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Love Affairs of Pixie

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<h3>Chapter Two.</h3> <h4>Pixie’s Views on Marriage.</h4> Bridgie Victor sat gazing at her sister in a numb bewilderment. It was the first, the very first time that the girl had breathed a word concerning the romantic possibilities of her own life, and even Bridgie’s trained imagination failed to rise to the occasion. Pixie! Lovers! Lovers! Pixie! ... The juxtaposition of ideas was too preposterous to be grasped. Pixie was a child, the baby of the family, just a bigger, more entertaining baby to play with the tinies of the second generation, who treated her as one of themselves, and one and all scorned to bestow the title of “aunt.” There was a young Patricia in the nursery at Knock Castle, and a second edition in the Victor nursery upstairs; but though the baptismal name of the little sister had been copied, not even the adoring mothers themselves would have dreamed of borrowing the beloved pet name, Pixie’s nose might not be to her approval; it might even scoop—to be perfectly candid, it did scoop—but it had never yet been put out of joint. The one and only, the inimitable Pixie, she still lived enthroned in the hearts of her brothers and sisters, as something specially and peculiarly their own. So it was that a pang rent Bridgie’s heart at the realisation that the little sister was grown-up, was actually twenty years of age—past twenty, going to be twenty-one in a few more months, and that the time was approaching when a stranger might have the audacity to steal her from the fold. To her own heart, Bridgie realised the likelihood of such a theft, and the naturalness thereof: outwardly, for Pixie’s benefit she appeared shocked to death. “L–lovers!” gasped Bridgie. “Lovers! Is it you, Pixie O’Shaughnessy, I hear talking of such things? I’m surprised; I’m shocked! I never could have believed you troubled your head about such matters.” “But I do,” asserted Pixie cheerfully. “Lots. Not to say trouble, exactly, for it’s most agreeable. I pretend about them, and decide what they’ll be like. When I see a man that takes my fancy, I add him to the list. Mostly they’re clean-shaved, but I saw one the other day with a beard—” She lifted a warning finger to stay Bridgie’s cry of protest. “Not a straggler, but a naval one, short and trim; and you wouldn’t believe how becoming it was! I decided then to have one with a beard. And they are mostly tall and handsome, and rolling in riches, so that I can buy anything I like, nose included. But one must be poor and sad, because that,” announced Pixie, in her most radiant fashion, “would be good for my character. I’d be sorry for him, the creature! And, as they say in books, ’twould soften me. Would you say honestly, now, Bridgie, that I’m in need of softening?” “I should not. I should say you were soft enough already. Too soft!” declared Bridgie sternly. “‘Them,’ indeed! Plural, I’ll trouble you! Just realise, my child, that there are not enough men to go round, and don’t waste time making pictures of a chorus who will never appear. If you have one lover, it will be more than your share; and it’s doubtful if you ever get that.” “I doubt it,” maintained Pixie sturdily. “I’m plain, but I’ve a way. You know yourself, me dear, I’ve a way! ... I’m afraid I’ll have lots; and that’s the trouble of it, for as sure as you’re there, Bridgie, I’ll accept them all! ’Twouldn’t be in my heart to say no, with a nice man begging to be allowed to take care of me. I’d love him on the spot for being so kind; or if I didn’t, and I saw him upset, it would seem only decent to comfort him, so ’twould end the same way. ... It breaks my heart when the girls refuse the nice man in books, and I always long to be able to run after him when he leaves the room—ashy pale, with a nerve twitching beside his eye—and ask him will I do instead! If I feel like that to another girl’s lover, what will I do to my own?” Bridgie stared aghast. Her brain was still reeling from the shock of hearing Pixie refer to the subject of lovers at all, and here was yet another problem looming ahead. With a loving grasp of her sister’s character, she realised that the protestations to which she had just listened embodied a real danger. Pixie had always been “the soft-heartedest creature,” who had never from her earliest years been known to refuse a plea for help. It would only be in keeping with her character if she accepted a suitor out of pure politeness and unwillingness to hurt his feelings. Bridgie was a happy wife, and for that very reason was determined that if care and guidance, if authority, and persuasion, and precept, and a judicious amount of influence could do it, Pixie should never be married, unless it were to the right man. She therefore adopted her elderly attitude once more, and said firmly— “It’s very wicked and misguided even to talk in such a way. When the time comes that a man asks you to marry him—if it ever comes—it will be your first and foremost duty to examine your own heart and see if you love him enough to live with him all his life, whether he is ill or well, or rich or poor, or happy or sad. You will have to decide whether you would be happier with him in trouble or free by yourself, and you’d have to remember that it’s not always too easy managing a house, and—and walking about half the