftly,
and laid the contents on the table. Soup, smoking hot from a thermos
flask, chicken and salad, a shape of cream, and a fragrant pineapple.
Pat's lips ceased to droop, his eyebrows to peak: his dark eyes lit with
enjoyment.
"Good old Glynn!" he cried. "What a great idea! Now let's begin, and
eat right through..."
As he took part in the happy meal which followed, Stephen Glynn
reflected that generosity in giving went also with generosity in
receiving. Pat and his sister would cheerfully give away their last
penny to a friend in need. It never occurred to them to show less
readiness to accept when it came to their own turn. Never was a
surprise more happily planned; never was a surprise more heartily
enjoyed.