Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
More About Pixie, by Mrs G. de Horne Vaizey
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This is another excellent book by Mrs de Horne Vaizey,
dating from the end of the nineteenth century. While of
course it is dated in its references to the world around
its actors, yet nevertheless their emotions are
well-described, and no doubt are timeless.
In some ways the world around the people in the book is
recognisable today, in a way which a book written thirty or
forty years before would not have been. They have
electricity, telephones, trains, buses, and many other
things that we still use regularly today. Of course one
major difference is that few people today have servants,
while middle-class and upper-class families of the eighteen
nineties would certainly have had them. It was a passing
joke in the book that it was surprising that the butler, on
discovering a young couple kissing, did not say, "Allow me,
madam."
Today we travel by aeroplane, while in those days, and
indeed for much of my own life, we travelled by ship and
train. It was normal when travelling back to England from
India to disembark at Marseilles, and come on to the
Channel Ports by train, perhaps even spending a week or two
in Italy, en route. I have done it myself.
So it is not so very dated after all. But I do think there
is a real value in reading the book. Oddly enough, I think
that a boy would benefit from reading any of the
author's books, more than a girl would, because it would
give him an insight into the girlish mind which he could
not so easily otherwise obtain. N.H.
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MORE ABOUT PIXIE
BY MRS. GEORGE DE HORNE VAIZEY
CHAPTER ONE.
A NEW NEIGHBOUR.
The night nurse was dusting the room preparatory to going off duty for
the day, and Sylvia was lying on her water-bed watching her movements
with gloomy, disapproving eyes. For four long weeks--ever since the
crisis had passed and she had come back to consciousness of her
surroundings--she had watched the same proceeding morning after morning,
until its details had become almost unbearably wearisome to her weak
nerves.
First of all came Mary to sweep the floor--she went down on her knees,
and swept up the dust with a small hand-brush, and however carefully she
might begin, it was quite, quite certain that she would end by knocking
up against the legs of the bed, and giving a jar and shock to the
quivering inmate. Then she would depart, and nurse would take the
ornaments off the mantelpiece, flick the duster over them, and put them
back in the wrong places.
It did not seem of the least importance to her whether the blue vase
stood in the centre or at the side, but Sylvia had a dozen reasons for
wishing to have it in exactly one position and no other. She liked to
see its graceful shape and rich colouring reflected in the mirror which
hung immediately beneath the gas-bracket; if it were moved to the left
it spoiled her view of a tiny water-colour painting which was one of her
greatest treasures, while if it stood on the right it ousted the
greatest treasure of all--the silver-framed portrait of the dear,
darling, most beloved of fathers, who was afar off at the other side of
the world, tea-planting in Ceylon.
Sylvia was too weak to protest, but she burrowed down among the clothes,
and moped to herself in good old typhoid fashion. "Wish she would leave
it alone! Wish people wouldn't bother about the room. Don't care if it
is dusty! Wish I could be left in peace. Don't believe I shall ever be
better. Don't believe my temperature ever _will_ go down. Don't care
if it doesn't! Wish father were home to come and talk, and cheer me up.
Boo-hoo-hoo!"
The tears trickled down and splashed saltly against her lips, but she
kept her sobs under control, for crying was a luxury which was forbidden
by the authorities, and could only be indulged in by stealth.
The night nurse thought that the patient had fallen asleep, but when she
went off duty, and her successor arrived, she cast a suspicious glance
at the humped-up bedclothes, and turned them down with a gentle but
determined hand.
"Crying again?" she cried. "Oh, come now, I can't allow that! What are
you crying about on such a lovely, bright morning, when you have had
such a good night's rest?"
"I had a horrid night. I couldn't sleep a bit. I feel so mum-mum-
miserable!" wailed the patient dolefully. "I'm so tired of being in
bed."
"You won't have very much longer of it now. Your temperature is lower
than it has ever been this morning. You ought to be in good spirits
instead of crying in this silly way. Come now, cheer up! I am not
going to allow such a doleful face."
"I'm very cheerful when I'm well. Ask Aunt Margaret if I'm not. I've a
most lively disposition. Everyone says so," whined Sylvia dismally.
"I'm tired of everything and everybody. So would you be if you'd been
in bed for two months."
"Tired of me as well as the rest?"
"Yes, I am. You are a nasty, horrid, strict, cross thing." But a smile
struggled through the tears, and a thin hand stole out from beneath the
clothes and pressed the white-sleeved arms in eloquent contradiction.
Whatever Sylvia was tired of, it was certainly not this gentle, sweet-
faced little woman who--humanly speaking--had brought her back from the
verge of the grave. She snoodled her head along the pillow so as to
lean it against the nurse's shoulder, and said in weak, disconnected
snatches, "I'm sorry--I'm so horrid. I feel so cross and low-spirited.
I want--a change. Can't you think--of something nice?"
"You are going to have some beautiful chicken-soup for your lunch. It
is in a perfect jelly."
"Hate chicken-soup! Hate the sight of soup! Want to have salmon and
cucumber, and ice creams, and nice rich puddings."
Nurse laughed complacently.
"So you shall--some day! Glad you feel well enough to want them now.
