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Love Affairs of Pixie

<h3>Chapter Eleven.</h3> <h4>Pixie Talks on Love.</h4> The immediate cause of Geoffrey’s displeasure having been in connection with the bazaar, it appeared to Joan that it was in that connection also that she must make an amend. He had complained that she had failed in interest and personal energy: by a supreme effort, then, she must demonstrate how his words had taken root. It was the eleventh hour; any one but an impulsive Irish woman would have realised the futility of organising any fresh feature, and would have contented herself with doing well what was already planned, but such tame methods were not for the woman who had been Esmeralda O’Shaughnessy. She was accustomed to acting in haste; at home, at Knock, the most extensive entertainments had been organised at a few hours’ notice, and how much easier it would be now with a staff of trained servants at her command and a purse full of money to buy the necessary accessories, instead of being obliged to manufacture all that was required out of ordinary household goods. Joan heaved a sigh of regret for the memory of those gay old days when a sheet and a pillow-case had provided a fancy costume which had captivated Geoffrey at a glance, then knitted her brows afresh in the effort to think out some scheme appropriate to the occasion. The vicar’s wife had lamented a lack of music which would afford variation from the prosaic business of buying and selling. At the time Joan had suspected a hint, and had resolutely turned a deaf ear. She hated singing to strangers, she hated singing in a building notably deficient in acoustic properties, she had not the faintest intention of victimising herself for the sake of a village throng. But now, with the new impetus driving her on, nothing seemed too hard or distasteful. The vicar’s wife should have her music—music with such accessories as it had never entered her modest head to imagine, music which should be the feature par excellence of the bazaar. Joan’s was a quick, inventive brain; within half an hour she had mentally arranged her programme, made a list of the necessary accessories, and planned how they should be procured. When the little party were again assembled for luncheon she was able to state her plans with an air of complete assurance which left them breathless with astonishment. She had decided to provide two short concerts, one in the afternoon, one in the evening. She would sing two songs; Pixie should do the same. They would all join in appropriate part songs. By way of a climax the last number on the programme should be illustrated by a tableau vivant. She proposed to write special words to a well-known air which, together with the tableau, should illustrate the benefits which the bazaar was destined to provide for the villagers. The tableau should represent a scene in a cottage interior in which were grouped four figures—a child suffering from an accident, a distraught mother, a helpless father, and in the background, bending beneficently over the patient, the parish nurse. Esmeralda looked around for approval, and met the stare of blank and doubtful faces. “Er—a bit lugubrious, isn’t it, Mrs Hilliard?” ventured Stanor at last, voicing the general impression so strongly that Esmeralda’s imagination instantly took another leap. “Certainly not, for I should have a second tableau to follow to show the happy convalescence—child sitting up in bed, pale but smiling, nurse bringing in bunch of flowers, father and mother, with outstretched hands, pouring out thanks.” “That’s better! That’s more like it!” The murmur of approval passed down the table. Pixie laid her head on one side in smiling consideration. Yes, it would go; arranged with Esmeralda’s skill and taste the scenes would be pretty and touching, especially when seen to the accompaniment of her beautiful voice. The shortness of the time allowed for preparation troubled Pixie no more than her sister. She smiled at Esmeralda and nodded a cheery encouragement. “I’ll be the distracted mother, and weep into my apron. Honor will look a duck in a cap. Who’s to be the little victim?” “Jack, of course. He’ll look too sweet,” said Jack’s proud mother. “Can’t you imagine him, sitting up in bed with his curls peeping out beneath his bandages—he must have bandages—smiling like a little angel! He’d bring down the house. The people would love to see him.” Then for the first time Geoffrey spoke. So far he had listened to the conversation in a silence which both his wife and sister-in-law felt to be disappointingly unsympathetic. Now his objections were put into words— “Isn’t Jack rather young and—er—sensitive for such a public rôle? I should have thought that your concert would be complete without troubling about a tableau. In any case, there are plenty of village children.” “Not with Jack’s face. He is sensitive, of course, but he’s not shy; he’d enjoy the excitement. And we should be there; he could come to no harm.” “And the evening performance? Would you propose that he sat up for that also?” Joan pressed her lips together in the struggle for patience. Really Geoffrey was too bad! What did he mean? What did he want? The whole scheme had been planned to give him pleasure, and here he was, silent, disapproving, throwing cold