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Love Affairs of Pixie

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<h3>Chapter Twenty.</h3> <h4>Stephen is answered.</h4> For three days after Pixie’s arrival Stephen Glynn absented himself from the flat, and on the fourth day found a stormy, welcome awaiting him. “Ah, Glynn, is that you?” drawled Pat coldly. “Hope you haven’t inconvenienced yourself, don’t you know. After so many duty visits you are evidently thankful to be rid of me. Pray don’t put yourself out any more on my account.” Stephen shook hands with Pixie and seated himself beside the bed with undaunted composure. “Rubbish, old fellow! And you know it. If you have enjoyed my visits, so have I. But of course now that Miss O’Shaughnessy—” “If it’s myself that’s the obstacle I can stay in my room, but if you’ve any pity on me, come!” interrupted Pixie. “My life’s not worth living towards the end of the afternoon when Pat is watching the clock, and fidgeting for the ring of the bell. I’m only his sister, you see, and he wants a man! I’ll stay out of the room if you’d rather; though I’m not saying,” she concluded demurely, “that I wouldn’t be glad of a change of society myself!” “It’s horribly dull for the poor girl! She doesn’t like to leave me, and I don’t like her going about alone. You might take her about a bit, Glynn, if you weren’t so neglectful and unfriendly! To-morrow’s Sunday, and she’s dying to go to the Abbey...” “May I have the pleasure, Miss O’Shaughnessy?” cried Stephen promptly, and Pixie wrinkled her nose and said— “You couldn’t say anything else but yes, but I’ll not spite myself just for the sake of seeming proud. Come and take me, and come back to lunch. You’ll get a good one. I’ve made some changes in this establishment.” “She telegraphed to the Hilliards’ housekeeper, and she sent off a kitchen-maid—a broth of a girl who romps through the work. And cooks—You wait and see! I lie and dream of the next meal!” Pat chuckled, with restored equanimity. “But if I am living in the lap of luxury I’m not going to be chucked by you, old fellow,” he added. “The more one has the more one wants. I’ve grown to count on your afternoon visit, and it upsets me to go without. My temperature has gone up every night from sheer aggravation. Isn’t that true now, Pixie?” “More blame to, you!” said Pixie. But her eyes met Stephen’s with an anxiety which was not in keeping with her tone, and, in truth, after four days’ absence the face on the pillow appeared to the onlooker, woefully drawn and white, Stephen registered a vow that Pat’s temperature should not rise again through any neglect of his own. “All right, Pat,” he said. “I’ll come as usual, and if it’s inconvenient you can turn me out; and if Miss O’Shaughnessy will accept me for an escort I’ll be proud to take her about. We’ll begin with the Abbey to-morrow.” “That’s all right; I thought you would. What’s the good of a prospective uncle if he can’t make himself useful!” It was the first time Pat had made any reference to Stanor Vaughan, for, like the rest of the family, his pride had been stung by the non-appearance of Pixie’s love, at the expiration of the prescribed two years. Pat knew that occasional letters passed between the young couple, and that the understanding between them appeared unbroken, but it was a poor sort of lover who would voluntarily add to the term of his exile. During the four days which Pixie had spent in the flat, almost every subject under the sun had been discussed but the one which presumably lay nearest the girl’s heart, and that had been consistently shunned. It was only a desire to justify a claim on his friend’s services which had driven Pat to refer to the subject now, and he sincerely wished he had remained silent as he noted the effect of his words. Stephen and Pixie stared steadily into space. Neither spoke, neither smiled; their fixed, blank eyes appeared to give the impression that they had not heard his words. In another moment the silence would have become embarrassing had not Pixie rung the bell and given an order for tea. “Is this your first experience of living in a flat, Miss O’Shaughnessy? How do you like it, as far as you’ve got?” Stephen asked, with a valiant resolve to second Pixie’s efforts, and she turned her face towards him, slightly flushed, but frank and candid as ever. “I love it—it’s so social! You know everyone’s business as well as your own. The floors are supposed to be sound-proof, but really they’re so many sounding-boards. The couple above had a quarrel last night—at the high points we could hear every word. It was as good as a theatre, though, of course—” she lengthened her face with a pretence of gravity—“’twas very sad! But they’ve made it up to-day, because she’s singing. She has one song that she sings a dozen times every day ... something about parting from a lover. Pat says she’s been at it for months past—‘Since we parted yester eve.’ ... She feels it, poor creature! I suggested to Pat that we might board him, so that he might always be on the spot, and she wouldn’t have to part. He says it would be worth the money. ... The lady below sings ‘Come back to Erin’ by the hour. She’s always singing it! We thought of sending a polite note to say that we had given her request every consideration, but that owing to the unsettled condition of politics in that country we really did not see our way to move. ... And they have anthracite stoves.” “Why shouldn’t they?” Stephen asked. He had greeted Pixie’s description with the delight of one who finds a painful situation suddenly irradiated by humour, but the anthracite stoves conveyed no meaning. “Why shouldn’t they, if they choose?” Pixie scowled disapproval. “So selfish! Noise like earthquakes every time they rake. I wake every morning thinking I’m dead. This morning I counted sixty separate rakes! Now, here’s a problem for you, Mr Glynn—How can you avenge yourself on an upstairs flatter? If it’s below: it’s quite easy—you just bang with the poker; but how can you do that on your own ceiling? ’Tis no consolation to break the plaster!” The tea was carried in as she spoke, and she rose to seat herself at the table, giving a friendly smile at the trim maid who had replaced the arrant “housekeeper.” “Hot scones, Moffatt? You do spoil us!” she said cordially, and the girl left the room abeam with content. “She adores me—all maids do,” announced Pixie, with her complacent air well to the fore. “It’s the way I treat them. My sister, now—Bridgie Victor—she’s a coward with her maids. She lies awake half the night rehearsing the best ways of hinting that she’d prefer pastry lighter than lead, after begging us all as a personal favour to eat it in case cook should be hurt. When I have a house—” She stopped short and busied herself with her duties, and neither of her listeners questioned her further on the subject. Tea was a merry meal, and Pat consumed the dainty fare with undisguised enjoyment. “That’s the pull of an accident,” he declared, as he helped himself to a third scone, “ye can eat! It’s awful to think of poor beggars on a diet. ... Let’s have muffins to-morrow, Pixie, swimming with butter. Glynn’s coming!” “Don’t tempt me! I am coming to lunch, but you won’t want me to stay on.” “Rubbish! We do. Stay for the whole day, and Pixie shall sing to us. It’s the least she can do, if you take her to church.” Stephen looked at his hostess with a glance curiously compounded of dread and expectation. Music was the passion of his life, so true a passion that it was torture to him to hear the travesties which passed under its name. Bearing in mind the very small proportion of girls who could really sing, he wished that the proposal had never been made, since the result would probably mean a jarring episode in a delightful day. “But you have no piano,” he said uncertainly. “How can—” “It’s not a piano would stop me, if I wanted to sing. I don’t need an accompaniment,” Pixie declared, and Stephen shuddered in spirit. Unaccompanied songs were terrible ordeals to the listeners. Eyes as well as ears were tortured. One never knew where to look! He pondered as he drank his tea how the situation could be ameliorated, if not escaped, and reminded himself thankfully that if necessary he could hire a piano and send it in. Then, looking up, he met Pat’s eyes fixed upon him with a quizzical smile. Pat showed at times an uncomfortable faculty for, reading his friends’ thoughts, and Stephen realised that it was in force at this minute, and was thankful that at least it did not find vent in words. Pixie’s happy complacence about her own powers was so far removed from ordinary conceit that he dreaded to wound it. He therefore hastily changed the conversation, and avoided the subject of music for the rest of his call. The next morning, after arranging for Pat’s comfort, Pixie retired to her eerie, and spent what appeared to the invalid an unconscionably long time over her toilette. After the cheerful manner of flats, by slightly raising the voice it was easy to carry on a conversation with a person in an adjoining room, and Pat therefore favoured his sister with a statement that he “expected to see something pretty fetching, after all this time!” “Ha! Ha!” cried Pixie in return, and her voice gave no hint of modesty. Nevertheless, and for all his expectations, Pat gave a gasp of surprise when a few minutes later she sailed into the room. She wore a coat and skirt of a soft, mouse-coloured velvet, very quiet and nondescript in hue, and the hat, with its curling brim, was covered with the same material. So far, very douce and quiet; but entirely round the hat, and curling gracefully over one side, was a magnificent ostrich plume, which was plainly the pride of its owner’s heart. She tossed her head in answer to Pat’s uplifted hands, pirouetted round and round, and struck a telling attitude. “Yes! Ain’t I smart? Me dear, regard the feather! I’ve longed for years to possess a scrumptious feather, and have talked by the hour, trying to convince Bridgie it was economical in the end. But she wouldn’t. She said ’twas expensive at the start, and she couldn’t see any further. Sometimes she is dense. She can’t help it, poor creature, living with Dick! However, Esmeralda did, and she bought it in Paris to match my coat. It measures a yard, loved one! And isn’t it kind of it to turn blue at the end? That little touch of blue just behind my ear does set me off! Honest Indian, Patrick! If you didn’t know better, and came suddenly into the room, wouldn’t you think I was a pretty girl?” “I should!” answered Pat; but a moment later he added, with true brotherly candour, “But you’re not.” “All the more credit to me!” retorted Pixie glibly. She lifted a chair which stood at the left of the fireplace, carried it to a similar position on the right, and seated herself upon it. “This side’s the best.