Would you like to be carried to the sofa by the window for an hour this
afternoon, while your bed is being aired and made comfortable? I think
it would do you good to lie in the sunshine, and the doctor could help
me to carry you. It would be quite exciting to see a glimpse of the
outer world, wouldn't it?"
"Rather! I can't believe that everything is going on just the same.
Are all the neighbours alive still? Is the old man at the corner alive?
Has the little girl at Number Five grown-up and put on long frocks? I
feel as if I had been lying here for years and years. I believe I have
grown grey myself. Give me a hand-glass, Whitey, and let me see how I
look."
Whitey walked obediently across the room, and brought back the silver-
backed glass from the dressing-table. She was accustomed to her
nickname by this time, and was indeed rather proud of it than otherwise.
She had been known successively as "Spirit of the Day," and "The White
Nurse," during the hours of delirium, and the abbreviation had a natural
girlish ring about it, which was a herald of returning health.
"There, look at yourself, Miss Conceit!" she cried laughingly, and
Sylvia held the glass erect in both hands and stared curiously at her
own reflection. She saw a thin, clear-cut little face, with arched
eyebrows, large brown eyes, an aquiline nose, and full, pouting lips.
The cheeks showed delicate hollows beneath the cheek bones, and the eyes
looked tired and heavy, otherwise there was no startling change to
record.
"I don't look as much older as I expected, but I've got a different
expression, Whitey--a sort of starved-wolf, haggard, tired-out look,
just exactly like I feel. Aren't I beautifully thin? It's always been
my ambition to be slim and willowy, like the people in fashion plates.
I shall be quite a vision of elegance, shan't I, Whitey?"
"Um! Well," said Whitey vaguely, "you must expect to look very slight
after lying in bed for so long, but it doesn't matter about that. You
won't trouble about appearances, so long as you feel well and strong
again."
"Yes, I shall!" said the invalid stubbornly. She turned her head on one
side and stared intently at the long plaits of hair which trailed over
the pillow--her "Kenwigs" as she had dubbed them, after Charles
Dickens's immortal "Miss Kenwigses," who are pictorially represented in
short frocks, pantaloons, and tight plaits of hair, secured at the ends
by bows of ribbon.
"My Kenwigs look very thin," she said anxiously. "I used to have three
thick coils. People's hair doesn't come out after typhoid fever, does
it, Whitey? I shall be furious if mine does."
"Oh, hair generally comes out a little in autumn," replied Whitey
easily. "Now you have looked at yourself quite long enough. I will put
back the glass and prepare some food while your aunt comes to see you,
but I shall tell her not to talk too much, for the doctor won't let you
be moved if you are looking tired and exhausted."
Sylvia sighed to herself, for interviews with Aunt Margaret were a
decided trial in these days of convalescence, when every nerve seemed on
edge and ready to be jarred. She was nearly twenty-two, and for the
first year after leaving school the dear old dad had been in England,
and she had had the most delightful time travelling about with him. He
always declared that he was a poor man, that tea was doing so
disgracefully badly, that he expected to retire into the workhouse in
the course of the next year, but, all the same, he never appeared to be
short of money, and the travelling was done in the most comfortable and
luxurious of fashions. Sylvia was his only child, and in his eyes was
the most beautiful and accomplished creature in the world, so that it
was a trying experience to be domiciled with an elderly maiden aunt,
whose ideas were as early Victorian as her furniture, who had forgotten
what it felt like to be young, and was continually aggrieved because her
niece had not learned to be old.
During the long year of idleness Sylvia had cherished the idea that her
father would take her back to Ceylon, when she would reign as Queen of
the Bungalow, charm the hearts of the coolies by her beauty and dignity,
pay frequent visits to Kandy, and become one of the favourites of
society; but when it came to the point it appeared that he had no
intention of the sort. In two or three years he hoped to be able to
settle in England, and meantime his ambition for his daughter demanded
that she should remain at home and devote her time to music, for which
she showed an unusual talent. If he had other reasons he kept them to
himself, but as a matter of fact he dreaded a possible marriage abroad,
which would condemn the girl to a life of separation from so much that
is good and pleasant, and if any qualms arose as to the cheerfulness of
the home in which he was leaving her, he consoled himself by the
reflection that he would be able to make up for temporary deprivations
in the years to come.
Mr Trevor sailed off to the East, and Sylvia took up her abode at
Number 6 Rutland Road, in an unfashionable suburb in the north of
London, and settled down to being a "good industrious girl" with what
grace she might. She did not understand Aunt Margaret, and Aunt
Margaret felt it a decided trial to have her sleepy home invaded by a
restless young creature, who was never so happy as when she was singing
at the pitch of her voice, rushing up and down stairs, and playing silly
schoolboy tricks; but fate had ordained that they were to live together,
and they had jogged along more or less peacefully until that unlucky day
when the girl had sickened for her dangerous illness. Then, indeed,
Aunt Margaret realised that she had grown to love her wayward charge,
and all the manifold demands and inconveniences of illness were
swallowed up in anxiety during the first anxious weeks. She allowed not
only one, but two of "those dreadful nurses" to take possession of her
spare rooms, submitted meekly to their orders, and saw her domestic
rules and regulations put aside without a murmur of protest; but when
the crisis was safely passed, and recovery became only a matter of time,
the old fussy nature reasserted itself, and her eyes were open to behold
the dire results of a long illness.
