"You funny dear, I never heard of anything so quaint! It was sweet of
you all the same, and I'm ever so grateful. But, oh dear! what would
the servants say if they knew! They would think my relations had come
out of the Ark. And where in the world have you put the provisions?"
"I--I--" Bridgie looked round for Pixie, but she had lingered behind,
and there was no one to help her out of her plight. "I had the basket
in my hand, and we were standing at the door, and I heard you calling
and I rushed in. I gave it to someone. I was in such a hurry I hardly
noticed who it was. I think it was the man in the dining-room now!"
"Montgomery!" echoed Esmeralda blankly. She stood staring at Bridgie
with horrified eyes. "Bridgie, how _could_ you? What do you mean by
it? What did you bring, and how was it made up?"
"A chicken, and pies, and apples, and a tin of toffee. Everything you
liked--and some little rolls and a pot of butter. They were in a
basket--a big basket with a serviette over the top!" cried Bridgie, with
desperate candour, determined to tell the worst at once and get it over.
At home at Rutland Road it had seemed such a simple and natural thing to
do, but ten minutes' experience of Park Lane had shown clearly enough
how unnecessary had been her anxiety, how ridiculous it must seem in the
estimation of the household! She looked at Esmeralda with troubled
eyes, and Esmeralda flushed, and cried testily--
"A basket of provisions, and you handed it to Montgomery! He would
think, of course, that it was his duty to open it, and-- Oh, Bridgie,
how could you? He will tell the story in the servants' hall, and they
will all laugh and make fun. It's too tiresome! I can't think how you
can have made such a mistake!"
"I thought of you, you see, and not of the servants. It never occurred
to my mind that you could be ashamed of me, whatever I did!" said
Bridgie quietly.
"I'm not in the least ashamed of you, I'm ashamed of the basket! You
ask Jack when you go home, and he'll tell you 'twas a foolish thing to
do, and you walking, too, and not driving to the door. We won't talk
about it any more, or we shall both get angry, and it's done now and
can't be helped. What do you think of this room? Geoffrey is quite
proud of his books, and we mean to make this our private little den, and
retire here when we are tired of living in public. Here's the electric
light, you see, switched on to these movable lamps, so that one can read
comfortably in any position!"
"Very nice! So convenient! It looks most comfortable!"
Bridgie's voice sounded formal and ill-at-ease, and both sisters felt
the position a trifle strained, and were unaffectedly relieved to see
Pixie strolling towards them at this critical minute.
She was smiling to herself as at a pleasant remembrance, and lost no
time in entering into conversation.
"I don't know how it is about butlers--they all love me!" she announced
thoughtfully. "The Wallace one turns his back to the sideboard when I
talk, and the vegetable-dishes wobble when he hands them round. He
tries hard not to laugh, because it's rude for servants to see a joke,
but he really appreciates them frightfully much. Your one has whiskers,
too, and isn't he pleasant to talk to? Not half as proud as he looks.
We have just been talking about the basket, because he'd got chickens
already, and he asked what he should do with ours. I said we'd take it
back, of course, because it would be a treat to us to-night. That was
quite right, wasn't it, Bridgie?"
"Yes, darling, perfectly right!" said Bridgie.
Esmeralda frowned, bit her lip, and finally succumbed, even as the
butler had done before her, and laughed with a good grace. She hugged
Pixie, and Pixie hugged her back, and chattered away so freely and
naturally that it was impossible for restraint to live in her presence.
Esmeralda as usual avoided a formal apology, but when Geoffrey arrived
and the little party were seated round the luncheon-table, she made the
_amende honorable_ by telling him of the basket incident in the presence
of three men-servants with as much unction as if it had given her the
most unmitigated delight.
"Thank you, Bridgie, you _are_ a brick! How jolly of you to have taken
so much trouble! If I'd known of that chicken before I began lunch,
nothing would have induced me to eat anything else!" cried Geoffrey
heartily.
There was no snobbishness about him at any rate, and to judge from the
glance which his wife cast upon him it was evident that she was quite
able to appreciate a quality that was lacking in her own composition.
