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Love Affairs of Pixie

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<h3>Chapter Four.</h3> <h4>The Invitation.</h4> The immediate consequence of the Pixie pronouncement was a correspondence between her two elder sisters, wherein Bridgie ate humble-pie, and Esmeralda rode the high horse after the manner born. “You were right about Pixie, darling. It is dull for her here in this strange town, where we have so few friends; and now that she is nearly twenty-one it does not seem right to shut her up. She ought to go about and see the world, and meet boys and girls of her own age. And so, dear, would it be convenient to you to have her for a few months until you go up to town? Your life in the country will seem a whirl of gaiety after our monotonous jog-trot, and she has been so useful and diligent, helping me these last years with never a thought for her own enjoyment, that she deserves all the fun she can get. I am sad at parting from her, but if it’s for her good I’ll make the effort. She has two nice new frocks, and I could get her another for parties.” Thus Bridgie. Esmeralda’s reply came by return—the big, slanting writing, plentifully underlined— “At last, my dear, you have come to your senses. For a sweet-tempered person, you certainly have, as I’ve told you before, a surprising amount of obstinacy. In future do try to believe that in matters of worldly wisdom I know best, and be ruled by me! “Pixie can come at once—the sooner the better, but for pity’s sake, my dear, spare me the frocks. Felice can run her up a few things to last until I have time to take her to town. If I am to take her about, she must be dressed to please me, and do me credit. “We have people coming and going all the time, and I’ll be thankful to have her. I wouldn’t say so for the world, Bridgie, but you have been selfish about Pixie! Never a bit of her have I had to myself; she has come for the regular Christmas visits, of course, and sometimes in summer, but it’s always been with you and Dick and the children; it’s only the leavings of attention she’s had to spare for any one else. Now my boys will have a chance! Perhaps she can keep them in order—I can’t! They are the pride and the shame, and the joy and the grief, and the sunshine and the—thunder and lightning and earthquake of my life. Bridgie, did you ever think it would feel like that to be a mother? I thought it would be all pure joy, but there’s a big ache mixed in— “Geoff was so naughty this morning, so disobedient and rude, and I prayed, Bridgie—I shut myself in my room and prayed for patience, and then went down and spoke to him so sweetly. You’d have loved to hear me. I said: ‘If you want to grow up a good, wise man like father, you must learn to be gentle and polite. Did you ever hear father speak rudely to me?’—‘Oh, no,’ says he, quite simply, ‘but I’ve often heard you speak rudely to him!’ Now, what was a poor misguided mother to say to that? Especially when it was True! You are never cross, so your youngsters can never corner you like that; but I am—often! Which proves that I need Pixie more than you do, and she’d better hurry along.” Pixie came lightly into the dining-room, just as Bridgie was reading the last words of the letter. She was almost invariably late for breakfast, a fact which was annoying to Captain Victor’s soldierly sense of punctuality. He looked markedly at the clock, and Pixie said genially, “I apologise, me dear. The young need sleep!” Then she fell to work at her porridge with healthy enjoyment. She wore a blue serge skirt and a bright, red silk shirt, neatly belted by a strip of patent-leather. The once straggly locks were parted in the middle, and swathed round a little head which held itself jauntily aloft; her eyes danced, her lips curved. It was a bare eight o’clock in the morning, a period when most people are languid and half-awake. But there was no languor about Pixie; she looked intensely, brilliantly alive. A stream of vitality seemed to emanate from her little form and fill the whole room. The dog stirred on the rug and rose to his feet; the canary hopped to a higher perch and began to sing; Dick Victor felt an access of appetite, and helped himself to a second egg and more bacon. “This is Wednesday,” announced Pixie genially, “and it’s fine. I love fine Wednesdays! It’s a habit from the old school-time, when they were half-holidays, and meant so, much. ... I wonder what nice thing will happen to-day.” Husband and wife exchanged a glance. They knew and loved this habit of expecting happiness, and looking forward to the joys rather than the sorrows of the future, which had all her life, been characteristic of Pixie O’Shaughnessy. They realised that it was to this quality of mind, rather than to external happenings, that she owed her cheerful serenity, but this morning it was impossible not to wonder how she would view the proposed change of abode. “I’ve had a letter from Esmeralda,” announced Bridgie baldly from behind the urn, and, quick as thought, Pixie’s sharp eyes searched her face. “But that’s not nice. It’s given you a wrinkle. Take no notice, and she’ll write to-morrow to say she’s sorry. She’s got to worry or