This bright October morning she came stooping into Sylvia's bedroom, a
slight woman with a narrow bent back, brown hair smoothed neatly down on
each side of a withered, dried-up face, with a patch of red on the cheek
bones, and sunken brown eyes roving restlessly to right and left. She
wore a black stuff dress, a satin apron with pockets and an edging of
jet, and knitted mittens over her wrists--a typical old lady of the
ancient type. Yet as she stood beside the bed there was a curious
likeness to be observed between her face and the one on the pillow; and
Sylvia recognised as much, and felt a thrill of dismay at the thought
that some day she, too, would be frail and bent, and wear a cap and
mittens, and have rheumatic joints, and attacks of bronchitis if by
chance she was so imprudent as to go out without putting on goloshes, a
woollen "crossover," and a big silk muffler beneath her mantle. To one-
and-twenty it seemed an appalling prospect, and one to be shunted into
the background with all possible speed.
"Well, my love, and how are you this morning? Much better, I hear. A
good drop in temperature," said Aunt Margaret, pecking her niece's cheek
with her lips, and answering her own question without waiting for a
reply, as her custom was. "Nurse tells me that you will soon be up
again, and I'm sure it is time. This room needs a regular spring
cleaning, and as for the new drugget on the landing--three new spots of
milk this morning, to say nothing of what has gone before! If I had
known you were going to be ill I would have made the old one last
another year, for it is sheer waste of money buying new things to have
them ruined in six months. The last one was down thirteen years, and
looked very little worse than this does now!"
"Father will buy you another. You must put it down as one of the
expenses. He won't mind so long as I get better," said the invalid
wearily; whereupon Aunt Margaret drew herself up with an air of wounded
pride.
"Indeed, my dear, your poor father will have enough to do to pay all the
doctors and nurses without being called upon for extras. I am willing
to bear my own share, though I will say my stair-carpets have had as
much wear and tear in the last two months as in half a dozen years
before, and that Nurse Ellen is a most careless creature, she leaves
everything in a muddle! If you get up, my dear, you must wear my wadded
jacket. I had a young friend--she was the cousin of Sarah Wedderburn,
who lived in Stanhope Terrace, and married young Johnson of
Sunderland.--You have heard me speak of the Johnsons, who were at school
with your Aunt Emma?"
Sylvia blinked her eyelids in a non-committal manner which might be
taken either for assent or denial. She was afraid to confess ignorance
of the Johnson family, lest Aunt Margaret's love of biography should
take a further flight in order to recall Sarah Wedderburn's cousin to
her remembrance.
"And what did she do?" she queried weakly. "Don't tell me anything
gruesome, please, aunt, because I feel so low-spirited this morning that
I can't bear anything depressing!"
"I should be very sorry to depress you, my dear. Nothing is farther
from my wishes, and if she had been careful nothing need have happened.
Her sister told me it was all her own fault for not being sufficiently
wrapped up. I'll tell you the whole story another day when there is
more time, for now I must go out to do my housekeeping. These meals
will be the death of me! The cloth is never off the table. I quite
expect Mary will give notice at the end of the month, and goodness knows
what we shall do then, for it seems impossible to get hold of
respectable girls. The milk-bill has just come in for the month.
Ruinous! Ruinous! Now, my love, you must really cheer up and try to
look more like yourself. Perhaps I shall find you on the sofa when I
come back. Tell nurse not to use my best cushions; your own pillows
will do perfectly well."
She bustled out of the room, and Sylvia stared into space with a doleful
face.
"It's all very well to ask me to be cheerful, when she tells me in the
same breath that I am ruining her, and her beloved furniture. I'm sure
I didn't want to be ill! If dad were at home he would never reproach
me." The tears were very near falling once more, but just at that
moment there came the sound of a manly footstep, and in walked the
doctor, large, stout, beaming, a very incarnation of health and good
spirits.
"Well, and so nurse tells me you think of going to the seaside to-day!
You are getting tired of yourself, and want a change--eh? I don't
wonder at that. You think you would enjoy having a little peep at the
world again? Let me feel your pulse and see if I can allow it."
The pulse was quite satisfactory, so nurse and doctor promptly set to
work to spread blankets on the couch, draw forward screens to prevent
possibility of draught, and bank up pillows to allow a glimpse of the
road beneath. Then Sylvia clasped her arms tightly round the nurse's
neck, the doctor raised her feet, there was a moment's dizzy confusion,
while her eyes swam and her ears hummed, and there she lay on the sofa,
as at the end of a long and arduous journey, while her attendants
wrapped her up in blankets and eiderdowns, and looked anxiously to see
how she had borne the exertion. The little face was very white, but
bright with pleasure and excitement, and the offer of smelling salts and
cordials was laughed aside with good-natured contempt.
"No, no--I'm all right--just a little breathless after that whirl
through space. How funny the room looks! I've looked at it broadways
so long that I can't recognise it from this point of view. Is that the
water-bed? What a strange-looking thing! just like a lot of hot bottles
joined together. It _is_ comfortable over here! I'd like to stay all
day. Oh, oh, oh! here's the butcher's cart! How lovely it is to see
the world again!"
