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Love Affairs of Pixie

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<h3>Chapter Twenty Eight.</h3> <h4>Pixie finds her Happiness.</h4> As soon as Pat had sufficiently recovered, he and Pixie travelled to Ireland to spend a few weeks in the old homestead, now blooming in fresh beauty under the management of Jack O’Shaughnessy and Sylvia his wife. The great hall which had been of old so bare and desolate was now embellished with Turkey carpets and tapestried walls: so far as the eye could reach there was not one shabby, nor broken, nor patched-up article; in sight; the damp and fusty odour which had filled the great drawing-room, and which for years had been associated with State apartments in Pixie’s youthful mind, was a thing of the past. Even in the chilliest weather the room remained warm, for electric radiators, cunningly hidden from sight, dispelled the damp, and were kept turned on night and day, “whether they were needed, or whether they were not,” to the delight and admiration of the Irish staff. For pure extravagance, for pure pagan delight in extravagance, the Irishman and woman are hard to beat. The very warmth and generosity of their nature makes it abhorrent to them to stint in any direction, which is one reason, out of many, for the prevailing poverty of the land. Jack and Sylvia made delightful hosts, and it was a very happy and a very merry quartette which passed those spring days together in Knock Castle. They were complete in themselves, and any suggestion of “a party” was instantly vetoed by the visitors, who announced their desire to remain “just as we are.” Sylvia and Pixie rode or drove about the country, pulling up every half mile or so to chat with cottagers, who were all eager to see Miss Pixie, to invoke blessings on her head, and—begging her honour’s pardon!—to sigh a sigh for the memory of the times that were no more. On frequent occasions this same curious, and to English-bred Sylvia, inexplicable regret for the days of old was manifested by the dwellers on the country-side. “What did they want?” she asked herself impatiently. “What could they wish for that had not already been done?” Repaired cottages, improved sanitation, higher wages, perquisites without number—since the new reign all these things had been bestowed upon these ungratefuls, and still they dared to regret the past! Sylvia had not yet grasped the fact that her birth and upbringing made a chasm between herself and her tenants which no kindness could span. They would burn her peat, waste her food, accept, and more or less waste again, all that she chose to bestow, but given a choice between the present days of plenty and the lean, bare years of the reign of the jovial “Major” and his brood, they would enthusiastically have acclaimed the latter’s return. Occasionally something of the same spirit would manifest itself in the O’Shaughnessys themselves, as when Jack’s voice would take on an apologetic tone in telling his brother of some improvement in the estate, or Pixie gazing at the old Persian carpet in the dining-room would sigh regretfully, “There used to be a hole!” On such occasions Sylvia was sometimes forced to depart on a visit to the nursery and relieve her feelings by a stamp en route. When she returned Jack’s twinkling eyes would search her face, and he would take an early opportunity of passing her chair and touching her with a caressing hand, and once more all would be peace and joy. Jack and his wife heard from Pat’s lips all details as to Stanor Vaughan and his approaching marriage, but to Pixie herself the subject was never mentioned. “Anyway, she’s not fretting!” said Jack. “Never saw her brighter and happier. Bless her big, little heart! I’m thankful the fellow has taken himself out of her way. She’d never have given him up of her own accord. We’ve all been so happy in our marriages that we can’t stand any second-bests for Pixie! When are you going to settle down, old chap?” “Oh, about next June year,” replied Pat calmly. “Always said I would about twenty-eight. Nice time of year, too, for a honeymoon!” “But ... but...” Jack stammered in surprise. “Have you met the girl?” “My good man! Dozens! There’s no difficulty there. Faith, I love them all!” sighed handsome Pat. Well, it was a happy holiday, but there was no sadness when it came to an end, for Pat was ready and eager to get back to work, and Pixie to the northern town which meant Bridgie and home. Brother and sister parted with mutual protestations of gratitude and appreciation, and with several quite substantial castles in the air as regards future meetings, and within a few days both had settled down to the routine of ordinary life. “Pixie is just the same. All this business has not altered her at all,” Captain Victor said to his wife, and Bridgie smiled at him, the same sort of loving, indulgent smile which she bestowed on her small son when he guilelessly betrayed his ignorance. She knew that Pixie had altered, felt the alteration every day of her life, in a subtle, indefinite manner which had escaped the masculine observation. There was a certain expression which in quiet moments had been wont to settle on the young face, an expression of repression and strain, which now appeared to have departed for good, a certain reserve in touching upon any subject connected with love and marriage, which was now replaced by eager interest and sympathy. Gradually, also, as the months rolled on there came moments when a very