They seemed very happy together, this young husband and wife, and as
Bridgie saw them smile at one another across the table, for no other
reason than pure happiness and content in each other's presence; when
Esmeralda announced "Geoffrey says," as the definite conclusion of any
argument, and Geoffrey said quietly, "Esmeralda likes it!" as though the
fact debarred all further discussion--when she heard and saw all this,
the pain which was so bravely buried in Bridgie's heart seemed to take a
fresh lease of life, and stab her with the memory of dead hopes.
It was not that she envied Esmeralda her happiness--Bridgie had none of
the dog in the manger in her composition--but she felt suddenly
oppressed by loneliness and a sense of want, which the quiet home-life
failed to satisfy. Once she had imagined that this happiness would be
hers in the future, but that hope was dead, and it did not seem possible
that it could ever come to life again. Even if by chance she met Dick
Victor in the future, what explanation could he have to offer which
would wipe away the reproach of that long silence? Bridgie hoped they
might never meet; it would be too painful to see her idol dethroned from
his pedestal.
"Are they worth a penny, dear? I've asked you the same question twice
over!" cried Esmeralda mischievously, and Bridgie came back to the
present with a shock of remembrance.
"I was wool-gathering again. So sorry! What did you want to know?"
"I was talking about our invitations. Do you want any cards for
friends? Is there anyone whom you would like me to ask?"
"Lottie Vane, please, and Mr and Mrs Wallace," cried Pixie eagerly,
and Esmeralda smiled at the first name, and frowned at the second. She
remembered having seen the Vanes at a school festival, and being
favourably impressed by their appearance, but the name of Wallace was
still repugnant to her ears, and could not be heard unmoved.
She did not care, however, to appear ungracious in Geoffrey's presence,
and reflected that it might be judicious to impress Pixie's employers
with the grandeur of the O'Shaughnessy family, and thus nip in the bud
any ideas of patronage. A moment later she was thankful that she had
made no objections, as Sylvia Trevor's name from Bridgie's lips
convinced her that here at least a stand must be made.
"Oh, my dear, it is no use asking Miss Trevor. She is lame, and I shall
have enough to do without looking after invalids."
"She would come with us, and we would take care of her. The boys are so
fond of Sylvia. They'd think it a pleasure!" pleaded innocent Bridgie,
all unconscious of the fatal nature of her argument, and Esmeralda
frowned again and said impatiently--
"She'd much better stay at home. Crowded rooms are no place for people
who need such care."
"No, but that is all the more reason why she should get what enjoyment
she can. She would love one of the receptions you spoke of, when you
will have music and other entertainments, and her limp can scarcely be
noticed now. She would be no trouble to you. You asked her to visit
you in Ireland, Esmeralda!"
"'Deed I did, and she snubbed me for my pains. I don't like Miss
Trevor, and I don't mean to give her the chance of refusing any more
invitations."
Bridgie looked aghast, as well she might, and made no attempt to hide
her discomfiture.
"But--but I told her you would! I made quite sure of it, and told her
she would have such a good time. The poor girl is counting upon it."
"And she is Bridgie's friend. Bridgie wants to bring her. That settles
the question surely!" said Geoffrey quietly. He looked across the table
with uplifted brows, and, wonder of wonders, Esmeralda blushed, and
murmured vaguely about being "much pleased."
"What a mercy it was that Geoffrey was at home! But oh, if you love me,
Pixie, never, never let Sylvia guess that we had to plead for her
invitations!" pleaded Bridgie earnestly, as the two sisters made their
way home an hour later on.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
AN "AT HOME."
Fortunately or unfortunately as the case may be, there is no hall mark
of sincerity to distinguish one invitation from another, and the printed
cards which were in due time received by Sylvia Trevor differed in no
respect from those sent to the most favoured of Esmeralda's guests.
Fortunately also the remarks with which invitations are received are not
overheard by the prospective hostess, else might she often feel her
trouble wasted, and repent when it was too late.
Mrs Hilliard's fashionable acquaintances yawned when they received her
cards, and exclaimed, "Another engagement for Thursday! We shall have
to accept, I suppose, but it's a dreadful nuisance! We can just look in
for a quarter of an hour on our way to Lady Joan's dance;" and
unfashionable Sylvia pursed up her lips and remarked to herself, "Humph!
I suppose she wants to dazzle me with the sight of her splendours.
