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Love Affairs of Pixie

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<h3>Chapter Seven.</h3> <h4>Pixie is Dull.</h4> Geoffrey Hilliard and his two guests entered the drawing-room, and Pixie’s eyes turned to greet them with a smile. She was longing to talk to each one of them in turns, and with her usual complacency was assured that each would reciprocate the wish. But the next moment brought with it a jar, for Geoffrey crossed the room to join his wife, and the two younger men made a bee-line for the chair by the other side of the sofa, whereon Honor sat ensconced! It was only a minute, less than a minute, before Stanor had established a lead, and Mr Carr’s deviation to the left was a triumph of smiling composure; nevertheless, Pixie’s sharp eyes had seen and understood, and her heart felt a natural girlish pang. At twenty it is hard to accept with resignation the part of second fiddle, and Pixie’s generosity had its limits—as whose has not? She had looked at Honor’s pretty face and costly gown, had heard of her wealth and independence with the purest and most ungrudging pleasure, but when it became a case of superior popularity, that was a very different matter! Positively, it was quite an effort to twist her lips into a smile to greet Mr Carr, and it made matters no better to perceive the artificiality of his response. He was a man several years older than the handsome Stanor, and his type of face was so essentially legal that his profession as barrister could be guessed even before it was known. His chin was the most pronounced feature of the face—it was really interesting to discover just how assertive a chin could be. It was a prominent, deeply indented specimen, which ascribed to itself so much power of expression that even the eyes themselves played a secondary part. The tilt of it, the droop of it, the aggressive tilt forward were each equally eloquent, and, one felt sure, must make equal appeal to a British jury. At this moment, however, there was no jury at hand—only Pixie O’Shaughnessy, feeling very small and snubbed in her corner of the sofa, and robbed for the moment of her accustomed aplomb by the blighting consciousness that she was not wanted. Robert Carr’s chin was leaning very dejectedly forward; he would have voted his companion a tongue-tied little bore if Stanor Vaughan had not taken the opportunity of a moment when his host was absent from the dining-room to recount her “sporting” forgiveness of his own faux pas. “That’s the right sort. I like that girl!” had been Robert’s reply, and the good impression was strong enough to withstand a fair amount of discouragement. So he discoursed to Pixie on the subject of pictures, of which she knew nothing; and she switched the conversation round to music, of which he knew less; and she cast furtive glances of longing towards the other couple, who were laughing and chattering together with every appearance of enjoyment, and he kept his eyes rigorously averted, while his chin drooped ever lower and lower in growing depression. Later on the whole party played several rather foolish games, of which Pixie had never heard before, and in which she consequently did not shine, which was still another depressing circumstance to add to the list. When Esmeralda escorted her sister upstairs to bed she said blightingly, “You were very dull to-night, Pixie. Were you shy, by any chance? Please don’t be shy; it’s such poor form!” which was not the most soothing night-cap in the world for a young woman who had privately made up her mind to take society by storm. Not since the first night in the dormitory at Holly House had Pixie felt so lone and lorn as she did when the door was shut, and she was left alone in the big, luxurious bedroom. She stood before a swing mirror, gazing at her own reflection, contrasting it with those of Esmeralda and Honor, and reflecting on her sister’s parting words. “This,” said she to herself, with melancholy resignation—“this is the sort of discipline that is good for the young! At this rate I’ll grow so chastened that they won’t recognise me when I go home.” For a whole, minute she stood mute and motionless, pondering over the prospect; then the light danced back into her eyes, she shrugged her shoulders, and composedly began her undressing. The next day broke bright and warm, and after a leisurely breakfast the four visitors strolled about for an hour, looking at the dogs and horses and playing with the two small boys, who were making all the mischief they could on the cedar lawn, while their French nurse looked on with sympathetic enjoyment. Marie was quite a character in the household, and was admitted to a degree of intimacy rarely accorded to an English domestic. She was that somewhat unusual combination, a Parisian Protestant, but in other respects remained one of the most typically French creatures who was ever born. Meet her in any quarter of the world, in any nation, in any garb, and for no fraction of a moment could the beholder doubt her nationality. She was French in appearance, in expression, in movement, in thought, in character, and in deed; lovable, intelligent, vivacious, easily irritated, but still more easily pleased, sharp of tongue, tender of heart, and full to overflowing with humour. In appearance Marie was small and slight, with a sallow complexion which was the bane of her life, black hair and beautiful white teeth. No one could call her handsome, but she had certainly an attraction of her own. This morning Pixie arrived upon the scene in time to overhear a typical conversation between the nurse and her two charges. Geoff, the elder of the two brothers, a handsome, imperious youngster, having overheard a chance remark as to his own likeness to his mother, was engaged in a rigorous cross-questioning of Marie, on the subject. “Marie, am I beautiful?” “Leetle boys are not beautiful. It is enough when they are good.” “My mother is beautiful. Mr Carr says I am like my mother.” “Ugly people can be like beautiful people. How can a dirty little boy be like a belle grande dame? Regard thy hands! Four times already have they been scrubbed.” “My hands can be clean when I like. I was talking of if I was beautiful.” “Silence, miserable one! The appearance is of no account,” pronounced Marie boldly. “To be good is better than beauty.” Geoffrey drew his brows together in a frown. He was displeased, and when he was displeased he made himself felt. “I should fink, Marie,” he said deliberately, “that you must be the goodest person in all the world.” The inference was plain, so plain that sensitive little Jack coloured up to the roots of his hair. Jack was the sweetest and most lovable of children—a flaxen-haired cherub, whose winning face and gentle ways made him universally beloved. Among the