water. The effort at restraint made her voice sound unnatural even in her own ears. “If we had the tableau in the afternoon, it would hardly do to leave it out in the evening—the only time when the villagers themselves will be able to be present.” Before Geoffrey could reply the heel of Pixie’s shoe pressed firmly on his foot beneath the table, and a warning glance silenced his words. A moment later, when the discussion of pros and cons waxed loud at the far end of the table, she whispered an explanation— “Don’t object, don’t argue. It’s to please you! You said she had taken no trouble.” Geoffrey Hilliard’s glance of comprehension had in it more of weariness than elation. Pixie noting the fact, felt a rising of irritation, and mentally dubbed him ungracious and unreasonable, as Esmeralda had done before her. Both failed to appreciate the fact that sudden spasms of energy were by no means an innovation in the family history, and what the tired man was really longing for was that ordered peace and tranquillity which form the English idea of home. He made no further objections, however, and Joan threw herself whole-heartedly into her preparations, determined on a success which must win approval as by a tour de force. The three days following were far from peaceful, but if the master of the house kept aloof from the stir and bustle, his guests threw themselves into it with every appearance of enjoyment. Strains of music sounded from the drawing-room and mingled with the tap-tapping of hammers from an upper room where realistic scenery was being manufactured under Joan’s able supervision. The new system of thoroughness demanded, moreover, that the stored-up cases should be opened, and the contents unpacked, dusted, and re-priced, a work in itself of many hours. The four guests started thereon with equal vigour, but Honor took an early opportunity of slipping away. She was tired, she had a headache, she must finish a book, there were half a dozen stock excuses, each one of which seemed to demand an instant adjournment to the garden. She made the announcement in a high, clear drawl and sailed out of the room without leaving time for protest. Whereupon Robert Carr attacked the work on hand with feverish zeal, worked like a nigger for five or ten minutes by the clock, and finally bolted out of the door, without, in his case, going through the form of an excuse. Then the two workers who were left looked out of the window and beheld the truants seated at extreme ends of a garden seat, hardly speaking to each other, looking on the most stiff and formal of terms. Stanor laughed at the sight, but Pixie’s practical mind could not reconcile itself to such contradictory behaviour. “Where’s the sense of it?” she asked. “Where’s the fun? To play truant to sit on a bench and sulk! Wouldn’t it be far more fun, now, to work up here with nice cheerful people like yourself and—me?” But Stanor knew better. “Not a bit of it,” he returned. “They’d rather quarrel by themselves all day long than be happy with outsiders, even such fascinating people as ourselves. It’s a symptom of the disease. Of course, you have grasped the fact that they are suffering from a disease?” “I have. I can use my eyes. But why?” cried Pixie, rounding on him with sudden energy, “why, will you tell me, can’t they be happy and comfortable and get engaged and be done with it? What’s the sense of pretending one thing when you mean another, and sulking and quarrelling when you might—” “Quite so,” assented Stanor, laughing. “Odd, isn’t it; but they will, you know. Never any knowing what they will do when it takes them like that. Besides, in this case there are complications. Miss Ward has pots of money, and poor old Carr has nothing but what he makes. He’ll get on all right—a fellow with that chin is bound to get on—but it takes time, and meantime it’s a bit of an impasse. A fellow doesn’t mind his wife having some money—it’s a good thing for her as well as for himself—but when it comes to a pile like that—well, if he has any self-respect, he simply can’t do it!” “If I had a pile, I’d expect my lover to accept it from me as gladly as I’d take it from him. If he didn’t, I should feel he didn’t love me enough.” “You’d be wrong there. He might love you enough to wish to save you from a jolly uncomfortable position. It’s not right that a man should be dependent upon his wife. Puts him in a false position.” “Not if he really loved her. How could it? He’d realise then that in a life together there would be no ‘yours’ or ‘mine.’ It would all be ‘ours.’” Stanor lifted his head to look at her, and Pixie’s clear eyes met his in a full frank gaze which held no shadow of embarrassment. Here was something quite new—a girl who could speak about love to a young man without a trace of self-consciousness or flirtation, yet with an earnestness which demonstrated a keen personal interest. Stanor had many girl friends with whom he had often discussed the subject, but invariably a certain amount of self-consciousness had crept in, which had shown itself alternately in cynicism or sentimentality. Now, to his own amazement, he realised that he was the one to feel embarrassment, while Pixie confided her sentiments as placidly as if he had been a maiden aunt. He stared at her as she stood before him, a trim, quaint little figure enveloped