Much `pleasure' my company will give her! I shall go, of course. I
don't think I _could_ stay quietly at home and play cribbage, and know
that Bridgie and the boys were driving away, and that I might have been
with them. Yes, I'll go, and I will get a new dress for the occasion--a
beauty! Dad said I might be extravagant once in a way, without emptying
the exchequer; and he would like me to look nice. Perhaps Bridgie will
go to town with me and help me to choose. It is nice to have some
excitement to look forward to. What with typhoid and--Jack,--this has
been the dullest winter I ever knew."
The advent of the Hilliards did indeed make a great difference to the
two quiet households in Rutland Road. Esmeralda was too much occupied
with her guests to pay many visits in person, but she appeared at
intervals, leaning back against the cushions of the carriage, and
looking like some wonderful princess out of a fairy-tale, and as far
removed as possible from the good ladies of the neighbourhood.
The coachman would draw up before the door of Number Three, the footman
would throw open the door, and Mistress Esmeralda would saunter up the
little garden, dragging yards of chiffon and lace in her train, and
acutely, delightfully conscious of the heads peering from behind the
curtains on either side of the road. Acknowledged beauty as she was,
her advent caused a greater sensation in this suburban district than
among her own associates, and though she affected to despise its
demonstrations, they were yet very dear to her vain little heart.
Sometimes the two sisters were spirited away to lunch or a drive in the
Park, and on their return would adjourn into Number Six, and entertain
Miss Munns and her niece with the story of their adventures. There was
a party every single day at Park Lane--titled creatures, and "men who
did things," as Pixie eloquently explained, and Miss Munns recognised
every name as it was repeated, and inquired anxiously concerning
clothes, if the celebrity were of the female sex, concerning manner and
choice of eatables, if he were a man.
Once, too, before the date of the formal invitation, Sylvia herself was
invited to accompany her friend to an afternoon reception, when she
beheld the fabled glories with her own eyes. Never before had she
entered such a house, or met so distinguished a company, but not for
worlds would she have allowed her surprise to be visible to Esmeralda's
eyes. The fashionable expression, she noticed, was one of bored
superiority, so she looked bored and superior too, refused offers of
refreshments which she was really longing to accept, and lounged from
one room to another with an abstracted air, as if unconscious of her
surroundings. All the same she felt very lonely and out of her depth,
for Bridgie was helping her sister to receive her guests, and Pixie as
usual roaming about in search of adventure.
It is very difficult to sit alone in a crowd and keep up an appearance
of dignity, and Sylvia was grateful when a girl of her own age took
possession of the chair by her side, and began to talk without waiting
for the formality of an introduction. She was a pleasant-looking, much-
freckled damsel, with a wholesome, out-of-door atmosphere, which
distinguished her from the other ladies present, and she seemed for some
reason quite interested in Sylvia Trevor.
All the time that they talked the honest blue eyes--studied the little
clear-cut face of her companion, and though Sylvia was puzzled to
account for the scrutiny, she was quite conscious of its presence, and
anxious that the decision should be in her favour. She dropped her
artificial airs and graces, and talked simply and naturally, asking
questions about the different people present, and listening to the
biographical sketches which were given in return, with much greater
interest than was vouchsafed to her aunt's more humble reminiscences.
It was so interesting to meet a celebrated author in flesh and blood,
and find that she talked about the weather like any ordinary stupid
person; a statesman in whose hands lay the destiny of a nation, yet
could discuss with seriousness whether he should choose pink cakes or
white. So extraordinary to discover that this gorgeously-attired lady
was plain Mrs Somebody, while the funny, shabby-looking old woman in
black was a celebrated Duchess, whose name was a household word.
Sylvia understood now why Esmeralda had been so anxious to place this
guest in the most comfortable chair, and had waited on her with such
assiduous care; she understood, too, why the Duchess herself wore an
expression of patient resignation, and cast surreptitious glances at the
clock. Poor creature, these so-called amusements were the business of
her life, and one was so much like another that it was impossible to get
up any feeling of interest, much less amusement. She yawned behind her
glove, and vouchsafed the briefest of answers to her companions; it was
abundantly evident, in short, that the Duchess was bored, and as this
was the first time that she had honoured his house by a visit, Geoffrey
was naturally anxious that this state of things should not continue.