children of the second generation he stood out pre-eminently, and every one of his aunts and uncles enshrined him in a special niche of affection. Pixie had known many searchings of heart because of her own partiality, but was fain to console herself by the thought that Jack was even more like the beloved Bridgie than Bridgie’s own sturdy, commonplace son. As for Jack, he loved everybody, Marie among the number, and, feeling her depreciated, rushed stutteringly to the rescue. “Oh, Geoff!” he cried eagerly. “You souldn’t! You souldn’t, Geoff! I know somefing that’s uglier than Marie—” Geoff’s scowl deepened. He might insinuate, but a barefaced putting into words outraged his feelings. His eyes sent out flashes of lightning at the innocent little blunderer, but Marie’s eyes shone; her face was one beam of tender amusement. “What then, chérie? Tell thy Marie!” “M–monkeys!” lisped Jack. The roar of derision which greeted this consolatory statement brought the startled tears into Jack’s eyes, but Marie’s arms wrapped round him, and her voice cooed in his ear. “Little pigeon! little cabbage! Weep not, my darling! Marie does not laugh. Marie understands. It is true! The monkeys are more ugly than I.” Pixie turned, to find Esmeralda standing beside her, her brows frowning, while her lips smiled. She put her hand through her sister’s arm and drew her away. “Leave them alone; Marie manages them best. Poor, weeny Jack! He meant so well!” She drew a long sigh. “Those two boys are just a newer edition of their parents. Little Jack is Geoffrey over again—just the same kind, patient, sensitive disposition; and Geoff is me. When he is in one of his moods it’s like looking at myself in a mental glass. I’m furious with him for showing me how hateful I can be, and at the same time I understand what he is feeling so well that my heart nearly breaks with sympathy. It’s terrible to feel that one is showing a bad example to one’s own child, when one cares so much that at any moment one would be willingly flayed alive to do him good!” “Improve your example, me dear—wouldn’t that be simpler!” cried Pixie, with an air of breezy common sense which was in startling contrast to the other’s tragic fervour. There was a time for everything, Pixie reflected, and it did not seem a judicious moment for a hostess to indulge in heroics, what time the members of her house-party were advancing to meet her with faces wreathed in expectancy. They made a goodly picture in the spring sunshine—the little trim girl and the two tall men attired in the easy country kit which is so becoming to the Anglo-Saxon type. The young hostess looked at them and gave a start of recollection. “Oh, of course! I was forgetting. ... We have been arranging a picnic. Geoff has ordered the big car for eleven. He is to drive us a twenty-mile spin to the beginning of Frame Woods. The chauffeur will go on by train and meet us there, to take the car round by the high-road and meet us a few miles farther on with the hampers. The woods are carpeted with primroses just now, so we shall enjoy the walk, and it will give us an appetite for lunch.” Pixie gave a little prance of jubilation. “Lovely! Lovely! I adore picnics! We’ll gather, sticks to boil a kettle, to make tea, and boil eggs, like we used to do at home when any one had a birthday. And the sticks always fell in, and the water got smoked!” Honor and the two men had joined the sisters by this time, and stood looking on with amusement. “Miss O’Shaughnessy seems to appreciate smoked tea,” said Stanor, and Pixie sturdily defended her position. “I don’t; it’s hateful! But you can have nice tea every day, of your life, and the game is worth the candle! You can always pour it away and drink milk, and you’ve had all the fun—gathering the wood, and stoking, and looking at the smoke, and the blaze, and hearing the crackle, and smelling the dear, woody smell—” “And blacking your hands, and spoiling your temper, and waiting for—how many hours does it take for a watched kettle to boil?—and in the end throwing away the result! You’re easily pleased, Miss O’Shaughnessy!” “I am, praise be!” assented Pixie, with a fervour which brought four pairs of eyes upon her with a mingling of interest and admiration. So far as features were concerned, it was a plain little face on which they gazed; yet no one could have called it plain at that moment, for, it was irradiated by that rarest of all beauties, an expression of radiant contentment. In comparison with that face those of the beholders appeared tired and discouraged, old before their time, by reason of drooping lips, puckered brows, and wrinkled foreheads; and it was evident that they themselves were aware of the fact, and stood, as it were, as amateurs before a master. Robert Carr poked forward his chin, and stared at her between narrowed eyes. Handsome Stanor smiled approval, Honor slipped a little hand through her arm, and Esmeralda sighed and frowned, and said with a shrug— “Oh, we’ve lived past that, Pixie! Nowadays we take thermos bottles, and luncheon baskets, and hot-water dishes, and dine just as—uninterestingly as we do at home! English people wouldn’t thank you for a scramble. You must wait until you go back to Knock to Jack and Sylvia, and even there the infection is creeping. Jack is developing quite a taste for luxury.” “I like it myself. Dear Mrs Hilliard, please let us have luxuries to-day!” Stanor pleaded; and Joan turned back to the house to superintend arrangements, while the four young people sauntered slowly about the grounds. Honor’s hand still rested on Pixie’s arm, and her voice had a wistful tone as she said— “I’d like to fix a picnic your way some time, Pat-ricia! It would be a heap more fun. It must be fine to be a large family and make believe together. It’s a problem for an only child to make mischief all by itself. ... Did you have real good times in that old castle with the funny name?” “We did!” affirmed Pixie eloquently. “There were so many of us, and so little to go round, that we were kept busy contriving and scheming the whole time, and, when that failed, falling back on imagination to fill in the gaps. It’s more comfortable to be rich, but it’s not half so exciting. When you have very few things, and wait an age for them, it’s thrilling beyond words when they do arrive. When Bridgie re-covered the cushions in the drawing-room we all came to call in a string, and sat about on chairs, discussing the weather and studying the colour effects from different angles. Then we turned on the light and pretended to be a party. I suppose Esmeralda never notices a cushion!” Pixie sighed, and Honor stared, and Robert Carr looked from one to the other, his thin lips twitching in sarcastic fashion. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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