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Love Affairs of Pixie

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<h3>Chapter Fifteen.</h3> <h4>Esmeralda is Troubled.</h4> “Engaged!” cried Esmeralda shrilly. “Engaged! You! To Stanor Vaughan? Pixie O’Shaughnessy, I never heard such nonsense in my life.” “Then you’ve listened to an uncommon amount of sense. I should not have thought it, to judge from your actions,” returned Pixie, nettled, “’Twould be interesting to hear what strikes you as so ridiculous about it!” It was three days after Stanor’s unexpected visit with its momentous consequences, but in consideration of the anxiety of Jack’s parents, the news had been withheld until the boy had been pronounced out of danger. Only this morning had the glad verdict been vouchsafed. Jack would live; given a steady, even improvement, with no unforeseen complications, he would live, and in a few weeks time be up and about once more. The eye trouble would be more lasting, for the child was of a peculiarly sensitive nature, and the shock seemed inclined to localise itself in the eyes. The sight itself would be saved, but for some years to come it would need the most careful tending. He must wear darkened spectacles; be forbidden to read; be constantly under skilled care. Given such precautions the sight would probably become normal in later years... When the first verdict was given, the father, and mother clung to one another in an ecstasy of relief and thankfulness. Throughout those last terrible days, when every conscious breath had carried with it a prayer, Joan had looked deep into her own soul and beheld with opened eyes the precipice on which she stood. How far, how far she had travelled since those early married days, when, with her first-born in her arms, her highest ambition had been that she should be enabled so to train him that he should grow up, to be, in the words of the beautiful old phrase, “A soldier of Christ!” Of late years she had had many ambitions for her boys, but they had been ambitions of the world, worldly. The old faith had been gradually neglected and allowed to sink into the background of life. In her own strength she had walked, in her own weakness she had failed. Yet now, in default of punishment, goodness and mercy were once more to be her portion! All the nobility in Joan’s nature rose up as she pledged herself afresh to a new—a higher life! Jack would live, their boy would live—that was for days the one thought of which the parents were conscious. For the father it was perfect joy, but for the mother there still remained a pang. Only Esmeralda herself ever knew the anguish of grief which she endured on account of her baby’s altered looks. Little Jack, with his angel face, his halo of curls, his exquisite, innocent eyes, had been a joy to behold. Waking, sleeping, merry, sad—at one and every moment, of his life the mere sight of him had been as an open sesame to the hearts of those who beheld. The knife turned in his mother’s heart at the thought of Jack shorn, scarred, spectacled. She dared not confide her grief to her husband. He would not understand. Looks! What could looks matter, when the child had been delivered from death? Joan could see in imagination the expression on his face, hear the shocked tones of his voice; she would not betray her feelings and risk a break of the new, sweet understanding between them. All men were alike. There were occasions when only another woman could understand. Joan went upstairs to the empty nursery and found Marie weeping in her chair. “Petite lapin! Petite chérie! Petite ange! Comfort thyself, Madame,” she sobbed, “we can have glasses like the young American—she who visited Madame last year. No rims hardly to be observed! And the hair—that will grow—of a surety it will grow. A little long upon the forehead, and voilà! The scar is hid. ... A little care, Madame, a little patience, and he will be once more our petit amour!” “Marie,” said her mistress firmly, “looks are a secondary affair. We ought to be too thankful to think of looks!” “C’est vrai, Madame,” replied Marie demurely, “C’est vrai,” and Joan Hilliard went back to her room with a lightened heart, and determined to write at once to town to ask particulars concerning rimless spectacles. And now here was Pixie, with this preposterous, ridiculous tale! At sight of her young sister Joan had felt a pang of contrition. She had forgotten all about her these last terrible days. Poor girl! She must have been terribly lonely, but that was the best of Pixie—she was always ready to forgive and forget. Joan kissed her warmly, murmured apologies, and inquired affectionately how the long days had been passed. And then—out it came! “Why ridiculous?” echoed Joan. “My dear, how could it be anything else? Five days ago, when we were all together, there wasn’t a sign of such a thing. Stanor was attracted by you, of course; but he was not in love. He was always cheerful, always merry. How different from poor Robert, who is eating his heart out for Honor Ward!” “I hope,” said Pixie deeply, “that Stanor will always keep cheerful. It won’t be my fault if he does not. No man shall ‘eat his heart out’ for me if I can help it!” Joan glanced at her quickly. She had caught the tone of pain in the beautiful voice, and softened to it with instant response. “Yes, dear, of course. You’d never flirt, you’re too honest, but, all the same, Pixie, I stick to my opinion. I don’t believe for a moment that Stanor Vaughan is in love with you, and I’m positively sure that you are not in love with him!” “Can you look into my heart, Esmeralda, and see what is there?” “Yes, I can. In this instance I can. Fifty times better than you can yourself. You are pleased, you are flattered, you are interested. You were miserable and lonely, (that’s my fault, for leaving you alone. I don’t know what Bridgie will say to me!) and Stanor was sorry for you, you appealed to his chivalry, and you were just in the mood to be swept off your feet, without realising what it all meant. Pixie, when you told me just now, you were quite calm, you never even blushed!” “I don’t think,” reflected Pixie thoughtfully, “I ever blushed in my life.” It occurred to her uncomfortably that Stanor also had noticed the omission, and had felt himself defrauded thereby. She wondered uneasily if one could learn to blush! As for Esmeralda, the words carried her back in a rush to the dear days of childhood, when