That evening Pat showed early signs of fatigue, and requested Bridgie to
settle him for the night, bidding the while so marked a farewell to
Pixie that she had no alternative but to retire forthwith to her own
room. Truth to tell she was not sorry, for sleep had been an uncertain
quantity of late, and the prospect of a long undisturbed night was
agreeable. She dallied over her undressing, and when Bridgie joined her
half an hour later, sat perched upon the bed, dressing-gowned, her hands
clasped round her knees, watching with admiring eyes the picture of her
sweet-faced sister seated before the dressing-table engaged in brushing
out her long fair hair.
"You've a fine head of hair, me dear! It's wearing well. ... D'you
remember the day you and Esmeralda had the trick played on you about
going to bed, and sat up half the night brushing and combing to tire out
the other?"
"I do so," answered Bridgie, but it was but a faint smile which she gave
to the memory of that youthful joke. She parted her hair with a sweep
of the brush, and gazing at her sister between the long gold strands
said suddenly, and earnestly, "Pixie!"
"Me dear?"
"There's something I want to say. ... To-morrow Mr Glynn will be here.
Pat's asked him to come back after church. He is going away on Monday,
so it will be the last time. Be _careful_, darling! Think what you're
about. You don't want to be unkind--"
Pixie stared--a stunned, incredulous stare.
"Unkind! To _him_! Are you raving? What am I to be careful about?"
"Oh--oh--_everything_!" Bridgie's breath came in a gasp of
helplessness. It had been difficult to speak, but a sense of duty had
driven her on, and now it was too late to stop. "Don't--don't talk to
him so much. Don't look at him." (Did Pixie realise how instinctively
her eyes sought Stephen's for sympathy and appreciation?) "Don't sit by
the fire and sing."
A flush spread over Pixie's cheek; her eyes widened.
"_Why_? Doesn't he like it? Isn't it _nice_?"
"Oh-oh, _Pixie_!" cried Bridgie helplessly. A vision rose before her of
a little figure in a rose-coloured gown, of the firelight playing on the
upturned face. She heard again, the deep crooning notes which filled
the room with sweetness. To herself, a sister, the picture was full of
charm--what must it be to a lonely man, in love for the first time in
thirty-five years? She rose from her chair and came across to the bed:
face to face, within the stretch of an arm, the sisters waited in
silence, while the clock on the mantelpiece ticked out a long minute.
"Pixie," whispered Bridgie breathlessly, "_don't you know_?"
"What?"
"Don't you know, Pixie, that he loves you?"
"Who loves me?"
"Stephen Glynn. Oh, Pixie, didn't you see?"
The colour faded from Pixie's face; she threw out her hand as if to ward
off a threatened danger. There was a note almost of anger in her
reply--
"It's not true; it's not! It couldn't be true. ... He care for me!
For Me! You're mad, Bridgie! You're dreaming! There's nothing..."
"Oh, Pixie, there _is_! I saw it the first evening. I'd have spoken
before, but Pat was so ill. Then I tried--you know how. I tried!--to
send you away. I knew that every day was making it harder for him, more
difficult to forget. I was so _sorry_ for him! Pixie, he is
thirty-five, and has suffered so much. It's hard on a man when he gets
to that age, and--"
"_Don't_!" cried Pixie sharply. She thrust out her hand once more, and
cowered as if from a blow. "Bridgie, I can't bear it! Don't torture
me, Bridgie. ... It _isn't_ true! You are making it up. Ah, Bridgie,
it's because you love me yourself that you think every one must do the
same! He's--Stanor's uncle ... Pat's friend--he was just kind like
other friends. ... He never said a word ... looked a look." Suddenly,
unexpectedly the blood flared in her face as memory took her back to the
hour when she stood at the door of the flat and watched Stephen's abrupt
descent down the flagged stairway. "Oh, Bridgie, are ye sure? Are ye
_sure_? How are ye sure? It's so easy to be deceived! Bridgie, you've
no _right_ to say it if you are not sure. I don't believe you! Nothing
could make me believe unless he said--"
"Pixie, he has said!" The words fell from Bridgie's lips as though in
opposition to her judgment she were compelled to speak them. "Pat was
hurt that he was going; he reproached him to-night after we left; they
had a discussion about it, and he said Stephen Glynn said that he
daren't stay, he daren't see more of you. ... Pat does not think he
meant to say it, it just--said itself! And afterwards he set his lips,
and put on his haughty air, and turned the conversation, and Pat dared
not say another word. But he had said enough. ... His face! ... his
voice! ... Pat did not believe he could feel so much. He cares
desperately, Pixie."
