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Love Affairs of Pixie

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<h3>Chapter Nine.</h3> <h4>A Rift.</h4> “Let me break it to you tenderly,” said Mrs Hilliard to her guests at breakfast on the morning after the picnic, “that on Thursday there is a bazaar, and that it’s no use any of you making plans for that day or the morning before. The real reason why I invited you all just at this particular time is that you might assist, and be bright and pleasant and make my stall a success.” She smiled beguilingly as she spoke, and no one could be more beguiling than Joan when it suited her own purpose. But her blandishments failed to propitiate her hearers, who one and all laid down knives and forks and fell back in their seats in attitudes expressive of dismay. “A bazaar. Assist? What bazaar? Where? What for? This is too sudden! Why were we not warned?” Joan twinkled mischievously. “I was afraid you would run away. People are so surly about bazaars. It’s in the village; for a parish nurse. She’s new, and needs a cottage and furniture, and clothes and salary, and the money has to be found. I wanted Geoffrey to give it right out, it’s so much simpler, but he wouldn’t. He thought it was right that other people should help.” Geoffrey Hilliard said nothing. It was true that he thought it a wrong attitude for a whole parish to depend upon the gifts of one rich man, but an even stronger reason had been his desire to induce his wife to take some active interest in her poorer neighbours and to occupy herself on their behalf. When Joan had unwillingly consented to take the principal stall at the bazaar, he had complacently expected a succession of committee meetings and sewing-bees, which would make a wholesome interest in a life spent too entirely in self-gratification; but the weeks had passed by, and the bazaar was at hand, and so far he had observed no symptoms of work on its behalf. He sat silently, waiting to glean information through the questioning of his guests. “I’ve taken part in bazaars before now. I’m an expert at bazaars. Bridgie has had part of a stall several times for things for the regiment; but where is your work?” demanded Pixie sternly. “When you take part in a bazaar it means every room crowded out with cushions and tidies, and mats and pincushions, and sitting up at nights, finishing off and sewing on prices, and days of packing up at the end, to say nothing of circulars and invitations, and your own aprons and caps. I haven’t noticed a bit of fuss. How can you be going to have a bazaar without any fuss?” She looked so accusingly at her sister as she spoke that the others laughed, but there was a hint of uneasiness in the manner in which Joan glanced at her husband before replying. “There isn’t any. Why should there be? Fancy work isn’t my forte, and it would bore me to sobs living bazaar for months ahead. I’ve sent money to order ready-mades, and there are a pile of packing-cases stored away upstairs which will provide more than we want. They ought to do, considering the money I’ve spent! I expect the things will be all right.” “Haven’t you looked?” cried Pixie blankly, while Geoffrey flushed, shrugged his shoulders, and muttered a sarcastic “Charity made easy!” which brought an answering flash into his wife’s eyes. “Is there anything particularly estimable in upsetting a whole house and wasting time in manufacturing fal-lals which nobody needs? I fail to see it,” she retorted sharply, and Geoffrey shrugged again, his face grim and displeased. It was not a pleasant moment for the listeners, and one and all were grateful to Stanor Vaughan for the easy volubility, with which he dashed to the rescue. “I’ll open the cases for you, Mrs Hilliard. I’m a nailer at opening cases; ought to have been a furniture remover by profession. Give me wood and nails, and a litter of straw and sawdust, and I’m in my element. Better take ’em down to the hall and unpack them there, I suppose? Safest plan with breakables. Jolly good crockery you get from abroad! I was at winter sports with my sister, and she fell in love with a green pottery cruse business, half a franc, and as big as your head. I argued with her for an hour, but it was no good, buy it she would, and cuddled it in her arms the whole way home! If you have any green cruses, Mrs Hilliard, I’ll buy a dozen!” Esmeralda thanked him, and proceeded to explain her arrangements in a manner elaborately composed. It appeared that she had displayed considerable ingenuity in the way of saving herself trouble. “I sent instructions to each place that every article was to be marked in plain figures. We shall just have to translate them into English money and add on a little more. It’s unnecessary to re-mark