The jovial-looking doctor shrugged his shoulders as he took his
departure. The poor child must have been in sad straits indeed if she
found the sight of a butcher's cart so exciting! He would have enjoyed
sitting beside her and listening to her rhapsodies, but was obliged to
hurry off to other patients, while Whitey seated herself beside the
couch, and began hemming strips of muslin to be made into those starched
cap-strings which were tied so jauntily beneath her chin.
"Oh, Whitey," cried Sylvia, "I feel better already! It all looks so
bright, and cheerful, and alive! I'm simply dying to go out for a
drive, and to see the people walking about. I used to think this such a
dull little road, but now it seems quite gay and fashionable. I've seen
three perambulators already, to say nothing of the butcher's cart! I
wish the Number Seven lady would go out for a walk, and let me see her
autumn clothes. She wears all the colours of the rainbow, and looks
like a walking kaleidoscope... Whitey! Oh, Whitey!"
The weak voice rose to a squeal of excitement, and the nurse bent
forward curiously to discover the reason of so much agitation. To the
ordinary eye, however, there was nothing to be seen, for Sylvia's
outstretched hand pointed to a semi-detached villa in no way
distinguished from the rest of the row.
"It's taken!" she cried--"Number Three is taken! It has been empty for
a year, and I have simply longed for someone to come, for it is the most
convenient house to watch, and I take such interest in the neighbours.
It's pretty lonely for me here, for I haven't a single girl-friend.
Father kept me at school in Brussels for the sake of learning the
language, but almost all the girls were French or American, and none of
them live in London. Aunt Margaret introduced me to some `young
friends' when I first arrived, but I thought they were horrid prigs, and
I suppose they thought I was mad, so the friendship didn't progress. I
amuse myself with my music and in dreaming of the time when father comes
home, but every time a house changes hands I have a wild hope that there
will be a girl in the family, who would be lively and jolly like myself.
I'm very nice when I'm well, Whitey--I am really! You needn't laugh
like that. I daresay you would be fractious yourself if you had to lie
in bed for months and months, and had an old griffin to mount guard over
you, who made you eat against your will, and bullied you from morning
till night... What was I talking about last? Oh yes, I wanted to ask
if you had seen anything of these new people, and what they were like."
"I haven't had much time for looking out of the window, but I have seen
a young lady and gentleman going out and in. I think they are a newly-
married couple, for they look very juvenile and affectionate. He is
dark and handsome, and she is fair, and I should say very pretty."
Sylvia's face clouded with disappointment.
"Bother the husband! She won't want me or anyone else to interrupt the
duet. I do wish it could have been a family with a daughter. The
curtains don't look newly-married, Whitey!"
"No, they don't. I thought that myself. The house doesn't look as
smart and fresh as one expects under the circumstances, but perhaps they
are not well off, and had to be content with what they could get. You
should not leap to the conclusion that she won't want you. Brides often
feel very lonely through the day when their husbands are in the city,
and I should think she would be delighted to have a friend of her own
age so near at hand. We will watch and see if we can get a glimpse of
her. She is almost sure to have gone out for a walk this fine morning,
and if so she will come home in time for lunch."
From that moment Sylvia's eyes were glued to the window, and every woman
between the ages of sixteen and sixty was in turn heralded as the bride,
and scornfully laughed aside by the nurse.
"I told you that she was young and pretty!" she repeated laughingly. "I
didn't mean that she was a schoolgirl, or a middle-aged woman. If she
is coming at all she will be here within the next half-hour, so lie
still and rest, and I'll play Sister Anne for you."
Ten minutes passed, twenty minutes, thirty minutes, and Whitey was
beginning to hint at a return to bed, when at last the longed-for figure
hove in sight. Sylvia raised herself on her pillows and peered eagerly
forward, her scarlet dressing-jacket making a brilliant patch of colour
against the background of white. She saw a slight, graceful figure clad
in a tightly fitting black cloth costume, and a mass of flaxen hair
beneath a sailor hat, and even as she looked the girl raised her head
and stared upward with eager interest. She had a delicate, oval face
and grey-blue eyes beneath thoughtful brows, but at the sight of the
invalid the whole face flashed into sunshine, and the lips curled into a
smile of such irrepressible rejoicing which was more eloquent than
words. The next moment her head was lowered, and she walked demurely up
the path dividing the little gardens, while Sylvia lay back on her
pillows a-quiver with excitement.
"Oh, oh, the d-arling! What a perfect duck of a darling! Did you see
her smile? Didn't she look glad to see me? Whitey, why did she look so
pleased? What can she know about me?"
"My dear, she has seen the doctor's carriage drive up at all hours of
the day, and two nurses going in and out, to say nothing of the bark
which was laid down on the road. She must have known that someone was
seriously ill, and no doubt the servants have told her that it was a
young girl like herself. Yes, it was delightful to see her. You won't
have any better congratulation on your recovery than that smile!"
"Whitey, she is in black! Brides don't wear black."
"They are obliged to wear it sometimes, dear. You can't lay down a rule
about such things."
"She looks too young to be married. She ought to play about with me for
a year or two first. I hate that man for taking her from me! That's
the girl I should marry myself if I had a chance. Do find out what her
name is, Whitey. Mary is sure to know, for she gossips with the other
servants while she is cleaning the steps. Yes, I'll go back to bed now.
I'm tired, and I don't care to see anyone else. I'll go to sleep and
dream about that smile!"
