On the following afternoon Stephen Glynn failed to pay his daily visit
to the flat. After the revelation of the night before he had neither
the strength nor the courage to encounter Pixie anew. Little use to
shut the stable door after the steed had flown, but he must at least
have time to think, to face the future, and decide upon his own course.
And then at seven o'clock came the ring of the telephone, and Pixie's
voice speaking piteously in his ear--
"Is it you? You yourself? Oh, why didn't you come? I was waiting for
you. I wanted you. Pat's ill! He's ill, and he won't let me send for
the doctor. Oh, do come round!"
"I'm coming!" Stephen said, and hung up the receiver. Pixie wanted
him, that settled the matter. In half an hour's time his car stopped
before the entrance to the flat, and the chauffeur was bidden to wait
for further orders, while his master mounted the long flights of steps.
Pixie was seated beside the fire, and the glance of her eyes spoke of a
warning which he was quick to understand. Pat was not to suspect that
his friend had been summoned on his behalf. He turned towards the bed,
and said lightly--
"Sorry to be late, old man. How goes it? Tried the walking again?"
"This morning. Yes. But--" Pat shrugged wearily--"not since. Got a
head--"
Stephen looked at him critically. Bright eyes, flushed cheeks,
shortened breath, all the danger signals to the fore.
"Bit feverish, old man, that's the trouble! Exerting yourself too much
perhaps. Good thing I didn't come to tire you further. Get that doctor
fellow to give you something to cool you down, and give you a good
night's rest, and the little cherub will wake up bright as a button."
"Shan't!" Pat cried. "No more doctors! Sick of the sight of doctors!
What have doctors done for _me_? Chained here all these weeks, and
worse at the end! I can look after myself."
"Taken your temperature by any chance?"
"What's the good? Don't _you_ start worrying, Glynn! I've had enough
of it from Pixie. I'm not going to be worried with temperatures."
"Don't behave like a child, O'Shaughnessy. No one wants to worry you
with doctors if it can be helped. I don't wonder you are tired of them,
but you can't run risks. Take your temperature like a sensible fellow,
and if it's under a hundred, I'll leave you in peace. Otherwise I go
downstairs this minute and telephone for Braithey. Where's the
thermometer, Miss O'Shaughnessy? Now then, in with it!"
Pat scowled, but submitted. The glass tube was held between set lips,
and a silence ensued which Stephen made no effort to break. Pixie
waited expectantly for him to join her, but he kept his position by the
bed, without so much as turning his head in her direction. And upon
entering he had avoided her glance, had dropped her hand after the most
perfunctory, clasp, and last night he had gone away without even saying
good-night. ... She had offended him: certainly she must have offended
him, Pixie told herself, though _how_ she was unable to think. She
stared into the fire, feeling tired, and sad, and discouraged.
"Three minutes. Yes, that's enough. Let me see! I'm getting quite
clever with these puzzling things. Ye-es!" With a deft jerk of his
wrist Stephen shook the thermometer, and returned it to it's case.
"Slightly up! No escape for it, Pat. Braithey must come!"
"I won't see him. I won't see him if he comes! Look here, Glynn, it's
my affair! Leave me alone, there's a good fellow! I can look after
myself..."
Stephen walked steadily to the door.
"I'll take good care you don't. That's enough, Patrick, don't waste
your strength! I'm going downstairs to telephone, and if Braithey's at
home my car shall bring him round. It's waiting outside."
He disappeared, and the storm burst over Pixie's head, but she bore it
meekly, with a kind of stunned acceptance. _Everything_ seemed going
wrong! The sunny harmony of the last ten days had suddenly changed to
gloom. Pixie's thoughts made a lightning review of those different
days. How perfectly, incredibly happy they had been! Until this moment
she had not fully realised their perfection.
"Ah, now, Pat, stop! Don't worry, boy! It's not my head! ... Wait
till to-morrow and you'll be better than ever, and think of the trouble
it'll give you to apologise. ... It's because we _care_!"
"Wish to goodness you didn't then," cried the impenitent one. However
he might wish to apologise to-morrow, he was in no mood to begin
to-night, but the pain in his head was so acute that by sheer exhaustion
he was forced into silence.
Stephen did not return as had been expected after sending his telephone
message. He preferred, it appeared, to go on the car, and personally
bring back the doctor, and half an hour later the two men entered the
room together. Then ensued the usual tapping and sounding, the enforced
reiteration of "Ah-ah!" the feeling of the pulse, the ignominious
presentation of the tongue. Pat went through the performance with the
air of a martyr at the stake, sank back against the pillow when it was
over, and hunched himself beneath the clothes.
"That's right! That's right! Lie still and rest. We'll soon have you
all right again. Have a little nap if you can, while I give Miss
O'Shaughnessy my instructions in the er--er--"
Doctor Braithey reminded himself in time that there _was_ no second
sitting-room, and concluded grandiloquently--"in the hall!"
They went out into the tiny passage, and Stephen and Pixie waited for
the verdict.