the little sister had been the pet and pride of the family. Indeed, and Pixie had had no need to blush! Her very failings had been twisted round to pose as so many assets in her favour, while her own happy self-confidence had instilled the belief that every one wanted her, every one appreciated. What cause had Pixie O’Shaughnessy to blush? “Mavourneen!” cried Esmeralda tenderly, “I know. Thank God you’ve never needed to blush or feel afraid, but, Pixie, when love comes, it’s different, everything is different! It’s a new birth. The old confidence goes, for it’s a new life that lies ahead, and one stands trembling on the brink. ... If what you feel is the right thing, you’ll understand. Pixie, dear, do I seem the wrong person to talk like this? You know how it has been with us. We drifted apart—Geoff and I—so far apart that I thought ... I can’t talk of it—you know what I thought—but, Pixie think! If the feeling between us had not been the real thing, if we had married on affection only, where should we have been now? Geoffrey loved me so much that he bore with me, through all these years of strain, and when this great trouble came, he forgave me at once, forgave everything, blotted it right out, and thought of nothing but how to help me most. A cloud had rolled up between us, but it was only a cloud, the love was there all the time, hidden, like the sun, ready to shine out again. ... Oh, Pixie, dear, the right thing is so wonderful, so grand, that I can’t let you miss it for the sake of a mistake. You are so young. You don’t understand. Let me write to Stanor to-night and tell him it’s a mistake, that you didn’t know your own mind!” “You may talk till doomsday, Esmeralda,” said Pixie quietly, “but I shall keep my word!” Mentally Pixie had been deeply impressed by the other’s confidences, and not a little perturbed thereby, but it was against her sense of loyalty to allow such feelings to appear. To her own heart she confessed that she was altogether without this strange sense of elation, this mysterious new birth which Esmeralda considered all important under the circumstances. She was certainly happy, for with Stanor’s coming the cloud which had hovered over the house had begun to disperse. She had opened her own eyes to the good news of Jack’s first sleep, and each day the improvement had continued, while Stanor motored over, to sit by her side, cheering her, saying loving, gentle things, building castles in the air of a life together. ... Yes, she was very happy, but ... she had been happy before, there was nothing astoundingly, incredibly new in her sensations. Pixie sent her thoughts back into the past, endeavouring to recall recollections of Joan’s engagement, of Bridgie’s, of Jack’s. Yes, certainly they had all become exceedingly different under the new conditions. She recalled in especial Bridgie’s face beneath her bridal veil. Child as she herself had been at that time she had been arrested by that expression: nor had she been allowed to forget it, for from time to time during the last six years she had seen it again. “The shiny look!” she had christened it in her thoughts. Sweet and loving were Bridgie’s eyes for every soul that breathed, but that one particular look shone for one person alone! Pixie’s heart contracted in a pang of longing; it was almost like the pang she had felt in the drawing-room of Holly House on that dread afternoon when the news of her father’s death had been broken to her—a pang of longing, a sore, sore feeling of something wanting. She shivered, then drew herself together with indignant remembrance. She was engaged! What sentiments were these for an engaged girl? How could she feel a blank when still more love was added to her share? “If you talk till doomsday, Esmeralda, I’ll keep my word. Stanor loves me and says I can help him. I said I would, and, me dear, I will! We’ve been through a lot of trouble this last week, isn’t it a pity to try to make more for no good? My mind’s made up!” Joan Hilliard was silent. In her heart of hearts she realised that there was nothing more to say. Pixie was Pixie. As well try to move a mountain from its place, as persuade that sweet, loving, most loyal of creatures to draw back from a solemn pledge. Something might be done with Stanor perhaps, or, failing Stanor, through that erratic person, his uncle. She must consult with Geoffrey and Bridgie, together they might insist upon a period of waiting and separation before a definite engagement was announced. Pixie was still under age. Until her twenty-first birthday her guardians might safely demand a delay. Joan knew that Stanor Vaughan had had passing fancies before now, and had little belief that the present entanglement would prove more lasting. Circumstances had induced a special intimacy with Pixie, but when they were separated he would repent.—If he himself set Pixie free! ... So far did Joan’s thoughts carry her, then, looking at the girl’s happy face, she felt a sharp pang of contrition. “Me dear, I want you to be happy! If it makes you happy to marry Stanor, I’ll give you my blessing, and the finest trousseau that money can buy. You’re young yet, and he has his way to make. You’ll have to wait patiently, for a few years, until he can make a home, but it’s a happy time, being engaged. I feel defrauded myself to have had so little of it. Storing up things in a bottom drawer, and picking up old furniture at sales, and polishing it up so lovingly, thinking of where it is going, and letters coming and going, and looking forward to the time when he’ll come down next—’tis a beautiful time. Three or four years ought to pass like a trice!” “Besides leaving plenty of time to change your mind. I know you, me dear!” cried Pixie shrewdly. “I see through you! You’ll be relieved to hear that the date has not been mentioned, but you can start with the trousseau as soon as you please. I’ll take it in quarterly instalments, and spin out the pleasure, besides sparing my friends the shock of seeing me suddenly turn grand. My affianced suitor is coming to proffer a formal demand for my hand. Will ye be kind to him now, and give him some tea?” “I will,” said Joan readily. To herself she added: “We are all alike, we O’Shaughnessys, we will be led, but we will not be driven. It’s no use appearing to object! Things must just take their course...” <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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