Major, and come and take me out. You must be getting tired of your bed,
poor creature, but I'm glad you have no pain! You won't be here long
now."
"No, not long," said the Major quietly. Then he held up his lips to be
kissed, murmuring the last, the very last words of farewell, "Good-bye,
dearest. Thank you for being such a good, loving little daughter!"
"Thank you, me dear, for the father you have been to me!" returned
Pixie, in a tone of gracious condescension which made the listener smile
through his tears. That was a sweet characteristic little speech to
cherish as the last! He shut his eyes in token of dismissal, and Pixie
stole away, somewhat sobered and impressed, for the Major had not been
given to improving an occasion, but free from the vaguest suspicion that
she had bidden him her last farewell.
Downstairs Esmeralda was waiting to drive the cart to the station, and
at the station itself Mr Hilliard was standing ready to receive the
travellers and make every preparation for their comfort. No one seemed
in the least surprised to see him, for in Jack's absence he had quietly
taken upon himself the part of an elder son, and in every emergency had
stepped forward and filled the gap so efficiently and with such tact
that he seemed more like a friend of years' standing than an
acquaintance of a few weeks. His business in London had apparently been
accomplished in a flying visit of forty-eight hours, during which time
he had seen Jack, and eased anxiety by a personal report of the invalid,
and here he was back again, declaring that there was no reason to keep
him in town, and that if he could be of the slightest use at Bally
William, there was no place in the world where he would sooner remain.
Bridgie smiled to herself with quiet understanding, and Esmeralda grew
thoughtful, and her white cheeks hung out a flag of welcome every time
he made his appearance.
To-day she made no objections to his proposal that they should walk back
from the station, leaving a boy to drive the cart home during the
afternoon, and they struck across the fields together, disregarding damp
and mud with the callousness of true lovers of the country. The girl's
face was worn and downcast, for the Castle would seem sadder and emptier
than ever, now that the little sister had gone and that dear, helpful
Mademoiselle; and at nineteen it is hard to look forward and know for a
certainty that the shadows must deepen. There were still sadder times
ahead, and a loneliness such as she dared not even imagine; for
Esmeralda had not Bridgie's sweet faith and trust, and hers was a
stormy, rebellious nature, which made trouble harder to bear by useless
fightings against the inevitable. Bridgie found a dozen reasons for
thankfulness among all her distresses--the kindness of friends, the
ceaseless attentions of the good old doctor, her father's freedom from
pain, and the fact that he would be spared the dread of his lifetime--a
separation from the old home. Joan saw nothing but clouds and darkness,
and tortured herself with useless questionings. Why--why--why--why
should all this trouble fall upon her? Why should other girls have
father and mother and money and opportunity, and she be deprived of all?
Why should the accident have been allowed to happen when her father's
life was of such value--such inestimable value to his young family? Why
should her life be darkened just at the time when she was most able to
appreciate joy and gladness?
Hilliard watched the clouds flit over the beautiful face, and was at no
loss to understand their meaning. During the last fortnight he had more
than once been a witness to a storm of misery and rebellion, and apart
from that fact he had an instinctive understanding of the girl's moods,
which seemed all the more curious, as his own nature of happy optimism
was as great a contrast to hers as could possibly be imagined.
A smile flickered over his face as he reflected on the strangeness of
his present position. A month ago, if anyone had described to him the
O'Shaughnessy sisters, he would have declared without a moment's
hesitation that Bridgie would be his favourite--that in every way her
character would be more attractive to him than that of Esmeralda. Even
now--even now, yes!--if the question were put plainly before him, he
must still confess that "Saint Bridget" was sweeter, simpler, less
wayward, more unselfish; yet in spite of all there remained the
extraordinary fact that he liked Bridgie and loved Esmeralda with the
whole strength of a warm and loving heart! He saw her faults clearly
enough with those keen, quizzical eyes; but what the sight roused in him
was not so much disapproval as pity, and an immense longing to help and
comfort. He loved her; he understood her; he honestly believed he could
help her to rise above the weaknesses of girlhood, and become the fine
large-hearted woman which Providence had intended her to be; and the
time had come when he intended to speak his mind and ask her to be his
wife. The silence had lasted so long that at last Joan herself became
conscious of it, and roused herself to apologise for her rudeness.