radiance of happiness shone out of the grey eyes, and trilled in the musical voice. The time of Stephen Glynn’s visit was drawing near; another week, and he would actually arrive. What would be the result of that visit? Bridgie could not tell. In a matter so important she dared not take any definite rôle, but in her prayers that week she implored the Divine Father to send to the dearly loved little sister that which He in His wisdom knew to be best. And then, as usual, Pixie did the unexpected thing. The sisters were sitting together at tea the day before Stephen was expected, when suddenly she looked across the room, and said as quietly and naturally as if she had been asking the time— “Do ye think now, Bridgie, that he will ask me to marry him?” Bridgie started. Up to her cheeks flew the red. It was she who was embarrassed, she who stammered and crumbled the hem of the tablecloth. “My dear, I don’t know! How should I? How can I possibly know?” “I didn’t ask you if you knew. I asked if you thought.” “I—don’t know what to think. ... I know what he wants! But he is so sensitive, so humble about himself. He thinks he is too old, and ... and his lameness—he exaggerates things all round. From what he said to me in that letter—” “That letter you wouldn’t show me?” “Yes. I couldn’t, Pixie! It was in confidence, and besides, he said nothing definite. It was only inferred. It’s just because he idealises you so much that he thinks he is not worthy. No one can tell what a man will do when it comes to the time, but what he means to do is evidently—to say nothing!” “Oh!” said Pixie. She nibbled a fragment of cake for a thoughtful moment, and then said calmly— “So now I know. Thank you, Bridgie. Please don’t say any more!” “No, darling, no, I won’t; only please just one thing—it has puzzled me so much, and I have longed to know. ... There’s never been any reserve between us—you have confided in me so openly all your life till just these last years. Why didn’t you tell me you were unhappy about Stanor?” “How could I, me dear, when I might be his wife? It wouldn’t have been loyal. And it wasn’t unhappiness exactly, only—a weight. I was trying to keep on loving him, and hating myself for finding it difficult, but I knew if he came back loving me, and wanting me to help him, the weight would go. But you see, he didn’t!” “Pixie, dear, one should not need to try. That sort of love ought to feel no strain.” “If Stanor had needed me, I should have married him,” Pixie said obstinately, “but he didn’t, and, me dear, excuse me! It’s not the most agreeable subject. ... Let’s talk of something else.” The next day Stephen Glynn arrived, and put up at an hotel. An agricultural show which was being held in the town made an excuse for his visit; it also made a vantage ground for daily excursions, and gave opportunities of securing tête-à-tête to those anxious to do so. Pixie was conscious that several such opportunities had in Stephen’s case been of intent ignored and allowed to pass by, but never once did she doubt the motive which prompted such neglect. From the moment of their meeting the consciousness of his love had enveloped her. He might set a seal on his lips, but he could not control his eyes, and the wistfulness of that glance made Pixie brave. Almost the first opportunity for undisturbed conversation came on the afternoon of the third day, when Stephen paid an unexpected call at the house to propose an expedition for the evening, and found Pixie alone. She was sitting writing in the pretty, flower-decked room, where the French window opened wide to the garden beyond. It was only a mite of a garden, not big enough for even a tennis-court, but so much love and ingenuity had been lavished on its arrangement that it had an astonishing air of space. The flower-covered trellis at the end had an air of being there because it chose, and not in the least because it marked an arbitrary division of land. The one big tree made an oasis of shade, and had a low circular seat round its trunk, and the flowers bloomed in grateful recognition of favours bestowed. There are points in which the small garden has a pull over the large. Its owner can, for instance, remember just how many blooms a special plant afforded last summer, and feel a glow of pride in the extra two of the present season; she can water them herself, tie up their drooping heads, snip off the dead flowers, know them, and love them in an intimate, personal way which is impossible in the large, professionally-run gardens. Bridgie’s garden this summer afternoon made a very charming background for the figure of Pixie in her white dress, with the jaunty blue band round her waist, and a little knot to match fastening her muslin Peter Pan collar. She looked very young and fresh and dainty, and the wistful expression deepened on Stephen’s face as he looked at her. For the first few minutes conversation was difficult, for the consciousness of being alone seemed rather to close the way to personal subjects than to open it. Stephen was grave and distrait, Pixie embarrassed and nervous, but the real deep sympathy between them made it impossible that such an atmosphere should continue. Before ten minutes had passed Pixie’s laugh had sounded with the characteristic gurgle which was the very embodiment of merriment, and Stephen was perforce laughing in response. He had never been able to resist Pixie’s laugh. Tea was brought in, and the young hostess did the honours with a pretty hospitality. It was the first meal of