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Love Affairs of Pixie

<h3>Chapter Sixteen.</h3> <h4>The “Runkle” intervenes.</h4> As little Jack continued to progress towards convalescence, the attention of the household became increasingly absorbed by the astounding fact of Pixie’s projected engagement. Bridgie, detained at home by malapropos ailments on the part of the children, wrote urgent letters by daily posts, contradicting herself on every point saving one alone—the advisability of delay. Geoffrey Hilliard as host, Dick Victor as guardian, Jack, Pat, and Miles as brothers, proposed, seconded, and carried by acclamation the same waiting policy. And no one who has the faintest knowledge of human nature will need to be told that such an attitude had the effect of rousing the youthful lovers to the liveliest impatience. Stanor in particular was moved to rebellion. His pride was hurt by so lukewarm a reception of his addresses, which was all the more disagreeable for being unexpected. The Hilliards had shown so much friendship and hospitality to him as a friend, that he had taken for granted that they would welcome him in a closer relationship. He was not a great parti it was true, but then by her own confession Pixie had no fortune of her own, and had been accustomed to modest means. Stanor did not say to himself in so many words that he happened to possess an exceptionally handsome and popular personality, he refused even to frame a definite thought to that effect; nevertheless the consciousness was there, and added to his chagrin. Lounging along the country lanes, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, Stanor told himself that it was a disappointing old world: a fellow always imagined that when he got engaged he would have the time of his life; in books a fellow was represented as walking upon air, in a condition of rapture too intense for belief—it was disappointing to find his own experience fall so short of the ideal! Sweet little Pixie, of course, was a beguiling creature. Stanor would not admit any shortcomings in his fiancée, but he did allow himself to wonder tentatively if he had spoken too soon: if she were not, perhaps, a trifle young to understand the meaning of the new claim. The daily interviews which he had been vouchsafed had been full of interest and charm, but they had not succeeded in stifling the doubt which had marred the first minutes of acceptance, for alas! it was when Pixie was the most affectionate that her lover was most acutely conscious of the subtle want. And then, as if there was not already enough worry and trouble, there was the Runkle. ... The Runkle would be bound to put in his oar! Stanor had delayed sending word of his engagement to the man who stood to him in the place of a father, silencing his conscience by the assertion that there was yet nothing to announce. Until Pixie’s guardians came down from their present unnatural position, there might be an understanding, but there could not be said to be a formal engagement. It was Pixie herself who finally forced him to dispatch the news. It was Stanor’s first experience of arguing a point with a woman, and a most confusing experience he found it. Pixie invariably agreed with every separate argument as he advanced it, saw eye to eye with him on each separate point, sympathised warmly with his scruples, and then at the very moment when she was expected to say “yes” to the final decision, said “no,” and stuck to it with conviction. Questioned as to the reason of such inconsistency, she had only one excuse to plead, and she pled it so often and with such insistence that it seemed easier to give in than to continue the argument. “Yes, but he’s lame!” came back automatically as the answer to every remonstrance, till Stanor shrugged his shoulders and sat down to write his letter. Pixie was indeed, as the family had it, “the soft-heartedest creature!” He loved her for it, but none the less depression seized him anew. Now there would be the Runkle to tackle! More arguments! More objections! A fellow ought to be jolly happy when he was married, to make up for all the fuss and agitation which went before... Stanor’s letter of announcement was short and to the point, for he was not in the mood to lapse into sentiment. By return of post came the Runkle’s reply, short also, and non-committal—nothing more, in fact, than the announcement that he preferred to discuss the matter in person, and would the following day arrive at a certain hotel, where he bade his nephew meet him. Stanor therefore made his excuses to his hostess, packed his bag, and dispatched a letter of explanation to his fiancée, unconscious of the fact that she was at that very hour receiving information first hand. It came about in the most natural, and simple fashion. As Pixie, roaming the grounds bareheaded to gather a bouquet of wild flowers to present to the little invalid, emerged suddenly upon the drive, she found a tall, grey-coated stranger leaning against a tree in an attitude expressive of collapse. He was very tall, and very thin; the framework of his shoulders was high and broad, but from them the coat seemed to flap around a mere skeleton of a frame. His hair was dark, his complexion pale, and leaning back with closed eyes he looked so alarmingly ill and spent, that, dropping the flowers to the ground, Pixie leaped forward to the rescue. “You’re ill. ... Let me help! There’s a seat close by. ... Lean on me!” The stranger opened his eyes, and Pixie started as most people did start when they first looked into Stephen Glynn’s eyes, which were of that deep, intense blue which is romantically dubbed purple and fringed with dark lashes, which added still further to their depth. They were sad eyes, tired eyes, eyes of an exceeding and pitiful beauty, eloquent of suffering and repression. They