"But I'm miserable," she said simply. "I can't remember to be polite.
I was miserable last time when the Pixie left us, but now it is a
hundred times worse. I can't bear to think of going back to that big
empty place, with that dreadful shadow coming nearer and nearer every
day. I am a coward, and can't face it!"
"You are a very brave girl--one of the bravest I have known. If anyone
but yourself dared to call you cowardly, you would never forgive him!"
"I know. It's quite true. I am brave physically, but I've never been
tried in this way before, so I didn't know how weak I was. It arises
from selfishness, I suppose. It's so hard to suffer like this."
"No one can be selfish who loves another person more than himself. I
have never seen two sisters so devoted to each other as you and Miss
Bridgie. You will think of her before yourself, and try to help her,
simply because you will not be able to help it!"
"Darling Bridgie--yes, I do love her. Who could help it? She takes
this trouble like the saint she is, and believes that it is God's will,
and must be for the best. I can't feel that--I can't! It's against
reason. It's no use pretending that I do, for I should only be a
hypocrite."
"You have a different nature from your sister's. It is more difficult
for you to be resigned, and therefore all the more praiseworthy if you
fight against your rebellious thoughts, and learn submission."
The tears rose slowly to Joan's eyes, and she looked at him with a
flickering smile.
"It's no use talking to you. You won't believe how wicked I am. You
make excuses for me all the time."
"Because I love you, Joan, that's why! Have you found that out for
yourself? I began to love you the first night I saw you, and I've been
progressing rapidly ever since. We have not known each other for long,
as time goes, but so much has happened, and we have been thrown so much
together, that we know each other as well as many acquaintances of
years' standing. My mind is made up, at any rate; there is no other
girl in the world for me! Do you think if you tried very hard, and I
waited very patiently, you could possibly bring yourself to love me in
return?"
Esmeralda gazed at him with her wonderful grey eyes, not shyly, not
self-consciously, but with slow, solemn deliberation.
"I don't know," she said simply. "I can't tell. I like you very much;
you have been very kind to us, and it does me good to talk to you, but
that isn't enough, is it? I don't know if I love you, but I love you to
love me! It comforts my heart, and makes me feel braver and less
lonely. Sometimes this last week--just once or twice when we have been
alone--I have thought perhaps you did, and I hoped I was right. I hoped
I was not mistaken."
"You darling! Oh, you darling!" cried Hilliard rapturously. "You do
make me happy by telling me that. That's all I want--the very best
proof you could give me that you care for me too. Don't you see, my
beauty, that you must care, or you would not want my love? Don't you
see that you have been drawn to me, just as I have been drawn to you,
and have felt the need of me, just as I have longed and wearied for you
ever since we met?"
He tried to take hold of her hand as he spoke, but Esmeralda drew back,
refusing to be caressed. She was trembling now, and her cheeks were
flushed with the loveliest rosy blush, but there was an almost piteous
appeal in her voice.
"No, no! I don't see, and I don't want to see. My father is dying--he
has only a little time to live, and I don't want to think of anything
but him. If it is as you say, there will be all my life after that, but
I can't think of love-making and being happy just the very last weeks we
shall have him with us. You mustn't be vexed; you mustn't think me
ungrateful. Indeed, indeed I can't help it!"
"Vexed!" echoed Hilliard. "Ungrateful!" His glance was eloquent enough
to show how far such words were from expressing his real feelings; and
indeed, if it had been possible to love Esmeralda more dearly than he
did, he would have done so at this moment, when she had shown him the
reality of the generous nature which lay beneath her girlish
extravagances, "You are absolutely and perfectly right, dearest," he
said warmly, "and I promise you faithfully that I will not try in any
way to absorb your attention so long as your father lives. But after
that, Esmeralda, (I may call you Esmeralda, mayn't I? Dear, charming,
ridiculous name--I love it, it is so deliciously characteristic!) after
that you must let me take my right place as your chief helper and
comforter. I won't be put off any longer, and I think I shall be able
to do more for you than anyone else."