Esmeralda had done her utmost, but her airs and graces had failed to
make any impression on one who had been acquainted with the beauties of
the last fifty years, and there seemed no one present who possessed the
requisite qualities to help him out of his difficulty. The Duchess was
already acquainted with every visitor of note, and would not care to be
introduced to insignificant nonentities.
Stay, though! What of the most insignificant of his guests? What of
Pixie O'Shaughnessy, of the ready tongue, and the audacious self-
confidence, which would flourish unchecked in the presence of kings and
emperors? "Pixie for ever! Pixie to the rescue!" cried Geoffrey to
himself, and promptly stole across to the room set apart for
refreshments, where his small sister-in-law sat eating her fourth ice,
waited upon with assiduous care by her friend Montgomery.
"Pixie," he said, "there's an old lady in black sitting under the big
palm in the yellow drawing-room and looking dreadfully bored! Just go
and talk to her like a good girl, and see if you can amuse her a little
bit before she goes."
"I will so!" responded Pixie heartily. "It's a very dull party when
there's nothing to do but be pleasant. I was bored myself, before I
began to eat. I'll leave the ice now, but maybe I'll venture on another
by and by.--In black, you said, under the palm?"
She flicked a lapful of crumbs on to the floor, and pranced away with
her light, dancing step. Geoffrey watched her from the doorway, saw her
squeeze herself into the corner of the lounge on which the Duchess was
seated, and gaze into her face with the broadest of broad beaming
smiles, while the great lady, in her turn, put up a lorgnon and stared
back in amazed curiosity.
"Well, little girl," said the Duchess, smiling, "and what have you got
to say?"
"Plenty, thank you! I always have. Me difficulty is to find someone to
listen!" replied Miss Pixie, with a confidential nod.
The old lady looked extraordinarily thin; the lines on her face crossed
and re-crossed like the most intricate puzzle, her lips were sunken, and
the tips of nose and chin were at perilously close quarters, but her
eyes were young still, such sharp, bright little eyes, and they twinkled
just as Pat's did when he was pleased.
"Talk to me, then. I'll stop you when I'm bored!" she said, and at that
Pixie nodded once again.
"Of course. We always do. Jack stamps on me foot, and Pat snores, the
same as if he were asleep. He says he is strong enough to hear a tale
six times over, but he won't listen to it a seventh, to please man nor
woman. Bridgie says jokes are one of the trials of family life, because
by the time you've improved the points so that no one would recognise
them for the same, your relations won't give you a hearing. It's a
curious thing, when you think of it, that you get so exhausted with
other people's stories, while you go on laughing at your own. Bridgie
says you'll find fifty people to cry with you, for one who will
sympathise about jokes. Have you found it that way in your experience?"
"Upon my word," cried the Duchess with unction, "this Bridgie appears to
be a remarkably sensible young woman! My experience has been that I
rarely meet a joke that is not my own exclusive property, to judge by
the faces of my companions. Do you happen to possess a name, my
youthful philosopher? I should like to know to whom I am talking."
"I'm Pixie O'Shaughnessy, and Geoffrey married my sister Esmeralda. He
came over to Ireland and fell in love with her in spite of me telling
him about her bad temper, thinking of course that he was a perfect
stranger. I apologised to him after it was settled and said there was
nothing really wrong with her, for she'd always rather be pleasant than
not, only at times it's easier to be nasty, and she's been lazy from her
youth. The night they met they mistook each other for ghosts, and
Esmeralda clung to his arm and screeched for help.
"There was never a thing that girl was frightened at, all her life,
until now, and, would you believe it?--it's her own servants! Of course
in Ireland they were like friends, as free and easy as we were
ourselves, and entering into the conversation at table; but Geoffrey's
Englishmen are so solemn and proper that she lives in terror of shocking
their feelings. One day the butler found her kissing Geoffrey,
believing they were alone, and she waited for him to say, `Allow me,
madam!' as he always does if she ventures to do a hand's turn for
herself. She's says it's dispiriting to think you can't even quarrel in
peace for fear of interruption, and it takes a good deal to interrupt
Esmeralda when once she's started."