die, but there’s no reason why you should die too. Roll it up into spills, and forget all about it.” “I can’t—it’s important. And she’s not worrying. It’s very—” Bridgie paused for a moment, just one moment, to swallow that accusation of selfishness—“kind! Pixie darling, it’s about You.” “Me!” cried Pixie, and dropped her spoon with a clang. Bridgie had already pushed back her chair from the table; Pixie pushed hers to follow suit. Such a prosaic affair as breakfast had plainly vanished from their thoughts, but Captain Victor had by no means forgotten, nor did it suit him to face emotional scenes to an accompaniment of bacon and eggs. “After breakfast, please!” he cried, in what his wife described as his “barracks” voice, and which had the effect in this instance of making her turn on the tap of the urn so hurriedly that she had not had time to place her cup underneath. She blushed and frowned. Pixie deftly moved the toast-rack so as to conceal the damage, and proceeded to eat a hearty breakfast with undiminished appetite. It was not until Captain Victor had left the room to pay his morning visit to the nursery, that Bridgie again referred to her sister’s letter, and then her first words were of reproach. “How you could sit there, Pixie, eating your breakfast, as calm as you please, when you knew there was news—news that concerned yourself!” “I was hungry,” said Pixie calmly. “And I love excitement; it’s the breath of my nostrils. All the while I was making up stories, with myself as heroine. I’m afraid it will be only disappointment I’ll feel when you tell me. Truth is so tame, compared to imagination. Besides, there was Dick!” She smiled a forbearing, elderly smile. “You can’t live in the house with Dick without learning self-control. He’s so—” “He’s not!” contradicted Dick’s wife, with loyal fervour. “Dick was quite right; he always is. It was his parents who were to blame for making him English.” She sighed, and stared reflectively out of the window. “We ought to be thankful, Pixie, that we are Irish through and through. It means so much that English people can’t even understand—seeing jokes when they are sad, and happiness when they are bored and being poor and not caring, and miserable and forgetting, and interested, and excited—” “Every single hour!” concluded Pixie deeply, and they laughed in concert. In the contemplation of the advantages of an Irish temperament they had come near forgetting the real subject of discussion, but the sight of the letter on the table before her recalled it to Bridgie’s remembrance. She straightened her back and assumed an air of responsibility, a natural dramatic instinct prompting her to play her part in appropriate fashion. “Dick and I have been feeling, my dear, that as you are now really grown-up, you ought to be having a livelier time than we can give you in this strange town, and Esmeralda has been saying the same thing for years past. She feels we have been rather selfish in keeping you so much to ourselves, and thinks that it is her turn to have you to live with her for a time. We think so too, Pixie. Not for altogether, of course. For three or four months, say; and then you might go over to Knock, and come back to us again for Christmas. Of course, darling, you understand that we don’t want you to go!” Pixie stared silently across the table. She had grown rather white, and her brows were knitted in anxious consideration. “Bridget Victor,” she said solemnly, “is it the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth you are telling me, or is it just an excuse to get me out of the way? If there’s any trouble, or worry, or illness, or upset coming on, that you want to spare me because I’m young, you’d better know at once that it will only be the expense of the journey wasted, for on the very first breath of it I’d fly back to you if it was across the world!” “I know it,” said Bridgie, and blinked back a tear. “But it’s the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, Pixie, that we are the happiest, and the healthiest, and the contentedest little family in the country, and there’s no need to worry about us. We were thinking only of you, and you are free in this instance to think only of yourself.” “That’s agreeable!” was Pixie’s comment. The frown left her brow and she smiled, the wide lips parting to show brilliantly white little teeth, teeth very nearly as pretty and infantile as those belonging to the small Patsie upstairs. Beholding that smile, Bridgie had no doubt as to the verdict which she was about to hear, and suffered an unreasoning pang of disappointment. “Then I’ll confess to you, my dear,” continued Pixie affably, “that I find myself just in the mood for excitement. So long as you are well there’s nothing on earth I’d love so much at this moment as to go off on a junket. If Esmeralda wants to give me a good time, let the poor thing have her way—I’ll not hinder her! I’ll go, and I’ll love it; but I’ll not promise how long I shall stay—all sorts of things may happen.” “Yes,” said Bridgie dreamily, “all sorts of things!” And so Pixie O’Shaughnessy went forth to meet her fate. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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