"I believe you would, but--" Esmeralda looked at him beneath a troubled,
puckered brow--"please understand exactly what you are doing! We are
dreadfully poor--we shall be poorer than ever after father's death. If
I marry I shall not have a penny; for what little there is will be
needed, and more than needed, for Bridgie and the children. It would be
rather hard on you, for, as you are not rich yourself, you ought to
marry a rich wife."
"The same argument would apply to you, wouldn't it? Are you quite sure
that you would not mind marrying a poor man, and that you would be
willing to give up luxuries for my sake?"
"If I cared enough in other ways, it would not be money that would
prevent me, but I should not like to be _very_ poor!" returned Esmeralda
honestly. "I've had a taste of it, you see, and it is so dull to be
always worried about butchers' bills, and not be able to have nice
puddings because of the eggs, and to have to turn your dresses over and
over again. I've never once in my life bought a thing because I liked
it best. I've always had to think that it was cheaper than the others,
and I must make it do. I suppose men can't realise how hard that is,
for they need so much less, and their things are so much alike; but it's
hard to know for certain that you could look just twice as nice, and
have to put up with the frumpy things, because you have no money to pay
for the pretty ones!"
"Could you look twice as nice as you do now--really?" Hilliard laughed
with happy incredulity. "Esmeralda, I don't believe it; but if you
marry me you shall try! I am not so poor that I cannot afford to be a
little extravagant for my wife, and I promise you faithfully that you
shall never be worried about the bills. I'll protect you from that, and
every other trouble, I hope, my darling!"
"It--it seems to me we are getting on very fast. I thought I said that
nothing was decided. Oh, please talk of something else!" cried
Esmeralda urgently; and Hilliard laughed once more, and obediently
discussed the weather until the Castle gates were reached.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.
A TELEGRAM.
It was six weeks later that the girls in Holly House heard a sharp,
wailing cry from within the portals of Miss Phipps's private room, and
looked at each other with eyes of sympathetic understanding. The
knowledge that Pixie's father was seriously ill had leaked out among the
elder pupils, and this afternoon, as they returned from their walk, a
telegraph boy had met them in the drive, and Mademoiselle had turned
pale and muttered below her breath. Miss Phipps called her aside on
entering, and at tea-time there were unmistakable tear-marks round her
eyes, and she was even more affectionate than usual in her manner to
Pixie,--poor, unconscious Pixie, who was in radiant spirits, and quite
puffed up with pride because she had suddenly remembered a favourite
exploit as practised at Knock Castle, and had issued invitations to the
fifth-form to come to the classroom before tea and play the part of
spectators, while she made a circuit of the room without touching the
ground.
"Without--touching--the--ground! Pixie O'Shaughnessy, are you
demented?" demanded Flora incredulously. "You can't fly, I suppose?
Then how on earth could you get round a room without touching the
floor?"
"Come with me, me dear, and you shall see," returned Pixie graciously,
and forthwith led the way into the big, bare room. There was no class
being held at the time, so that the performer and her friends were the
only persons present; the chairs were neatly ranged beside the desks,
the matches and vases of spills which usually graced the mantelpiece
were placed together on a corner bracket, otherwise no article had been
moved from its place. Pixie sprang lightly on to a chair near the door,
kissed her hand after the manner of the lady riders at the circus, and
started off on her mad career.
From one chair to another, from chair number two to the shelf of the old
bookcase which filled the middle space of the wall; from the bookcase,
with a leap and a bound, on to the oak chest in which were stored
drawing-books and copies; from the chest to another chair, and thence
with a whoop and wildly waving hands to the end of an ordinary wooden
form. Why that form did not collapse at once, and land the invader on
the floor, no one of the spectators could understand! Flora gave a
hollow groan and leant against the wall in palpitating nervousness; Kate
shut her eyes, and Ethel pinched Margaret's arm with unconscious
severity; but, after all, nothing happened! With instantaneous
quickness Pixie had fallen forward on her knees, and so restored the
bench to its normal position; and now she was off again with another
kiss, another flourish, another whisk of those absurd short petticoats.