"Well! The right lung is touched. He has taken a chill. Now we must
see what we can do to prevent it from going farther."
He cast an inquiring glance at Pixie.
"D'you know anything about poulticing?"
"Yes, everything! I've helped my sister with her children, and I
brought the things..."
"That's well! Poultice him then, a fresh one every two hours. Here!
You understand, in this position," he tapped himself in illustration.
"I'll send in medicines, and we'll see how he is to-morrow morning. If
he is no better you'll need help. We'll see about that when I call."
A few more words and he was gone, racing down the long stairway, while
Stephen lingered behind with an air of uncertainty.
"I--suppose I can be of no use! Pat ought to be quiet, and I'm no hand
at poulticing. You are sure you can manage alone?"
Pixie nodded, struggling with a lump in her throat. _Why_ wouldn't he
stay? Why did he so obviously not _want_ to stay?
"I can. It will be all right. Moffatt will help me."
"And to-morrow ... to-morrow you must get a nurse!"
"No!" cried Pixie with sudden energy, "I will not. I'll have no
stranger. I'll have Bridgie." Her heart swelled at the sound of the
beloved name; she felt a helpless longing to cast herself on that
faithful breast. "Bridgie must come. There's no room for a nurse in
this tiny place. Bridgie could share my room."
"We'll telegraph for her," Glynn said. "I will come round after
breakfast, and if Pat is not quite himself, I'll telegraph at once. She
could be with you by tea-time."
He was kind and considerate. He was thoughtful for her comfort, ready
to help by deed as well as word. Pixie could not explain to herself
wherein lay the want, but the reality of it gnawed at her heart, and
darkened still further the hours of that long, anxious night.
Despite poultices, despite medicine, there was no doubt even to Pixie's
inexperienced eyes that Pat was worse the next morning. His breathing
was heavier, he was hotter, more restless. Without waiting for Stephen
she sent the little maid to telephone to the doctor, and through the
same medium dispatched a summoning wire to Bridgie in her northern home.
The succeeding hours were filled with a nightmare-like struggle against
odds which palpably increased with every hour. Stephen came in and out,
turned himself into a messenger to obtain everything that was needed,
sent round a hamper of cooked dainties which would provide the small
household for days to come, drove to the station to meet Bridgie and
bring her to the flat, and oh! the joy, the relief, the blessed
consciousness of help, which came to nurse and patient alike at the
sight of that sweet, fair face! In one minute Bridgie had shed her hat
and coat, in the second moment she was scorching herself by the fire, to
remove all trace of chill before she approached the bedside, in the
third she was sitting beside it--calm, sweet, capable, with the air of
having been there since the beginning of time, and intending to stay
until the end.
For the next few days Pat had a sharp struggle for his life. Pneumonia
clutched him in its grip, and the sound of his painful breathing was
heard all over the little flat. There was a dreadful night when hope
was well-nigh extinguished, when Stephen Glynn and the two sisters
seemed to wrestle with the very angel of death, and Pat himself to face
the end. "Shall I--die?" he gasped, and Bridgie's answering smile
seemed to hold an angelic sweetness.
"I hope not, dear lad. There's so much work for you to do down here,
but if you do--it's going home! Mother's there, and the Major! They'll
welcome you!"
But Pat was young, and the love of life was strong within him. He had
loved his parents, but still more at that moment he loved the thought of
his work. He fought for his life, and the fight was hard.
Into most lives there comes at times such a night as this; a night of
dark, illimitable hours, a night when the world and all its concerns
withdraws itself to unmeasurable distance, and the division between life
and the eternal grows thin and faint. _Would Pat live to see the
morning_? That was the question which to his sisters overwhelmed every
other thought. Afterwards, looking back, Pixie could recall certain
incidents registered by the sub-conscious self. Being gently forced
into a chair; being fed with cups of something hot and nourishing,
placed suddenly in her hands by Stephen Glynn, always by Stephen, who
seemed by his actions to regard her as a secondary invalid, to be tended
with tenderest care. Once, becoming suddenly conscious of his presence,
as she stood in the kitchen preparing some necessary for the sick man, a
growing fear burst into words, and she asked him pitifully--_how_
pitifully she herself could never know--
"Was it _my fault_? Was there _anything_ I could have done?"
"No, dear," he said simply. "It is not your fault."
Pixie was certain that he had said "dear." The rhythm of it remained in
her ears, that, and the deep gentleness of his tone. He had been sorry
for her, _so_ sorry! And he was so much older, and he was Stanor's
uncle. Why should he not say "dear?"
Short and sharp was the attack, but by God's mercy the crisis passed,
and brought relief. Weak as a child, but peaceful and quiet, Pat slept,
and took his first steps back towards life.
At last the danger was over, and Pat's natural vigour of constitution
made the convalescence unusually quick, but even when he was
comparatively well again, Bridgie refused in an altogether amazing and
unprecedented manner to return to her beloved home. She suggested not
once, but many times in succession, that Pixie should return in her
place to take the head of the household, but here Pat grew obstinate in
his turn.
