As soon as Pat had sufficiently recovered, he and Pixie travelled to
Ireland to spend a few weeks in the old homestead, now blooming in fresh
beauty under the management of Jack O'Shaughnessy and Sylvia his wife.
The great hall which had been of old so bare and desolate was now
embellished with Turkey carpets and tapestried walls: so far as the eye
could reach there was not one shabby, nor broken, nor patched-up
article; in sight; the damp and fusty odour which had filled the great
drawing-room, and which for years had been associated with State
apartments in Pixie's youthful mind, was a thing of the past. Even in
the chilliest weather the room remained warm, for electric radiators,
cunningly hidden from sight, dispelled the damp, and were kept turned on
night and day, "whether they were needed, or whether they were not," to
the delight and admiration of the Irish staff. For pure extravagance,
for pure pagan delight in extravagance, the Irishman _and_ woman are
hard to beat. The very warmth and generosity of their nature makes it
abhorrent to them to stint in any direction, which is one reason, out of
many, for the prevailing poverty of the land.
Jack and Sylvia made delightful hosts, and it was a very happy and a
very merry quartette which passed those spring days together in Knock
Castle. They were complete in themselves, and any suggestion of "a
party" was instantly vetoed by the visitors, who announced their desire
to remain "just as we are."
Sylvia and Pixie rode or drove about the country, pulling up every half
mile or so to chat with cottagers, who were all eager to see Miss Pixie,
to invoke blessings on her head, and--begging her honour's pardon!--to
sigh a sigh for the memory of the times that were no more.
On frequent occasions this same curious, and to English-bred Sylvia,
inexplicable regret for the days of old was manifested by the dwellers
on the country-side. "_What did they want_?" she asked herself
impatiently. "What could they wish for that had not already been done?"
Repaired cottages, improved sanitation, higher wages, perquisites
without number--since the new reign all these things had been bestowed
upon these ungratefuls, and still they dared to regret the past!
Sylvia had not yet grasped the fact that her birth and upbringing made a
chasm between herself and her tenants which no kindness could span.
They would burn her peat, waste her food, accept, and more or less waste
again, all that she chose to bestow, but given a choice between the
present days of plenty and the lean, bare years of the reign of the
jovial "Major" and his brood, they would enthusiastically have acclaimed
the latter's return.
Occasionally something of the same spirit would manifest itself in the
O'Shaughnessys themselves, as when Jack's voice would take on an
apologetic tone in telling his brother of some improvement in the
estate, or Pixie gazing at the old Persian carpet in the dining-room
would sigh regretfully, "There _used_ to be a hole!" On such occasions
Sylvia was sometimes forced to depart on a visit to the nursery and
relieve her feelings by a stamp _en route_. When she returned Jack's
twinkling eyes would search her face, and he would take an early
opportunity of passing her chair and touching her with a caressing hand,
and once more all would be peace and joy.
Jack and his wife heard from Pat's lips all details as to Stanor Vaughan
and his approaching marriage, but to Pixie herself the subject was never
mentioned.
"Anyway, she's not fretting!" said Jack. "Never saw her brighter and
happier. Bless her big, little heart! I'm thankful the fellow has
taken himself out of her way. She'd never have given him up of her own
accord. We've all been so happy in our marriages that we can't stand
any second-bests for Pixie! When are _you_ going to settle down, old
chap?"
"Oh, about next June year," replied Pat calmly. "Always said I would
about twenty-eight. Nice time of year, too, for a honeymoon!"
"But ... but..." Jack stammered in surprise. "Have you met the girl?"
"My good man! Dozens! There's no difficulty there. Faith, I love them
all!" sighed handsome Pat.
Well, it was a happy holiday, but there was no sadness when it came to
an end, for Pat was ready and eager to get back to work, and Pixie to
the northern town which meant Bridgie and home. Brother and sister
parted with mutual protestations of gratitude and appreciation, and with
several quite substantial castles in the air as regards future meetings,
and within a few days both had settled down to the routine of ordinary
life.
"Pixie is just the same. All this business has not altered her at all,"
Captain Victor said to his wife, and Bridgie smiled at him, the same
sort of loving, indulgent smile which she bestowed on her small son when
he guilelessly betrayed his ignorance.
_She_ knew that Pixie _had_ altered, felt the alteration every day of
her life, in a subtle, indefinite manner which had escaped the masculine
observation. There was a certain expression which in quiet moments had
been wont to settle on the young face, an expression of repression and
strain, which now appeared to have departed for good, a certain reserve
in touching upon any subject connected with love and marriage, which was
now replaced by eager interest and sympathy. Gradually, also, as the
months rolled on there came moments when a very radiance of happiness
shone out of the grey eyes, and trilled in the musical voice. The time
of Stephen Glynn's visit was drawing near; another week, and he would
actually arrive. What would be the result of that visit? Bridgie could
not tell. In a matter so important she dared not take any definite
role, but in her prayers that week she implored the Divine Father to
send to the dearly loved little sister that which He in His wisdom knew
to be _best_.