Providentially there was a table close at hand which she could mount
without difficulty, and so bring herself to the completion of the first
half of her task, but the harder part was still to come.
It was easy enough to run along the blackboard, but what about that
space between it and the shelves at the other side of the fireplace?
"She can't do it!" cried Ethel confidently; but Pixie had not made her
boast without counting the cost. What if there was no article of
furniture within reach, there was a shelf overhead to which one could
cling and work slowly along hand over hand until the coal-box offered a
friendly footing! Then, when one had been accustomed to climb trees all
one's life, what could be easier than to rest the elbows on the
mantelpiece, and with the aid of one foot pressed lightly on that fat,
substantial bell, (horrors! suppose it rang!) to wriggle upward until
knees joined elbows, and a perpendicular position was once more
possible! The gasps and groans from the doorway were even more
encouraging than applause, and under their influence it was impossible
to resist indulging in a few extravagances, such as standing poised on
one leg, blowing more kisses, and bowing from side to side after the
manner of that fascinating circus lady. Another bound sent her lightly
on to the one substantial chair which the room possessed--Miss Phipps's
seat when she came to take a class. It rocked, of course, but to
balance it was child's play, compared with the really difficult feat
with the form, and for the rest of the course the way was easy. Anyone
could have run along the substantial dumb waiter, stepped down to the
chair by its side, and so, with a leap, to the one from which the start
had been made. Pixie stopped, panting, gasping, and smirking at her
companions, expectant of adulation, but there was more reproach than
praise in store.
"You are mad!" cried Ethel shortly. "Stark, staring mad! No thanks to
you that every bone in your body isn't broken. I wonder what Miss
Phipps would have said if she had come in, while you were pirouetting on
the mantelpiece! It would have been your turn to be surprised then, my
young friend."
"I n-n-never did see such a sight in all my born days," stuttered Flora
blankly. "You've made me feel quite ill. My heart is pumping like an
engine. I thought every moment you would be killed. I call it mean and
unkind to ask us to look on, while you play such tricks, for you know
very well we should be blamed if anything went wrong! I'll never come
again, so you needn't trouble to ask me!"
"Pixie dear, it really is most dangerous! You might have sprained your
ankle a dozen times over. Promise me, promise me faithfully, that you
will never do it again!" pleaded Margaret gently; but Pixie shook her
head in obstinate fashion.
"Me dear, don't ask me! I'll tell you no stories. I've done it a dozen
times at home, and so have Bridgie and Esmeralda. It was a fine
handicap we had one night, boys against girls, and Bridgie the winner,
being so light on her feet. You wouldn't wish to forbid what my own
family approves." She drew herself up with an air of dignity as she
pronounced the last words, and skipped out of the room, as the quickest
way of closing the argument; but when tea-time arrived she was still
abeam with complacency, and pleasantly conscious of being the object of
an unusual amount of attention. The girls all looked at her and smiled
so kindly when they met her eye; jam and scones were pressed upon her
from half a dozen different quarters; Mademoiselle called her
"_cherie_," and even Miss Phipps said "dear." "Are you having a good
tea, dear?" "Won't you have another cup of tea, dear?" It was all very
pleasant and gratifying, and she felt convinced that the fame of her
exploit had spread over the school, and that even the teachers had been
unable to resist it.
She was strutting out of the dining-room at the conclusion of the meal,
when Miss Phipps laid a hand on her shoulder and said, "Come into my
room, Pixie," and a moment later she stood within the boudoir, staring
around with wide, astonished eyes. Mademoiselle had followed, and was
twisting her hands together, trying vainly not to cry. Miss Phipps
looked at her and made a little signal, but Mademoiselle only shook her
head, and held out her hands with a helpless gesture, and then Miss
Phipps began to speak herself, in such a gentle voice--a voice quite
different from her usual brisk, decided accents.
"Pixie dear, I have something to tell you. God has been very kind to
the dear father whom you love so much. He saw that he could never be
well again--never able to move about, nor walk, nor ride, as he had done
before, and instead of leaving him to lie helpless upon his bed for long
weary years, as so many poor sufferers have had to do, He took him home
at once, and made him well and strong again. You must not think of your
father as dead, Pixie. He is alive and happy in heaven!"