No! Pixie had had all the dull work of nursing; he was not going to
allow her to return until she had had some fun. And when he began to go
out for walks, pray, who was going to accompany him, if Pixie went away?
"You'd be off after her, the moment you saw me on my feet. Don't deny
it, for I know better!" Pat declared, and Bridgie blushed, and did not
deny it. Already she was pining for Dick and the children; already
counting the hours to her return, _but_...
Movement was evidently in the air; perhaps it was caused by the bright,
spring days which had replaced the former gloom. Pat on his bed
discussed a possible holiday before returning to work. "It might hurry
things," he said. "What do you say, Pixie, seaside or country? Must go
somewhere where there's something to _do_! Winter garden, concerts,
bands, people to look at. I want to be amused. We'll have a week
somewhere, and blow expense. You might come too, Glynn, and bring the
car."
Glynn was sitting in his usual place beside the fire; Bridgie was by the
bed; Pixie prone on the hearthrug. During the last few days the invalid
had been sufficiently strong to enjoy the society of his fellows, had
even called upon Pixie to sing, and had apparently greatly enjoyed the
hearing, though Bridgie seemed for once unappreciative, and had
discouraged further efforts. Now his mind had turned on to holidays,
and he had made this direct appeal to Stephen, which seemed to find
scant favour from two out of the three hearers.
Bridgie frowned, and stared at the carpet; Stephen's pale face showed a
discomfited flush.
"You shall have the car with pleasure. It shall take you wherever you
decide to go, and be at your service for as long as you please, but for
myself, I must get home. I--I am not usually in town for so long at a
time. There are several things waiting attention which should not be
delayed. I must get back..."
There was a dead silence, while each one of the three hearers realised
the futility of the excuse. Stephen's estate was in the hands of a
capable agent: an extra week's absence could make little difference;
moreover, previous statements had made it plain that he had originally
intended to stay for some considerable time in town. Plain, therefore,
as print, and impossible to misunderstand was the fact that he did not
_want_ to accompany his friends on their holiday; that in addition he
did not for the moment desire more of their company in town.
Bridgie raised her head: she was smiling, a bright, unaffected,
_relieved-looking_ smile.
"There's no end to the work on a big estate. The Major--my father--used
to say that every man was his own best bailiff, though he made a fine
muddle of it himself, poor darling! But my brother Jack agrees with
him. He's educated Miles to look after the Irish property, and so does
Geoffrey Hilliard. ... It's true he is away half his time--"
At the best of times Bridgie was scarcely a special pleader, and to-day
she seemed no sooner to make a statement than she contradicted it
straight away. She mumbled vaguely, and relapsed into silence.
"Of course we won't take your car. You will need it for your business
excursions!" Pat said icily. "We are very much indebted to you for
letting us have the use of it here. It's been of great service, hasn't
it, Pixie?"
"It has! I don't know what we'd have done without it. We _are_
grateful," agreed Pixie warmly. Her voice out of all the four was the
only one which rang true; her eyes smiled across the room with
unembarrassed friendliness. Nevertheless Bridgie, looking on, felt a
cramp of pain. How much older Pixie had grown in appearance! The lines
of strain and repression over which she had sighed more than once before
now had surely deepened during the last weeks! Anxiety, no doubt, the
strain of nursing--Bridgie comforted herself as best she might, but no
explanation could take away the pang which the mother heart feels at the
sight of pain on a young face!
"Come, Pixie," she said, rising, "we'll make tea! I promised Pat potato
cakes as soon as the doctor allowed them, and that's to-day. We'll have
a feast!--"
"Leave them to themselves," she said confidingly to Pixie when the
kitchen was reached. "They'll shake down better without us. Pat's
fractious; he always was from a child when he was crossed, but the
potato cakes will soothe him. I'm sorry for Mr Glynn. Really, you
know, dear, Pat's _exacting_!"
"'Deed he is. It's no wonder he is tired of it." Bridgie needed no
explanation as to the significance of that second he. "He's been
fussing about us for weeks, and now he'll go home and rest. It's a good
thing! Will I mash the potatoes for you, Bridgie?"
"Thank you, darling," said Bridgie humbly, but her face remained
troubled. Once more, and with all her heart, she wished that Pixie were
safe at home.
The rumble of men's voices could be heard from the kitchen--an amicable
rumble it appeared to be, though with mysterious breaks from time to
time. Bridgie bustled in, tea-tray in hand, in the middle of one of
these breaks, and surprised a look of sadness on each face. She decided
that Stephen was to depart forthwith, but such was not the case, since
over tea he alluded to an old promise to take Pixie to the Temple, and
included Bridgie in an invitation for the following Sunday.
"And then I must be off--on Monday--or--or perhaps on Tuesday," he said
vaguely. "One day next week."
"I leave on Monday too," said Bridgie, and ate her potato cake with
recovered zest.