CHAPTER TWO.
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.
"Aunt Margaret, can you tell me anything about the people who have come
to Number Three? I saw the lady coming in just now while I was sitting
up, and I do so want to know her. Have you been to call while I was
ill?"
Miss Munns crossed her hands on her lap, and looked the image of
dignified reproach.
"My dear, do you suppose I have had leisure for social engagements? I
know nothing about the people, except that their blinds are invariably
crooked, and every one drawn up to a different length. Most untidy the
house looks! A dear friend of mine used to say--Mary Appleford, whose
father was the clergyman in my old home in Leicestershire--charming old
man who married Lady Evelyn Bruce--most aristocratic family!--Mary
always declared that she could judge a woman's character by the
appearance of her windows. Judged from that standpoint, I should not
feel disposed to call on the mistress of Number Three."
"But you haven't seen her, aunt; if you did, you could not help loving
her. She looked so delighted to see me sitting up, and gave me such a
delicious smile!"
"Smiled at you, do you say? A most unladylike thing to do! The first
advances should come from our side, as she would know if she had any
experience of society. I hope, my dear, that you were not so foolish as
to respond. One cannot be too careful about strangers in this big
wicked city. I shall never forget my poor dear cousin telling me how
she called on a most superior-looking lady who came to live in the same
terrace, and two months later the police raided the house, and it turned
out that the husband made false coins in the back kitchen, and the wife
circulated them among the tradesfolk. So awkward for Maria!"
Sylvia brought her eyebrows together in a frown, and tossed about on her
pillow. She felt irritated and disappointed, and that made her head
ache, and the headache sent down her spirits again, and eclipsed the
brightness of the morning. If Aunt Margaret refused to call, she could
not make the acquaintance of the fair unknown, and it would be a
tantalising experience to see her every day, and, yet be as far removed
from friendship as if they lived a dozen miles apart!
During the weeks which followed, nurse and patient kept a close watch on
the little house over the road, and were rewarded by witnessing several
interesting domestic scenes.
On Saturday afternoon, for instance, Edwin came home early to show
himself in his turn. He was tall, dark, and handsome; dressed in the
height of the fashion, and bore himself with such an air of complacency
and benign patronage towards his fellows, that he looked far more like a
prince of the blood than an ordinary city man. He carried a little
bunch of flowers in his hand, and whistled as he drew near the gate in
orthodox, newly-married fashion, and the pretty girl flew to the door,
and nodded her head at him in happy welcome. He bent down to kiss her,
and she took the flowers and sniffed at them lovingly; then they walked
together down the little path to examine the growth of some sooty
chrysanthemums and three struggling creepers placed against the house.
Edwin shook his head after the inspection, as though it had been far
from promising, and then, instead of looking disappointed, they both
laughed, turned round and round to look over their twelve-yard domain,
and laughed again as if it were the best joke in the world. Then
Angelina said something in a low aside, whereupon Edwin strolled to the
gate, and in the most casual manner looked up the road and down the
road, and then straight across at the window where the invalid lay!
"She told him to look!" cried Sylvia breathlessly, and her pale cheeks
flushed until they were almost as red as the dressing-jacket itself.
"He is very handsome, Whitey. I don't dislike him as much as I
expected. Oh dear, they look disgustingly happy! I am sure they don't
want me a bit, and I want them dreadfully. He doesn't seem the sort of
man to coin false money, does he? Do please casually remark to Aunt
Margaret how very nice and distinguished they look! It's my one object
in life at present to make her call upon them."
The next day the situation developed still further, for a form was seen
seated at a window, who must, of course, be Edwin; yet he looked
strangely younger and fairer in colouring. Nurse and patient debated
the point hotly, until presently the door opened and out came one, two,
three masculine creatures, all as like as peas in a pod, except for the
difference in years which divided Edwin from the handsome striplings on
either side. They stood together in the tiny garden, obviously waiting
for the mistress of the house, and when she did not appear, the youngest
of the three picked up pieces of gravel and threw them up at a bedroom
window, while the others whistled and beat upon the gate with their
sticks.
Angelina strolled to the window in response to these demonstrations, and
stood smiling at them while she fastened on her hat, but she did not
appear to hurry herself in the least, nor did the brothers show any
signs of annoyance at their long waiting. When at long last she made
her appearance, there was great manoeuvring to get a place by her side,
and away they trotted, four abreast, pushing everyone else off the
pavement, but apparently blissfully unconscious of anything unusual in
the proceeding.
Sylvia and Whitey watched until the last flutter of the black dress
disappeared from sight, then fell to work to settle the identity of the
new actors in the drama.
"They are brothers--there is no doubt about that; but they can't live
there, Whitey! That wouldn't be at all newly-married. Do you suppose
they are here for the day? Perhaps they are in rooms in town, and
Angelina lets them come down over Sundays sometimes as a treat. They
seem very fond of her, and quite at home. I think that is the most
likely explanation, don't you?"
"I really think it is. Or they might live in the country and have come
up to pay a visit and see the sights," said Whitey thoughtfully.