But it was too early for the dead man's child to realise that beautiful
truth, and Pixie burst into a passion of grief, and the girls without
heard the long pitiful wails and nestled close to each other and sobbed
in sympathy.
Miss Phipps talked on and on, saying comforting words in that new sweet
voice, and Mademoiselle put her arms fondly round the little figure and
said--
"You will be brave, _cherie_. You are always brave! All the
O'Shaughnessys are brave--your Bridgie told me so, and said it was the
pride of the family! You will not be the first to act like a coward.
No!" But the shock was too sudden to be borne with resignation.
"We haven't got any family now! How can you have a family without a
father? He wouldn't have died if I had been at home. He was always
cheerful when I was with him, and he said himself I was better than a
doctor. Oh, Major, Major! Oh, Bridgie, Bridgie! Me heart's broken!
Me heart's broken!"
Pixie wept and wailed, and presently Miss Phipps stopped trying to
console, and let her weep her fill, knowing well that the noisy grief is
never the most lasting, and that when the first passion was exhausted
she would be more ready for comfort. She had purposely delayed telling
the sad news until tea was over, and presently it would be time for bed,
when the sleep of childhood would drop its soothing curtain over grief.
Pixie lay on the sofa, and cried until her face was swollen and she was
too exhausted to cry any longer, and Miss Phipps was just about to
propose a move to bed when, to her amazement, the child suddenly put her
feet to the ground, sat up, and said faintly--
"I want to see the girls!"
Well, after all, it was a natural request, for the bent of a lifetime
does not change in moments of grief, and Pixie was a sociable little
creature, who must needs have someone in whom to confide on every
occasion. Miss Phipps realised as much, and also that companions of her
own age would be better comforters than the teachers, between whom and
the pupils there was naturally a great gulf fixed; so she assented at
once, saying only--
"I will come for you in ten minutes. You must not stay downstairs
longer than that," and Pixie feebly tottered across the hall to the room
where the elder girls were sitting. She chose to join them rather than
the pupils of her own age, for, as she had previously explained, she had
been accustomed to "grown-ups" at home, and felt more interest in their
society. The girls raised their heads with starts of surprise as she
entered, and came slowly forward to seat herself in a chair. They
stared at her with melancholy eyes, but there was a dead silence, for no
one knew what to say or how to say it, so they sat in a row facing her,
and Pixie blinked and trembled, and screwed her fingers together in a
tight little knot.
"I'm an orphan!" she said faintly, and five separate sobs of sympathy
sounded as replies.
"Poor little kid!" said Kate gruffly.
"D-arling!" sobbed Flora.
"But we all love you, Pixie! Everyone loves you! You can't be lonely,
dear, when you have so many friends," said Margaret's soft voice; and a
hand stretched out and clutched hers in convulsive energy. It was
Lottie's hand, and Lottie's face was trembling as if she were going to
cry, and a pulse on her temple was beating up and down, Pixie looked at
her curiously, and realised that, sorry as the others were, she was
somehow sorriest of all, and most anxious to comfort. Lottie had been
much subdued and silent since the beginning of the term, and had seemed,
if anything, to avoid the society of the girl whom she had treated so
badly, but with her fine intuition Pixie had understood quite well that
the avoidance arose from no lack of affection. She held Lottie's hand
in a tight pressure while she continued her broken sentences.
"And I didn't know he was going to die. They never told me. Miss
Phipps says they didn't want me to be unhappy, but I'd rather have
known. He wasn't like other people's fathers. They are old, with grey
hair; he was young--like a boy, and so handsome and gay. He always
laughed, even if things went wrong, and I was the youngest, and he
wouldn't have me thwarted. No one ever appreciated me like the Major.
The very last words he spoke were praising me and saying what a daughter
I'd been!"
"When you said `Good-bye,' you mean. That's good to think of, isn't it,
Pixie? He knew he would never see you again, and that afterwards you
would remember all he said, and treasure it in your heart, and the
sweetest thing of all is to know that you were a joy and pleasure to
him. It is a comfort to think that he is well again, isn't it? Quite
well and happy in heaven!"