in a print overall, beneath which her feet appeared absurdly small and doll-like, and as he looked his heart gave a curious, unexpected leap. He had felt that leap before, and the meaning of it was no mystery to him, though in this particular instance it was sufficiently astonishing. Handsome, accomplished, the presumptive heir to a fortune, Stanor Vaughan had been a pet of society for the last half-dozen years, and being by nature susceptible to girlish charm had more than once imagined himself seriously in love. There had been, for example, that beautiful blonde whose society had turned a summer holiday into a veritable idyll. He had been on the verge of proposing to her when his uncle had suddenly summoned him home, and—well, somehow the restless misery of the first few days had disappeared with surprising rapidity, the vision had grown dim, and finally faded from sight. Again it had been a charming brunette, and this time he had been sure of himself, perfectly sure. He was awaiting an opportunity to speak when again a summons had arrived, a pleasant one this time, since it took the form of an invitation to accompany his uncle on a prolonged continental tour. There had been no time to think. He had barely time to pack his bag and be off. And at the end of a month, well! He had begun to hesitate and doubt, and the episode ended like the first. Curious, when he came to think about it, how the Runkle had in both cases played the part of deus ex machina. It was coincidence, of course, pure coincidence, for the old fellow had not known the girls even by name, but it was odd! As for his own part in the proceeding, both girls had been unusually charming specimens of the modern society girl, it was natural enough that he should have been impressed, but if it was really the fact that he was falling in love with this Irish Pixie, that was another, and a very different matter. With a darting thought Stanor recalled his impressions on first meeting the girl a week before, and his own outspoken surprise at the insignificance of the sister of his beautiful hostess. A plain, odd little creature, that had been the involuntary verdict, but almost immediately it had been amended. Plain, but charming; distinctly the little thing had charm! Now, at the expiration of six days it had come to this, that his eyes no longer noted the faulty outline, but found a continual joy in watching the play of expression, the vivid life and interest of the sparkling little face. This was the real thing at last, Stanor told himself: it must be the real thing! Mingled with all his excitement and perturbation, he was conscious of a thrill of self-appreciation. It was not every man of his age who would put beauty of character before that of feature. He threw a deliberate empressement into his gaze, and said meaningly— “Your husband, Miss Pixie, will be a lucky man!” “He will so,” agreed Pixie warmly. She gave a soft, musical laugh as if the thought were a pleasant one to dwell on, but Stanor was sensitive enough to realise that his own image played no part in her dreams. She took up her pen and returned to the scribbling of prices on small paper labels. “Russian lace, five shillings a yard. Russian lacquer collar-box. Don’t you hate that shiny red? Of course, when I talked of fortunes I was only putting myself in her place. I’ve nothing. None of us have. When My lover comes, there’ll be only—Me!” The words sounded modest enough, but there was a complacence in the tilt of the head which told another story. Pixie O’Shaughnessy had no pity to waste on the man who should win herself. Stanor’s lip twisted in a self-conscious smile. The other girls had been rich. He pondered for a moment, and then said suddenly— “I wonder, Miss Pixie, with your temperament, and—er—under the circumstances that you have not been fired with the modern craze to do something before now. Girls nowadays don’t seem happy unless they have some work—” “But I have, I have! Did you think I was idle?” She looked at him with reproachful eyes. “This is a holiday. I’m sampling luxury for a change, and I won’t deny it’s agreeable, but at home all the year I’m at work from morning to night. I don’t know how to get through my work.” So she had a profession then, after all! Stanor felt an amused conviction that whatever the post might be the little thing would fill it uncommonly well. Small and child-like as she appeared, she yet carried with her that air of assurance which is the heritage of the capable. It interested him to consider for a moment what particular rôle she had adopted, and more than one possibility had passed through his head before he put the question into words— “And what exactly do you do, Miss Pixie?” She stared at him blankly. “Now, if you’d asked me to say what I do not do, it would have been easier. Have you any sort of idea what it means to keep a home going with big ideas and little means, and a cook-general to thwart your efforts? If you have, you can imagine the list. Dusting, sewing, mending, turning, making, un-making, helping Bridgie, amusing the children, soothing the servants, humouring Dick, making dresses, trimming hats, covering cushions, teaching the alphabet, practising songs, arranging flowers, watering plants, going to shops, making up parcels, writing notes, making—” Stanor held up his