She was thankful to find a subject of interest in these long days of
convalescence to keep her patient's mind from dwelling on depressing
topics. Truth to tell, Sylvia was not getting well so quickly as had
been expected, and besides more serious drawbacks there were minor
troubles, trying enough to the girlish mind. She had to learn to walk
again, like a baby, her back ached so badly that if she tried to stoop
she screamed aloud with pain, and, worse than all, the plaits of hair
grew small and beautifully less, until there was hardly anything left to
plait. Sylvia had been proud of her hair, so she grew alarmed, and
finally sent off in haste for her special barber to give advice and
consolation in the difficulty. Consolation was not forthcoming,
however, and the advice offered was by no means acceptable.
"You can't do nothing--there's nothing will be a bit of good," the man
said dolefully. "Whatever you do, it's bound to come. The wisest thing
would be to be shaved at once, and give it a start."
Sylvia fairly screamed with horror and consternation.
"Shaved!" she cried. "I? I go about with a bald head--a horrible,
bare, shiny scalp! I'd rather die! I'd rather--I'd rather--I'd rather
anything in the world! It's no use talking to me, Whitey; I will--not--
be shaved!"
"Very well, dear," assented Whitey easily. "Then you shan't. We will
just have a few inches cut off, and get a lotion to rub in to help the
growth. I daresay the old hair will keep on until the new appears, and
then you need never have the horrible experience of seeing a bald head."
"I never should see it in any case. I'd buy a wig and wear it night and
day. Nothing would induce me to look in the glass when it was off. I
should never respect myself again. And oh, Whitey, even at the best the
new hair will be ages growing, and it will be impossible to do anything
with it!"
"Not at all. You can wear it short and curly. It would look very
pretty, and suit you so well."
Whitey was aggressively cheerful, but Sylvia refused to be comforted.
"It would be hateful. I don't know anything more dejected-looking than
to see the back of a shorn head under a pretty hat. I won't _allow_ my
hair to fall out, and that's the end of it!"
"Well, p'r'aps it won't, after all, miss! We must 'ope for the best,"
said the barber cheerfully.
He and Whitey talked incessantly all the time the hair-cutting was
proceeding, with the fond hope of distracting the girl's attention; but
in naughty mood she refused to listen, insisted on sitting directly in
front of her glass, and was rewarded for her pains by catching a glimpse
of a bald spot on the crown of her head, which put the finishing touch
of depression.
When the doctor arrived for his morning visit, he found a most
melancholy patient, and held a serious consultation with nurse on the
staircase before departing.
"She seems very low and listless this morning. Can't you do something
to cheer her up? I am afraid we are going to have trouble with that
foot, and if she has to lie up again it will never do for her to get in
a melancholy condition. You do your best, I know, but she needs a
change. There is no reason why she should not see visitors. Has she no
young friends who could come to have tea with her, and make her laugh?"
Whitey sighed, and leant against the banisters with a dejected air. It
is exhausting work being cheerful for two, and no one would have
welcomed a laughing stranger more heartily than herself. The question
was,--where was she to be found?
"She was lamenting to me the other day that she had no girl-friends.
She went abroad to school, and has had little opportunity of making
acquaintances since she came home. Miss Munns is very--conservative.
She does not care to associate with her neighbours. There is a charming
girl who has come to live opposite. We watch her from the window, and
Sylvia has been trying to persuade her aunt to call for the last three
weeks; but it is useless. I'm sorry, for she looks just the very person
we want."
"Won't call, won't she? We'll see about that. I'm not going to have my
patient thrown back, after all the trouble I've had with her, for fifty
old ladies and their prejudices. You leave it to me!" cried the jovial
doctor, and tramped downstairs into the parlour to give his orders
forthwith.
A little diplomacy, a little coaxing, a few words of warning to revive
affectionate anxiety, a good big dose of flattery, and the thing was
done; and, what was better still, Aunt Margaret was left under the happy
delusion that the projected visit was the outcome of her own
inspiration. She said nothing to the invalid, but at half-past three
that afternoon she put on her woollen crossover, and a black silk
muffler, and her best silk dolman, and dear Aunt Sarah's sable pelerine,
and her Sunday bonnet, and new black kid gloves, two sizes too big,
carried her tortoiseshell card-case in one hand, and her umbrella in the
other, and sailed across the road to call at Number Three.
Sylvia had gone back to bed after lunch by her own request. The hair-
cutting ordeal had tired her out, and there was, besides, a deep-seated
wearing pain in one foot and ankle which made her long to lie still and
rest. She tried to sleep, and after long waiting had just arrived at
that happy stage when thoughts grow misty, and a gentle prickling
feeling creeps up from the toes to the brain, when a patriotic barrel-
organ began to rattle out the strains of "Rule, Britannia" from the end
of the road, and the chance was gone. Then Whitey read aloud for an
hour, but the book had come to a dull, uneventful stage, and the
chapters dragged heavily.
Sylvia longed for tea as an oasis in this desert of a day, and
despatched nurse to bid Mary bring it up half an hour before the usual
time. And then came a charming surprise! Back came Whitey all smiles
and dimples, the tired lines wiped out of her face as by a miracle. She
stood in the doorway, looking at her patient with dancing eyes.
"I've brought you something better than tea!" she cried. "Just look
what I have brought you!" As she spoke she moved to the side, as if to
make room for another visitor, and--was it a dream, or could it really
be true?--there stood the bride of Number Three, the sweet-faced
Angelina, in her black dress, her grey eyes soft with welcome.