which they had partaken à deux, and its homely intimacy brought back the wistful look into Stephen’s eyes. Perhaps Pixie noticed it, perhaps a point had been reached when she felt it impossible to go on talking generalities; in any case, she laid down her cup, straightened herself in her chair with an air of preparing for something big and momentous, and announced clearly— “I had a letter this morning from Honor Vaughan.” Stephen Glynn started, and his face hardened. The subject was evidently unwelcome to the point of pain. “She writes to you?” “I write to her! Of course she answers. I was always fond of Honor.” “Possibly. Before her marriage. As Stanor’s wife, however—” Pixie bent forward, looking him full in the face. “I have no quarrel with Stanor’s wife. I was angry with him. There was something in me which he hurt very much.—I think,” she slightly shrugged her shoulder, and a flicker of a smile passed over her face, and was gone, “’twas my pride! It hurt to think he had been forced to come back. If he’d trusted me and told the truth it would have saved suffering for us—all! At the time I felt I could never forgive him, but that passed. I don’t say I can ever think of him as I did before, as quite honest and true, but—” The smile flashed back. “Can you go on being angry, yourself?” “I—don’t think,” said Stephen slowly, “that ‘angry’ is the right word. I’m disappointed—disappointed with a bitterness which has its root in ten long years of hope and effort. Practically I have lived my life through that boy. My great object and desire was to secure for him all that I had missed. I had made no definite promises, it seemed wiser not, but in effect he was my heir, and all I have would have gone to him. Now that’s over! The future has been taken from me, as well as the past. America has absorbed him. He has already, through his wife, more money than he can use, and the rôle of an English country gentleman has lost its attractions for him. There was a time in my first outburst of indignation when I should have felt it a relief to have had some power of retaliation, but, as you say, that passed. ... He was the only person whom I could in any sense claim as my own, and—I’ve lost him! He is independent of me now. I can do no more for him.” The dark eyes were full of pain. “That is, after all, the thing that hurts the most. The lad has faults, but I loved him. I lived through him; now I can do no more, and our lives fall apart. There’s a big blank!” Pixie did not answer. Her face was very pale; in her ears was a loud thudding noise, which seemed mysteriously to be inside her own breast. “As for his wife, she may be a good girl—she appears to have behaved in an honourable fashion—but to me it’s a new type, and I can’t pretend that I’m not prejudiced. There is only one thing that is satisfactory. The boy is honestly in love, even to the extent of abandoning his career to assist in the management of a pickle factory.” There was an inflection in the tone in which these last words were pronounced which brought Pixie’s eyes upon him in reproach. “They are very good pickles! I can’t see that making them is any less dignified than ‘bulling’ and ‘bearing’ cotton—whatever that may mean!—Stanor used to write of it in his letters. Honor’s father loved his workmen, and made her promise to go on looking after them as he had done. She doesn’t need any more money; it would be easier for her to retire and hand over the factory to some one else. It’s for the men’s sake that she keeps it on, and to keep her promise to her father. Mr Glynn, you must love Honor. She’s good, and true, and honourable, and she’s—Stanor’s wife!” “How could he? How could he?” Stephen rose impetuously, and began pacing up and down, a rare excitement growing in voice and manner. “When he could have had You! ... Good? Yes! She may be good—I’m not denying the girl’s good points. She has behaved well. She has her attractions—Stanor evidently thinks her beautiful—but—he might have had You! ... He has chosen this girl with her ordinary attractions, instead of your sweetness, your sunshine, your generosity, your kindness! Your voice, Pixie; your eyes ... Your love! He was so blind ... so deaf. ... The substance was his, and for a shadow—a poor, faint shadow—” Pixie had risen in her turn. Red as a rose she stood before him, with shrinking eyes, but hands held out in sweet, courageous invitation. “If ye think so much of me as all that,” said the deep voice breathlessly, “wouldn’t ye like me for yourself?” <hr /> Ten minutes later the miracle, the wonder, was as marvellous as ever: as incredible to the man whose life was suddenly irradiated with sunshine. “Pixie! Pixie!” he cried. “My youth! ... Will you give it back to me, sweetheart—the youth that I lost?” “Beloved!” said Pixie, and her voice was as the swell of a deep organ note. “It was not lost. It’s been waiting for you—” she touched her heart with an eloquent gesture—“here!” <h4>The End.</h4> <hr /></div> <div class="navigation"> | Chapter 1 | | Chapter 2 | | Chapter 3 | | Chapter 4 | | Chapter 5 | | Chapter 6 | | Chapter 7 | | Chapter 8 | | Chapter 9 | | Chapter 10 | | Chapter 11 | | Chapter 12 | | Chapter 13 | | Chapter 14 | | Chapter 15 | | Chapter 16 | | Chapter 17 | | Chapter 18 | | Chapter 19 | | Chapter 20 | | Chapter 21 | | Chapter 22 | | Chapter 23 | | Chapter 24 | | Chapter 25 | | Chapter 26 | | Chapter 27 | | Chapter 28 | <hr /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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