hands in protest. “Stop! Have pity on me! What an appalling list! Isn’t it nearly done? My ears are deafened! I am overcome with the thought of such activity!” Nevertheless the smile with which he regarded her was distinctly approving, for, like most men, he preferred domestic women who did not despise home work. “I’ll tell you what it is,” he added warmly, “Mrs Victor is like the other fellow—jolly lucky to have you! There are precious few girls who would give up their whole lives to a sister.” “Bridgie is more than a sister. She’s meant father and mother and home to me for over ten years. My parents died when I was so young.” “Like mine. That’s a point of union between us. My uncle has played the part of your Bridgie.” “He has; I know it. He’s lame,” answered Pixie swiftly, and was amazed at the heat with which the young fellow replied— “Lame? Who said so? Who told you? What does it matter if he is lame?” “Not one bit. I was only—sorry. I didn’t mean to be unkind or to repeat anything I shouldn’t. Why are you vexed?” He shrugged his shoulders, and snapped the scissors over a coil of string. “Oh, nothing. Gets on one’s nerves a bit that’s all. He’s such a fine fellow, he would have been such a brick, but that wretched lameness has spoiled it all. Till he was eighteen he was as strong as a horse—a fine, upstanding young giant he must have been. Then came the accident—pitched from his horse against a stone wall—and for twelve solid years he lay on his back. That made him only thirty, but you would never have believed it to see him. He was a lot more like a man of fifty.” Pixie laid her pen on the table, and rested her chin in the clasped hands. Her eyes looked very large and wistful. “Twelve years on one’s back would be pretty long. One would live so fast inside all the while one’s body was idle. ’Twould age you. If it had happened when he was fifty, ’twould have been easier, but at eighteen one feels so lively and awake. Anything, anything would seem better than to do just nothing! To wake each morning and know there was nothing before one all the long hours, but to lie still! Other people would get accustomed to it for you—that would be one of the bits which would hurt the most—for you’d never be accustomed yourself. And which would be worst, do you think—the days when it was dull and the room was dark, or the days when the sun blazed, begging him to come out?” Stanor shook himself with an involuntary shiver. “Don’t!” he cried sharply. “Don’t talk like that! What an imagination you have! I’ve been enough cut up about it, goodness knows, but I never realised all that it meant. ... Well! He is better now, so we needn’t grouse about it any more. It’s only that’s it’s left a mark! He was turned in a moment from a boy into an old man—his youth was killed, and he can’t get it back! That’s one reason why he’s so jolly anxious about me. Like most fellows he sets an exaggerated value on the things he has missed himself, and it’s a craze with him to—as he calls it—‘safeguard my youth.’ He is trying to live his own lost days again through me, poor fellow, and it’s a poor game. Outsiders take for granted that I’m his heir, but that’s bosh. Fellows of thirty-five don’t worry about heirs. He has never mentioned the subject; all he has done is to give me every chance in the way of education, and to promise me a good ‘start off.’ I’d have been ready to tackle serious work at once, but he is against a fellow having real responsibility until he’s had time to feel his feet. I’ve had to work, of course—he’s keen on that; but he’s keen on recreation, too, and freedom from responsibility. He believes, poor chap, that if a fellow has freedom between twenty and thirty, he is better fitted to take up responsi—” Stanor stopped short suddenly, and the blood rushed to his cheeks. “I wonder!” he repeated blankly; “I wonder!” For the first time revelation had come home to him with a flash that his uncle’s interference in those two incipient love affairs had not been coincidence, but a deeply matured plan. He recalled occasions when chance words had betrayed a surprising acquaintance with his own doings, the houses at which he visited, and the feminine members of those households. Unsuspecting himself, he had doubtless betrayed more than he knew. In more ways than one his uncle had determined to safeguard his freedom during these early years! Stanor set his lips. The discovery was no more pleasant to him than it would be to any other young man of his age. A certain amount of “management” a fellow must be ready to accept from one who had been so generous a friend, but this was going too far. The Runkle must be shown that in purely personal matters his nephew would allow no one to interfere! The frown continued for several minutes, but finally gave place to a smile, for a consideration of the present position had led him to a comfortable conclusion. The Runkle would be on a wrong tack this time! If he scented any attraction among the members of Mrs Hilliard’s house-party, it would of a certainty be attributed to the pretty American heiress, Honor Ward. No one would suspect for a moment that the fastidious Stanor Vaughan had been laid captive by a plain and penniless Irish Pixie! <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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