"Oh!" cried Sylvia shrilly. "Oh--oh!" She sat up in bed and stretched
out two thin little hands, all a-tremble with excitement. "It's _you_!
Oh, how did you come? What made you come? How did you know I wanted
you so badly?"
"I wanted you too!" said the girl quickly. She had a delightful voice;
soft, and deep, and musical in tone, and she was prettier than ever,
seen close at hand. Best of all, she was not a bit shy, but as frank
and outspoken as if they had been friends of years' standing. "Your
aunt called on me this afternoon," she went on, coming nearer the bed,
and sitting down on the chair which nurse placed for her. "She invited
me to come to see you some day, but I've a dislike to waiting, if
there's a good thing in prospect, so I asked if I might come at once,
and here I am! I'm so glad you wanted to see me. I have watched you
from my window, ever since you first sat up in your pretty red jacket."
"And you looked up and smiled at me! I have watched you too, and wanted
to know you so badly. I've been ill for months, it seems like years,
and was so surprised to see that your house was taken. You can't think
how strange it is to creep back to life, and see how everything has gone
on while you have lain still. It's conceited, of course, to expect a
revolution of nature, just because you are out of things yourself, but I
didn't seem able to help it."
"I'm like that myself!" said the pretty girl pleasantly. There was a
soft gurgle in her voice as of laughter barely repressed, and she
pronounced her i's with a faint broadening of accent, which was
altogether quaint and delightful.
Sylvia mentally repeated the phrase as it sounded in her ears, "Oi'm
like that meself!" and came to an instant conclusion. "Irish! She's
Irish. I'm glad of that. I like Irish people." She smiled for pure
pleasure, and the visitor stretched out a hand impulsively, and grasped
the thin fingers lying on the counterpane.
"You poor creature, I'm grieved for you! Tell me, is your name
Beatrice? I'm dying to know, for we had a discussion about it at home,
and I said I was sure it was Beatrice. I always imagine a Beatrice dark
like you, with brown eyes and arched eyebrows."
"I don't! The only Beatrice I know is quite fair and fluffy. No, I am
not Beatrice!"
"But you are not Helen! I do hope you are not Helen. The boys guessed
that, and they would be so triumphant if they were right."
"No, I'm not Helen either. I'm Sylvia Trevor."
"'Deed, you are, then! It's an elegant name. I never knew anyone
living by it before, and it suits you, too. I like it immensely. Did
you,"--the grey eyes twinkled merrily--"did you find a nickname for me?"
Sylvia glanced at Whitey and smiled demurely.
"We called you Angelina. Oh, we didn't think that was really your name,
but we called you by it because you looked so happy and er--er
affectionate, and pleased with everything. And we called your husband
Edwin, to match. Those are the proper names for newly-married couples,
you know."
The girl stared back with wide grey eyes, her chin dropped, and she sat
suddenly bolt upright in her chair.
"My _what_?" she gasped. "My h--" She put her hands against her cheeks,
which had grown quite pink, and gurgled into the merriest, most
infectious laughter. "But I'm not married at all! It's my brother. He
is not Edwin, he is Jack, and I'm Bridgie--Bridget O'Shaughnessy, just a
bit of a girl like yourself, and not even engaged."
Sylvia sank back in the bed with a great sigh of thanksgiving.
"What a relief! I was so jealous of that husband, for I wanted you for
myself, and if you had been married you would have been too settled-down
and domestic to care for me. I do hope we shall be friends. I'm an
only child, and my father is abroad, and I pine to know someone of my
own age."
"I know; your aunt told me. We talked about you all the time, for I had
been so interested and sorry about your illness, that I had no end of
questions to ask. What a dear old lady she is! I envy you having her
to live with. I always think one misses so much if there is no old
person in the house to help with advice and example!"
The invalid moved restlessly on her pillows, and cast a curious glance
at her companion. The grey eyes were clear and honest, the sweet lips
showed not the shadow of a smile; it was transparently apparent that she
was in earnest.
Sylvia felt a pang of apprehension lest her new friend was about to turn
out "proper," that acme of undesirable qualities to the girlish mind.
If that were so, the future would be robbed of much of its charm; but
the discussion of Aunt Margaret and her qualities must be deferred until
a greater degree of intimacy had shown Bridgie the difficulties, as well
as the advantages, of the situation. In the meantime she was longing to
hear a little family history, and judiciously led the conversation in
the desired direction.
"You are four young people living alone, then? for I suppose the two
younger boys are brothers also. How fond they seem of you!"
"Why, of course. They dote upon me," said Miss O'Shaughnessy, with an
air of calm taking-for-granted which spoke volumes for the character of
the family. Then she began to smile, and the corners of her lips
twisted with humorous enjoyment. "I wouldn't be saying that we don't
have a breeze now and again, just to vary the monotony; but we admire
one another the more for the spirit in us. And it's pleasant having an
even number, for we can fight two against two, and no unfairness. Maybe
they are a bit more attentive than usual just now, for they have been
without me most of the winter, poor creatures! We have had a troublous
time of it these last two years. My dear father died the spring before
last, and we had to leave our home in Ireland. Then one sister was
married, and another went to Paris for her education, so there were two
_trousseaux_ to prepare, and when all the fuss and excitement was over I
was worn-out, and the doctor said I must do nothing but rest for some
months to come. The boys went into lodgings, while I junketed about
visiting friends, and they are so pleased to get into a place of their
own again, that they don't know how to knock about the furniture enough,
or make the most upset!"