And then, as usual, Pixie did the unexpected thing. The sisters were
sitting together at tea the day before Stephen was expected, when
suddenly she looked across the room, and said as quietly and naturally
as if she had been asking the time--
"Do ye think now, Bridgie, that he will ask me to marry him?"
Bridgie started. Up to her cheeks flew the red. It was she who was
embarrassed, she who stammered and crumbled the hem of the tablecloth.
"My dear, I don't know! How should I? How can I possibly know?"
"I didn't ask you if you knew. I asked if you _thought_."
"I--don't know what to think. ... I know what he _wants_! But he is so
sensitive, so humble about himself. He thinks he is too old, and ...
and his lameness--he exaggerates things all round. From what he said to
me in that letter--"
"That letter you wouldn't show me?"
"Yes. I couldn't, Pixie! It was in confidence, and besides, he said
nothing _definite_. It was only inferred. It's just because he
idealises you so much that he thinks he is not worthy. No one can tell
what a man will do when it comes to the time, but what he _means_ to do
is evidently--to say nothing!"
"Oh!" said Pixie. She nibbled a fragment of cake for a thoughtful
moment, and then said calmly--
"So now I know. Thank you, Bridgie. _Please_ don't say any more!"
"No, darling, no, I won't; only please just one thing--it has puzzled me
so much, and I have longed to know. ... There's never been any reserve
between us--you have confided in me so openly all your life till just
these last years. _Why_ didn't you tell me you were unhappy about
Stanor?"
"How could I, me dear, when I might be his wife? It wouldn't have been
loyal. And it wasn't unhappiness exactly, only--a weight. I was
_trying_ to keep on loving him, and hating myself for finding it
difficult, but I knew if he came back loving me, and wanting me to help
him, the weight would go. But you see, he didn't!"
"Pixie, dear, one should not need to _try_. That sort of love ought to
feel no strain."
"If Stanor had needed me, I should have married him," Pixie said
obstinately, "but he didn't, and, me dear, excuse me! It's not the most
agreeable subject. ... Let's talk of something else."
The next day Stephen Glynn arrived, and put up at an hotel. An
agricultural show which was being held in the town made an excuse for
his visit; it also made a vantage ground for daily excursions, and gave
opportunities of securing _tete-a-tete_ to those anxious to do so.
Pixie was conscious that several such opportunities had in Stephen's
case been of intent ignored and allowed to pass by, but never once did
she doubt the motive which prompted such neglect. From the moment of
their meeting the consciousness of his love had enveloped her. He might
set a seal on his lips, but he could not control his eyes, and the
wistfulness of that glance made Pixie brave.
Almost the first opportunity for undisturbed conversation came on the
afternoon of the third day, when Stephen paid an unexpected call at the
house to propose an expedition for the evening, and found Pixie alone.
She was sitting writing in the pretty, flower-decked room, where the
French window opened wide to the garden beyond. It was only a mite of a
garden, not big enough for even a tennis-court, but so much love and
ingenuity had been lavished on its arrangement that it had an
astonishing air of space. The flower-covered trellis at the end had an
air of being there because it chose, and not in the least because it
marked an arbitrary division of land. The one big tree made an oasis of
shade, and had a low circular seat round its trunk, and the flowers
bloomed in grateful recognition of favours bestowed.
There are points in which the small garden has a pull over the large.
Its owner can, for instance, remember just how many blooms a special
plant afforded last summer, and feel a glow of pride in the extra two of
the present season; she can water them herself, tie up their drooping
heads, snip off the dead flowers, know them, and love them in an
intimate, personal way which is impossible in the large,
professionally-run gardens. Bridgie's garden this summer afternoon made
a very charming background for the figure of Pixie in her white dress,
with the jaunty blue band round her waist, and a little knot to match
fastening her muslin Peter Pan collar. She looked very young and fresh
and dainty, and the wistful expression deepened on Stephen's face as he
looked at her.
For the first few minutes conversation was difficult, for the
consciousness of being alone seemed rather to close the way to personal
subjects than to open it. Stephen was grave and distrait, Pixie
embarrassed and nervous, but the real deep sympathy between them made it
impossible that such an atmosphere should continue. Before ten minutes
had passed Pixie's laugh had sounded with the characteristic gurgle
which was the very embodiment of merriment, and Stephen was perforce
laughing in response. He had never been able to resist Pixie's laugh.