night with a teething baby, and darning socks, when you want to go out, and wearing the same dress three years running, even if you love the man you’ve married. Of course, some girls marry rich husbands—like Esmeralda; but that’s rare. Far more young couples begin as we did, with having to be careful about every shilling; and that, my dear, is not agreeable! You need to be very fond of a man to make it worth while to go on short commons all your life. You need to think things over very carefully, before you accept an offer of marriage.” Pixie sat listening, her head cocked to one side, with the air of a bright, intelligent bird. When Bridgie had finished speaking she sighed and knitted her brows, and stared thoughtfully into the fire. It was obvious that she was pondering over what had been said, and did not find herself altogether in agreement with the rules laid down. “You mean,” she said slowly, “that I should have to think altogether of myself and what would suit Me and make me happy? That’s strange, now; that’s very strange! To bring a girl up all her life to believe it’s her duty in every small thing that comes along to put herself last and her family in front, and then when she’s a grown-up woman, and a man comes along who believes, poor thing! that she could help him and make him happy, then just at that moment you tell her to be selfish and think only of herself. ... ’Tis not that way I’ll conduct my love affairs!” cried Pixie O’Shaughnessy. Her eyes met Bridgie’s, and flashed defiance. “When I meet a man who needs me I’ll find my own happiness in helping him!” “Bless you, darling!” said Bridgie softly. “I am quite sure you will. ... It’s a very, very serious time for a woman when the question of marriage comes into her life. You can’t treat it too seriously. I have not thought of it so far in connection with you, but now that I do I’ll pray about it, Pixie! I’ll pray for you, that you may be guided to a right choice. You’ll pray that for yourself, won’t you, dear?” “I will,” said Pixie quietly. “I do. And for him—the man I may marry. I’ve prayed for him quite a long time.” “The ... the man!” Bridgie was so surprised as to appear almost shocked. “My dear, you don’t know him!” “But he is alive, isn’t he? He must be, if I’m going to marry him. Alive, and grown-up, and living, perhaps, not so far away. Perhaps he’s an orphan, Bridgie; or if he has a home, perhaps he’s had to leave it and live in a strange town. ... Perhaps he’s in lodgings, going home every night to sit alone in a room. Perhaps he’s trying to be good, and finding it very hard. Perhaps there’s no one in all the world to pray for him but just me. Bridgie! If I’m going to love him how can I not pray?” Mrs Victor rose hurriedly from her seat, and busied herself with the arrangement of the curtains. They were heavy velvet curtains, which at night-time drew round the whole of the large bay window which formed the end of the pretty, cosy room. Bridgie took especial pleasure in the effect of a great brass vase which, on its oaken pedestal, stood sharply outlined against the rich, dark folds. She moved its position now, moved it back into its original place, and touched the leaves of the chrysanthemum which stood therein with a caressing hand. Six years’ residence in a town had not sufficed to teach the one-time mistress of Knock Castle to be economical when purchasing flowers. “I can’t live without them. It’s not my fault if they are dear!” she would protest to her own conscience at the sight of the florist’s bill. And in truth, who could expect a girl to be content with a few scant blossoms when she had lived all her early age in the midst of prodigal plenty! In spring the fields had been white with snowdrops. Sylvia sent over small packing-cases every February, filled with hundreds and hundreds of little tight bunches of the spotless white flowers, and almost every woman of Bridgie’s acquaintance rejoiced with her on their arrival. After the snowdrops came on the wild daffodils and bluebells and primroses. They arrived in cases also, fragrant with the scent which was really no scent at all, but just the incarnation of everything fresh, and pure, and rural. Then came the blossoming of trees. Bridgie sighed whenever she thought of blossom, for that was one thing which would not pack; and the want of greenery too, that was another cross to the city dweller. She longed to break off great branches of trees, and place them in corners of the room; she longed to wander into the fields and pick handfuls of grasses, and honeysuckle, and prickly briar sprays. Who could blame her for taking advantage of what compensation lay within reach? This afternoon, however, the contemplation of the tawny chrysanthemums displayed in the brass vase failed to inspire the usual joy. Bridgie’s eyes were bright indeed as she turned back into the room, but it was the sort of brightness which betokens tears repressed. She laid her hand on the little sister’s shoulders, and spoke in the deepest tone of her tender Irish voice— “What has been happening to you, my Pixie, all this time when I’ve been treating you as a child? Have you been growing up quietly into a little woman?” Pixie smiled up into her face—a bright, unclouded smile. “Faith,” she said, radiantly, “I believe. I have!” <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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