everything afresh. I’ve engaged a joiner to be at the hall ready to fix up any boards or shelves which we may need, and of course he’ll unpack. There’s not the slightest reason for any one else to break his nails; there will be enough work for us on the day.” “Are we to be dressed up in fancy character? It’s all so sudden that I’d like to know the worst at once,” sighed Honor plaintively. “I’ve been a Swiss maiden, and I’ve been a Dolly Varden, and I’ve been the Old Woman that lived in a Shoe, so I guess I can bear another turn of the screw. But I look real sweet in my new blue gown.” “Wear it, then, wear it. It’s ridiculous dressing up in daylight in a village hall. Let every one wear what suits them best.” “Wait till you see my waistcoat!” cried Stanor, and they rose from the table laughing, and breakfast was at an end. Pixie made straight for the nursery. She was jarred and troubled by the scene which had just taken place, all the more so as it was by no means the first occasion during her short visit when Geoffrey and Joan had unmistakably “jarred.” In the old days at Knock Castle Esmeralda’s tantrums had been accepted as part of the daily life, but six years spent in the sunshine of Bridgie’s home made a difference between husband and wife seem something abnormal and shocking. Imagine Dick sneering at Bridgie! Imagine Bridgie snapping back and relapsing into haughty indifference! The thing was preposterous, unthinkable! Could that be the reason of Esmeralda’s unrest, that she and her husband had outgrown their love? Pixie felt it equally impossible at that moment to sit quietly alone, or to talk naturally to her fellow-guests, but experience had proved that the most absolutely certain method of getting out of herself was to court the society of children. So she shut herself in the nursery with the two small boys, who took eery advantage of the unexpected treat without troubling their heads as to how it had come about. Meantime the three guests started off on the usual morning peregrination of the grounds, and Joan followed her husband to his study, found him staring aimlessly out of the window, and accosted him in cold and biting tones. “Geoffrey, I wish to speak to you. You are entitled to your own opinions, but the next time that you find them in opposition to mine I should be obliged if you would reserve your remarks until we are alone. If you have no consideration for me, you might at least consider your guests; it cannot be agreeable for them to overhear our differences.” Geoffrey did not move. He stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his head drooping forward on his breast, an air of weariness and depression in every line of his figure. For a minute there was silence, then he spoke, slowly, and with frequent breaks, as though considering each word as it came— “That is true.—I was to blame.—I should have waited, as you say.—It shall not occur again, Joan. I apologise.” Esmeralda looked at him. The fire died from her eyes, her lips trembled. Quick to anger, she was equally quick to penitence, and a soft word could melt her hardest mood. She made a very lovely picture at that moment, but her husband’s back was still turned. He kept his head rigorously turned aside as he crossed to his desk and seated himself on his swivel chair. “I have ordered the car for eleven, as you wished.” “Thank you.” Joan knew herself to be dismissed, but she had no intention of obeying. For her impetuous nature half-measures did not exist, and a peace that was not peace with honour seemed unworthy the name. She leaned over her husband’s desk, facing him with earnest eyes. “Geoffrey! Why were you so cross? It was unreasonable. I shall do quite well at my stall. People are sick to death of cushions and cosies, but they will snap at my beautiful things from abroad, which they don’t often have a chance of buying.” “I am sure of it.” “Then why—why—? What on earth put you into such a bait?” Geoffrey put down his pen and drew a long sigh. It was easy to see that he dreaded a discussion, and was most unwillingly drawn into its toils. “Since you ask me, Joan, I was disappointed that you had taken so little personal trouble over the affair. I could have given the money easily enough; when I refused I was thinking more of you than of any one else. I hoped this bazaar might be the means of taking you out of yourself, of bringing you in contact with people whose lives are not altogether given up to self-indulgence. Your one idea seems to have been to avoid such a course.” “You would have liked me to have sewing meetings here as Mrs Ewart has at the vicarage: plain sewing from two to four, and then tea and buns. You would have liked to see me sitting in the evening embroidering wild roses on tray cloths, and binding