It seemed to Sylvia an extraordinary manner of appreciating the delights
of housekeeping, and she attempted to condole with the young mistress,
only to be interrupted with laughing complacency.
"'Deed, I don't mind. Let them enjoy themselves, poor dears. It's
depressing to boy creatures to have to think about carpets and cushions,
and have no ease at their writing for fear of a spot of ink. I care far
more about seeing them happy, than having the furniture spick and span.
What was it made for, if it wasn't to be used?"
Sylvia groaned heavily.
"Wait until you have been in our drawing-room!" she said. "The chairs
were originally covered in cherry-coloured repp,--over that is a cover
of flowered chintz,--over that is a cover of brown holland,--over that
is a capacious antimacassar,--over that, each night of the week, is
carefully draped a linen dust sheet. The carpet is covered with a
drugget, the ornaments are covered with glass shades, the fire-screen is
covered with crackly oilskin. Even the footstools have little hoods to
draw on over the beadwork. I have lived here for two years, and on one
occasion we got down as far as the chintz stratum, when Cousin Mary
Robinson and dear Mrs MacDugal from Aberdeen came to stay for the
night, but my eyes have never yet been dazzled by the glory of the
cherry-coloured repp."
Bridgie lengthened her chin, and shook her head from side to side, with
a comical air of humiliation.
"Ah, well, tidiness is a gift. It runs in the family like wooden legs.
Some have got it, and others haven't, so they must just be resigned to
their fate. I'm going to see these repp covers, though! I'll wheedle
and wheedle until one cover comes off after another, and never feel that
I have done credit to Old Ireland until I get down to the foundation."
She rose from her chair, and held out a hand in farewell. "Nurse said I
was to stay only a few minutes, as you were tired already, but I may
come to tea another day if you would like to have me."
"Oh, do, please! Come often! You can't think how I should love it.
Will you come for a drive with me some day, when it is bright and
sunny?"
"I will. We could have a nice chat as we went along. I have not told
you about my sisters yet. I have the dearest sisters in the world!"
said Bridgie O'Shaughnessy.
CHAPTER THREE.
FAMILY PORTRAITS.
Bright and sunny days are not common in November, but the invalid
managed to go out driving in such fine blinks as came along, and in each
instance "Angelina" was seated by her side. The friendship was
progressing with giant strides, and doctor and nurse looked upon Bridgie
O'Shaughnessy as their greatest assistant in a period of great anxiety.
Sylvia was now able to sit up and work and read; head and eyes had come
back to their normal condition, but the treacherous disease had left its
poison in foot and ankle, and the pain on movement became more and more
acute. It required all the cheer that the new friend could give to
hearten the invalid when once more she was sent back to counterpane
land, with a big cage over the affected part to protect it from the
bedclothes, and all manner of painful and exhausting dressings to be
undergone.
Sylvia fumed, and grumbled, and whined; she grew sulky and refused to
speak; she waxed angry and snapped at the nurse. Worst of all, she lost
hope, and shed slow, bitter tears, which scalded the thin cheeks.
"I shall never get better, Whitey," she sobbed miserably. "I shan't
try; it's too much trouble. You might as well leave me alone to die in
peace."
"It's not a question of dying, my dear. It's a question of healing your
foot. If I leave you in peace, you may be lame for life. How would you
like that?" said Whitey bluntly. She knew her patient by this time, and
understood that while the idea of fading away in her youth might appear
sufficiently romantic, Miss Sylvia would find nothing attractive in the
prospect of limping ungracefully through life. The dressings and
bandagings were endured meekly enough after that, but the girl's heart
was full of dread, and the long dark days were hard to bear.
It became a rule that, instead of taking the meal alone, Bridgie
O'Shaughnessy should come across the road to tea, and sit an hour in the
sick-room while Whitey wrote letters or went out for a constitutional.
She came with hands full of photographs and letters and family trophies,
to give point to her conversation, and make her dear ones live in
Sylvia's imagination.
One day there was a picture of the old home--such a venerable and
imposing building that Aunt Margaret, beholding it, felt her last
suspicions of counterfeit coining die a natural death, and gave
instructions to Mary that the second-best tea-things were to be taken
upstairs whenever Miss O'Shaughnessy was present. Sylvia was impressed
too, but thought it very sad that anyone who had lived in a castle
should come down to Number Three, Rutland Road. She delicately hinted
as much, and Bridgie said--
"Yes, it would be hard if we took it seriously, but we don't. It's just
like being in seaside lodgings, when the smallnesses and inconveniences
make part of the fun. We are going home some day, when Jack has made
his fortune, and until then my brother-in-law rents the Castle from us,
and we go over and stay with him once or twice in the year. Esmeralda
is mistress of Knock, and is having it put in such terrible order that
we can hardly recognise the dear old tumbledown place. There is not a
single broken pane in the glass-houses!" Bridgie spoke in a tone of
almost incredulous admiration, the while she drew a large promenade
photograph from its envelope. "There, that's Esmeralda! Taken in the
dress in which she was presented."