Pixie sat motionless--so silent, so motionless, that not a breath seemed
to stir her being. Bridgie waited, her face full of motherly
tenderness, but the silence was so long, so intense, that by degrees the
tenderness changed into anxiety. It was unlike emotional Pixie to face
any crisis of life in silence; the necessity to express herself had ever
been her leading characteristic, so that lack of expression was of all
things the most startling, in her sister's estimation. She stretched
out her hand, and laid it on the bowed shoulder with a firm,
strengthening touch.
"Pixie! Look up! Speak to me! What are you thinking, dear?"
Pixie raised her face, a set face, which to the watching eyes seemed
apiece with the former silence. There seemed _no_ expression on it; it
was a lifeless mask which had been swept of expression. As the blank
eyes looked into her own and the lips mechanically moved, Bridgie had
the sensation of facing a stranger in the place of the beloved little
sister.
"I am honoured!" said Pixie flatly. "I am honoured!"
She rose slowly from the bed, moving stiffly as though the mere physical
effort were a strain, and passing by Bridgie's inviting arms walked over
to the dressing-table and began to loosen her own hair.
"You have finished, Bridgie? I'm not in your way?" she asked quietly,
and Bridgie faltered a weak "No!" and felt that the world was coming to
an end.
Pixie silent; Pixie dignified; Pixie quietly but unmistakably holding
her sister and guardian at arm's length, this was an experience
petrifying in its unexpectedness! She had not spoken on the impulse of
a moment; for days past she had been nerving herself to open Pixie's
eyes. At the bottom of her heart had lain a dawning hope that such an
opening might not be in vain, for Pixie had never really loved Stanor
Vaughan. At the time of their engagement she had not even understood
what love meant; during the years of their separation there had been
nothing but an occasional letter to preserve his image in her mind, and
when the allotted two years were over, Stanor himself had voluntarily
extended his exile. Bridgie set her lips as she recalled a fact so
hurtful to her sister's dignity. She heard again Pat's voice, echoing
the sentiments of her own heart. "Tell her, Bridgie! She ought to
know. He's worth a thousand of that other fellow. Don't let her throw
away the substance for the shadow."
So she had spoken, and a new Pixie--a Pixie she had never even imagined
in dreams--had listened, and made her reply. "I am honoured!" she had
said, and straightway, sweetly, courteously, irrevocably, had closed the
subject.
Bridgie bent her head and plaited her hair in the two long ropes which
made her nightly coiffure. She was thankful of the employment, thankful
of an excuse to hide her face; she listened to the ticking of the clock
upon the mantelpiece and asked herself what she should do next. The
incredible had come to pass, and she, Bridgie, sister, guardian, married
woman, mother of a family, was nervous in Pixie's presence! Not for any
bribe that could have been offered would she have ventured to hint at
that hope which she and Pat had shared in common.
Suddenly through the little flat rang the sound of the postman's knock.
The last of the many deliveries of the day had arrived, and Bridgie
peeping out of the door spied a couple of white envelopes prone on the
mat. She crept out to get them, thankful of the diversion, and was
overjoyed to behold on one her husband's writing.
"One for me, Pixie, and one for you--an enclosure forwarded from home.
I'm so glad to get mine. It's nice for the postmen in London to have
Sundays free, but we country people _do_ miss letters," she said glibly,
as she handed Pixie her share of the spoil, and seated herself in the
one comfortable chair which the room afforded, to enjoy to the full the
welcome message from home.
Perhaps Dick had divined the double anxiety which was burdening his
wife, perhaps he realised how long she would feel a Sunday without news,
perhaps out of his own loneliness had arisen a need for words--in any
case, that special letter was the longest and, to Bridgie's heart, the
dearest which she had received since her departure from home. He told
her of the children, and of their latest sayings; he told her of himself
and his work; he comforted her, where she needed comfort, cheered her,
where she needed cheer, called her by the sweet love names which she
most loved to hear, and held before her eyes the prospect of a swift
return. And Bridgie reading that letter thanked God for the thousandth
time, because on her--undeserving--had been bestowed the greatest gift
which a woman can receive--the gift of a faithful love!
Ten minutes had passed before she had read and re-read her precious
letter, but when she turned her head it was to find Pixie standing in
the same position as that in which she had seen her last, gazing down
upon a sheet of paper on which a few short lines were written in a
masculine writing. At Bridgie's movement she raised her head, and spoke
in a curiously low, level voice--
"It is from Stanor. He has sailed for home. Honor Ward and a party of
friends were crossing, and he decided at the last moment to come with
them. We shall see him on Thursday next."