Tea was brought in, and the young hostess did the honours with a pretty
hospitality. It was the first meal of which they had partaken _a deux_,
and its homely intimacy brought back the wistful look into Stephen's
eyes. Perhaps Pixie noticed it, perhaps a point had been reached when
she felt it impossible to go on talking generalities; in any case, she
laid down her cup, straightened herself in her chair with an air of
preparing for something big and momentous, and announced clearly--
"I had a letter this morning from Honor Vaughan."
Stephen Glynn started, and his face hardened. The subject was evidently
unwelcome to the point of pain.
"She writes to _you_?"
"I write to her! Of course she answers. I was always fond of Honor."
"Possibly. Before her marriage. As Stanor's wife, however--"
Pixie bent forward, looking him full in the face.
"I have no quarrel with Stanor's wife. I was angry with _him_. There
was something in me which he hurt very much.--I think," she slightly
shrugged her shoulder, and a flicker of a smile passed over her face,
and was gone, "'twas my pride! It hurt to think he had been _forced_ to
come back. If he'd trusted me and told the truth it would have saved
suffering for us--all! At the time I felt I could never forgive him,
but that passed. I don't say I can ever think of him as I did before,
as quite honest and true, but--" The smile flashed back. "Can _you_ go
on being angry, yourself?"
"I--don't think," said Stephen slowly, "that `angry' is the right word.
I'm disappointed--disappointed with a bitterness which has its root in
ten long years of hope and effort. Practically I have lived my life
through that boy. My great object and desire was to secure for him all
that I had missed. I had made no definite promises, it seemed wiser
not, but in effect he was my heir, and all I have would have gone to
him. Now that's over! The future has been taken from me, as well as
the past. America has absorbed him. He has already, through his wife,
more money than he can use, and the role of an English country gentleman
has lost its attractions for him. There was a time in my first outburst
of indignation when I should have felt it a relief to have had some
power of retaliation, but, as you say, that passed. ... He was the only
person whom I could in any sense claim as my own, and--I've lost him!
He is independent of me now. I can do no more for him." The dark eyes
were full of pain. "That is, after all, the thing that hurts the most.
The lad has faults, but I loved him. I lived through him; now I can do
no more, and our lives fall apart. There's a big blank!"
Pixie did not answer. Her face was very pale; in her ears was a loud
thudding noise, which seemed mysteriously to be inside her own breast.
"As for his wife, she may be a good girl--she appears to have behaved in
an honourable fashion--but to me it's a new type, and I can't pretend
that I'm not prejudiced. There is only one thing that is satisfactory.
The boy is honestly in love, even to the extent of abandoning his career
to assist in the management of a pickle factory."
There was an inflection in the tone in which these last words were
pronounced which brought Pixie's eyes upon him in reproach.
"They are very _good_ pickles! I can't see that making them is any less
dignified than `bulling' and `bearing' cotton--whatever that may mean!--
Stanor used to write of it in his letters. Honor's father loved his
workmen, and made her promise to go on looking after them as he had
done. She doesn't need any more money; it would be easier for her to
retire and hand over the factory to some one else. It's for the men's
sake that she keeps it on, and to keep her promise to her father. Mr
Glynn, you _must_ love Honor. She's good, and true, and honourable, and
she's--Stanor's wife!"
"How could he? How could he?" Stephen rose impetuously, and began
pacing up and down, a rare excitement growing in voice and manner.
"When he could have had _You_! ... Good? Yes! She may be good--I'm
not denying the girl's good points. She has behaved well. She has her
attractions--Stanor evidently thinks her beautiful--but--_he might have
had You_! ... He has chosen this girl with her ordinary attractions,
instead of _your_ sweetness, _your_ sunshine, _your_ generosity, _your_
kindness! Your voice, Pixie; your eyes ... Your _love_! He was so
blind ... so deaf. ... The substance was his, and for a shadow--a poor,
faint shadow--"
Pixie had risen in her turn. Red as a rose she stood before him, with
shrinking eyes, but hands held out in sweet, courageous invitation.
"If ye think so much of me as all that," said the deep voice
breathlessly, "_wouldn't ye like me for yourself_?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ten minutes later the miracle, the wonder, was as marvellous as ever: as
incredible to the man whose life was suddenly irradiated with sunshine.
"Pixie! Pixie!" he cried. "My youth! ... Will you give it back to me,
sweetheart--the youth that I lost?"
"Beloved!" said Pixie, and her voice was as the swell of a deep organ
note. "It was not lost. It's been waiting for you--" she touched her
heart with an eloquent gesture--"here!"