The Duchess screwed up her bright little eyes, and her shoulders shook
beneath her black lace cape. Sylvia and her companion, watching the
strangely assorted pair from across the room, saw Pixie move nearer and
nearer, and whisper a long dramatic history; saw the Duchess nod her
head in appreciation of the various points, and heard the burst of
laughter which greeted the _denouement_. Everyone stopped talking and
stared with inquiring eyes. Esmeralda turned towards the lounge,
anxiety thinly disguised by smiles, and, seeing her, the Duchess rose
from her seat with a sigh of regret.
"Your sister is a born story-teller, Mrs Hilliard. I wish I had more
time to listen. Please ask me to meet her again! It is a long time
since I have been so amused."
Here was praise indeed! Esmeralda beamed with satisfaction, and seized
Pixie's hand with an unusual outburst of affection.
"How noble of you, dear! She was looking as bored as bored, and I was
at my wits' end. What did you tell her that made her laugh like that?"
"Oh, nothing much. Just things about ourselves, and the adventures at
home. 'Twas the beeswax pudding that pleased her most," said Pixie
easily, and wondered at Esmeralda's sudden extinction of interest.
"Now what disclosures has that child been making next!" cried the
freckled girl, looking on at this little scene with curious eyes. "I
doubt whether Esmeralda appreciates them as much as the Duchess. We
used to say at home that if there was one thing which should not be
revealed, Pixie was bound to choose it as the subject of conversation on
the first possible occasion! And she was so sweet and innocent about
it, too, that it was impossible to be angry. I expect you have found
out that for yourself?"
"Yes--No!" said Sylvia absently, for she was thinking less of what she
was saying than of certain phrases which her companion had just uttered.
"We used to say at home." Who was this, then, who had known Pixie
O'Shaughnessy in bygone days--could it by any chance be the dreaded
rival towards whom she was prepared to cherish so ardent a dislike? She
stared at the honest, kindly face, and felt that it would be difficult
to harbour a prejudice against its owner, even if--if-- "Are you Miss
Burrell?" she asked, and Mollie smiled assent.
"I am that, and you are Sylvia Trevor. I've heard about you from--"
"Bridgie--yes! We have been great friends all winter."
"Not Bridgie--no! We had so much to discuss about the old place and its
people, that I'm afraid we have never mentioned your name. It was not
Bridgie."
"Oh!" said Sylvia, and stared across the room. It might, of course,
have been Esmeralda herself who had enlightened Miss Burrell's
ignorance, but there was a mysterious something in the girl's manner
which gave a different impression. She was too proud to ask questions,
and Miss Burrell volunteered no information, but smiled to herself as at
an interesting reminiscence. It seemed as though what she had heard had
been of a distinctly pleasant character!
Sylvia returned home feeling mysteriously happy and elated, and the
sight of a letter addressed to herself in her father's handwriting put
the finishing touch on her satisfaction. She took it upstairs to her
own room, and sat herself down on the one comfortable chair which she
possessed, to read its contents with undisturbed enjoyment. She was in
no hurry to break the seal, however, for it was so pleasant just to hold
the letter in her hand, and lean back comfortably against the cushions,
and dream.
The dreams, it is true, were mostly concerned with the events of the
afternoon, and Mollie Burrell's intent and kindly scrutiny; but it was
like the old times when she had thought her own thoughts with her hand
clasped in that of the dear old dad, and the touch of the sheet on which
his fingers had rested brought back the old feeling of strength and
security. She had told him much about her new friends, and he seemed
always to wish to hear more, asking carefully veiled questions, the
meaning of which were perfectly understood by his shrewd little
daughter.
Dad was anxious about this friendship with a family which included a
handsome grown-up son among its members; a trifle afraid lest she should
be spirited away to another home before he had enjoyed his own innings.
"Poor old darling!" murmured Sylvia remorsefully, for at the bottom of
her heart she knew well which home she would choose if the choice were
given, and it did seem hard--horribly hard--that a parent should love
and guard and work for his child from the hour of her birth, and that
when she had grown old and sensible enough to be a companion instead of
a care, she should immediately desert him for another! "But I could
never love dad any less, never, never! I'd give anything in the world
to see him again!" Sylvia cried mentally as she opened the envelope and
straightened the thin, foreign sheets.