shaving-cases with blue ribbon?” “I would,” said Geoffrey sturdily. He did not smile, as he had been expected to do, but sat grim and grave, refusing to be cajoled. Esmeralda’s anger mounted once more. “Then I call it stupid and bigoted, and I absolutely disagree. If I’m to waste my time, I’ll waste it in my own way, not in perpetrating atrocities to disfigure another home. And I hate village sewing meetings and the dull, ugly frumps who go to them.” Mr Hilliard took up his pen, squared his elbows, and quietly began to write. “Geoffrey, can’t you answer when I speak to you! I’m not a child to be cowed and snubbed! I—I hate you when you get into this superior mood!” Geoffrey lifted his face—was it the strong east light which made it suddenly appear so lined and worn? There was no anger in his face, only a very pitiful sadness. “I am afraid there are many moods in which you ‘hate’ me, Esmeralda.” The look on his face, the sound of the old pet name were too much for the warm Irish heart. In a moment his wife was on her knees beside him, holding his hands, pressing them to her lips, stroking them with caressing fingers. “Geoff, Geoff, it isn’t true; you know it isn’t. I always love you, I always did. You know it is true. I was ready to marry you when I thought you hadn’t a penny. I wanted nothing but yourself.” “I never forget it,” said Geoffrey deeply; “I never can. Sometimes—sometimes I wish it had been true, it might have been better for us both. ‘All that riches can buy’ has not made a happy woman of you, Esmeralda.” He stroked back the hair from her broad, low brow, looking with troubled eyes at the fine lines which already marked its surface. “I can give my wife many treasures, but apparently not the thing she needs most of all—the happiness which Dick Victor manages to provide for Bridgie on a few hundreds a year!” “Bridgie is Bridgie, and I’m myself; we were born different. It’s not fair to compare us, and the advantages are not all on one side. If she has not had my opportunities, she has escaped the temptations; she might have grown selfish too. Sometimes I hate money, Geoffrey; it’s a millstone round one’s neck.” “No!” Geoffrey squared his shoulders. “It’s a lever. I am glad to be rich; my father worked hard for his money—it was honourably gained, and I’m proud to inherit it. It is a responsibility, a heavy one, if you like, but one is bound to have responsibilities in life, and it’s a fine thing to have one which holds such possibilities. I mean to bring up the boys to take that view. But—” he paused heavily—“I’d give it up to-morrow if it could purchase peace and tranquillity, a rest from this everlasting strain!” Something tightened over Joan’s heart; a chill as of fear passed through her blood. Geoffrey spoke quietly, so sanely, with an unmistakable air of knowing his own mind. And his manner was so cool, so detached, not one lover-like word or action had he vouchsafed in answer to her own. A chill passed through Joan’s veins, the chill of dismay which presages disaster. At that moment she divined the certainty of what she had never before even dimly imagined—the waning of her husband’s love. Like too many beautiful young wives, she had taken for granted that her place in her husband’s heart was established for life, independent of any effort to retain it. She had not realised that love is a treasure which must needs be guarded with jealous care, that the delicate cord may be strained so thin that a moment may come when it reaches breaking-point. That moment had not come yet; surely, surely, it could not have come, but she felt the shadow. “Don’t you love me any more, Geoffrey?” she asked faintly. “In spite of all my faults, do you love me still like you did?” It was the inevitable ending to a dissension, the inevitable question which he had answered a hundred times, and if to-day there was a new tone in the voice which spoke it, Geoffrey was not sensitive enough to notice. Few men would mark such differences in a moment of tension. “I love you, Joan,” he answered wearily. “You are my wife; but you’ve rubbed off the bloom!” <hr /> Joan got up quietly from her knees and crossed to the door. The voice within declared that Geoffrey would call her back, that he would leap after her and clasp her in his arms, as he had done a score of times in like circumstances, that he would implore forgiveness for his cruel words. She walked slowly, pausing as she went to put a chair against the wall, to alter the position of a vase of flowers. She reached the door and cast a swift glance behind. Geoffrey had gone back to his writing; his pen travelled swiftly across the page; he did not raise his head. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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