—I must sit here, and let Mr Glynn see my splendour in full blast. Won’t he be pleased?” “He’ll never notice. Glynn’s above hats,” Pat maintained; but, nevertheless, he could not take his own eyes off the dainty grey figure, with the piquant face smiling beneath the brim of the wide hat, and that fascinating little tip of blue ending the long, grey plume. His admiration showed in his eyes, but he felt it his duty to be bracing in words. “I never thought I should live to see you conceited about clothes!” “Ye do get these shocks in life. It’s a sad old world!” answered Pixie, and grimaced at him saucily, as she buttoned her glove. And, after all, Stephen Glynn never did notice the feather. For a ten-pound note he could not have described the next day a single article of Pixie’s attire. He was aware, however, it was pleasant to walk about with Pixie O’Shaughnessy, and that passers-by seemed to envy him his post, and he was relieved that she was disfigured by none of the extremes of an ugly fashion; and, after all, nine men out of ten rarely get beyond this point. They sallied forth together, bidding Pat sleep all morning so as to be ready to talk all afternoon, and descended the gaunt stone stairs to the hall. They walked quietly, but with enjoyment in each other’s company. The usual crowd blocked the Abbey door, and Stephen and Pixie stood waiting under the statue of the “third great Canning” for some time, before at last they were escorted to seats in the nave. The sermon, unfortunately, they could not hear, but the exquisite service was to both a deep delight. Remembering the conversation of the night before, Stephen dreaded lest Pixie should be one of the mistaken ones who sing persistently through an elaborate choral service, thereby nullifying its effect for those around. He was thankful to find that his fears were unnecessary, but once or twice in an unusually beautiful refrain he imagined that his ear caught the sound of a deep, rich note—a soft echo of the strain itself, evoked by an irresistible impulse. He looked inquiringly at his companion, but her head was bent and the brim of her hat concealed her face. Her stillness, her reverence appealed to his heart, for it was easy to see that she was enjoying the music not as a mere concert, but, above all things, as an accompaniment to the words themselves. One time, when he glanced at her as she rose from her knees, he surprised a glimmer of tears in her eyes, and the sight brought a stab to his heart. Why should she cry? What was the reason of the air of repression and strain which from time to time flitted across her face? If it were Stanor’s doing. ... Stephen frowned, and resolutely turned his attention to the service. They came out of the Abbey to the majestic strains of the organ—out of the dim, blurred light shining shaft-like across the glowing mosaic of gold, and marble, and great jewelled windows, into the hard, everyday world. The pavements were crowded with pedestrians hurrying here and there; restaurants had opened their doors, tobacco merchants and newspaper vendors were hard at work, and country-bred Pixie stared around in amazed disapproval. They crossed the crowded thoroughfares and, led by Stephen, found quiet byways in which it was possible to talk in comparative comfort alone. “It was better even than I expected, and that’s saying so much! It does one good to go to a service like that. It’s so big!” “The—the Abbey?” queried Stephen vaguely, and Pixie gave a quick denial. “No. No! Not only the building—everything! There’s an atmosphere of peace, and dignity, and calm. One gets away from littleness and quarrelling. It’s so sad when people quarrel about religion, and one sect disputes with another...” “It is indeed,” replied Stephen, sighing. “The chances of conciliation would be so much greater if they fought with honey, not with gall. ... The world needs kindness—” “Oh, it does! There is such sorrow, such pain!” Pixie’s voice rang suddenly sharp, and a wave of emotion flitted over her face. She raised her eyes to his, and said suddenly, in a voice of melting pathos: “Her face! ... That girl’s face! All these years I’ve never forgotten. ... It’s lain here!” She touched her heart with an eloquent finger. “All these years—every night—I’ve prayed that they might meet...” She shook her head with a determined gesture, as though shaking off a haunting thought. “I couldn’t forget, you see, because—it taught me ... things I had not understood—!” “Yes,” said Stephen dully. For his life he could not have said another word. He waited with dread to hear the next words. “But it was worth learning!” Pixie said bravely. “I was glad to learn. Love is such a big, big thing. When it is given to you it’s a big responsibility. You must not fail; nothing in the world must make you fail!” Stephen said no word. The questions which had filled his brain for the last five days were answered now. There was no more room for doubt. Pixie O’Shaughnessy was ready and waiting to marry Stanor Vaughan at any time when it pleased him to come home and claim her promise. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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