looked out under dark, level brows, and with their intense earnestness of expression flooded the thin face with life. As she met their gaze Pixie drew a quick, gasping breath of surprise. The stranger in his turn looked surprised and startled; he bent his head in involuntary salute, and glanced down at the tiny arm offered for his support. Six foot two he stood in his stockinged feet, and there was this scrap of a girl offering her little doll-like arm for support! His lips twitched, and Pixie pounced on the meaning with her usual agility. “But I’m wiry,” she announced proudly. “You wouldn’t believe my strength till you try it. Just for a few yards. ... Round the corner by the oak-tree. Please!” “You are too kind. I am not ill, but the walk from the station is very steep and I found it tiring, that’s all. I shall be glad to rest for a moment, but I assure you no help is needed.” He took a step forward as he spoke, a quick, halting step, and Pixie looking on, exclaimed sharply— “The Runkle! Stanor’s Runkle! It is You!” The stranger looked down sharply, his dark brows puckering in astonishment. “I am Stephen Glynn—‘The Runkle,’ as my nephew is pleased to call me. But you—you cannot be—” Pixie nodded vehemently. “I am!—Pixie O’Shaughnessy. Going to be your niece. I made Stanor write to tell you.—” They seated themselves on the bench under the oak-tree, and turning, faced each other in a long, curious silence, during which each face assumed a puzzled expression. “But you are younger than I expected!” cried Pixie. “That is exactly what I was on the point of saying to you,” returned Mr Glynn. “And yet we know exactly how old we both are—twenty and thirty-five!” Pixie continued volubly. “But you know how it is with young men—they have no patience to explain! You’d be amused if you could see the image I’d made of you in my own mind. I expect ’twas the same with yourself?” “It was,” agreed Mr Glynn, and for a moment imagined that his disappointment was his own secret—only for a moment, however, then Pixie tilted her head at him with a sideways nod of comprehension. “Knowing, of course, that I was a sister of the beautiful Mrs Hilliard! No wonder you are disappointed!” The eyes smiled sympathy at him, and the wide lips parted in the friendliest of smiles. “You’ll like me better when you know me!” “I—I am quite sure,” stammered Mr Glynn, and then drew himself up suddenly, as if doubtful if agreement were altogether polite under the circumstances. Once more his lips twitched, and as their eyes met he and Pixie collapsed together into an irresistible laugh. He laughed well, a rare and charming accomplishment, and Pixie regarded him with benign approval. “Quite romantic, isn’t it? The noble kinsman journeying in state to demand the hand of the charming maid, falls ill of the perils of the way, and encounters a simple cottage maid gathering flowers, who succours the stranger in distress. Their identity is then revealed. ... I do love romances!” cried Pixie gushingly. “And it’s much nicer having an interview out here than in a stuffy room ... Please, Mr Kinsman—begin!” He frowned, bit at his under lip, and moved restlessly on the seat, glancing once and again at the girl’s bright, unclouded face. “I’m afraid,” he began slowly, “that the matter is not altogether as simple as you suppose. Stanor is not in a position to marry without my consent. I think he has not sufficiently appreciated this fact. If he had consulted me in the first instance I should have endeavoured to prevent—” She turned her eyes upon him like a frightened child. There was no trace of anger, nor wounded pride—those he could have faced with ease—but the simple shock of the young face smote on his heart. “I had not seen you, remember!” he cried quickly. “My decision had no personal element. I object at this stage to Stanor becoming engaged to—anybody. He has, no doubt, explained to you our relationship. His parents being dead, I made myself responsible for his training. He may have explained to you also my wish that for a few years he should be free to enjoy his youth without any sense of responsibility?” Pixie nodded gravely. “He has. I understood. You had missed those years yourself, and knew they could never come back, so you gave them to him as a gift—young, happy years without a care, that he could treasure up in his mind and remember all his life. ’Twas a big gift! Stanor, and I are grateful to you—” Stephen Glynn looked at her: a long, thoughtful glance. The programme which he had mapped out for his nephew had been unusual enough to attract much notice. He had been alternately annoyed and amused by the criticism of his neighbours, all of whom seemed incapable of understanding his real motives. It seemed a strange thing that it should be reserved for this slip of a girl to see into his inmost heart. He was touched and impressed, but that “Stanor and I” hardened him to his task. “Thank you. You do understand. At the moment Stanor may perhaps be inclined to question the wisdom of my programme, but I think in after years he will, as you say, look back. The fact remains, however, that he has not yet tackled the real business of life. He has had, with my concurrence, plenty of change and variety, which I believe in the end will prove of service in his life’s work, and he has stood the test. Many young fellows of his age would have abused their opportunities. He has not done so. My only disappointment has been that he has developed no definite taste, but has been content to flit from one fancy to the next, always carried away by the latest novelty on the horizon.” Once again she tilted her head and scanned him with her wide, clear eyes. “You mean Me?” she said quickly. “I’m the ‘Latest Novelty!’ You mean that he’ll change about me, too? Isn’t that what you mean?” “My dear—Miss O’Shaughnessy,” (incredible though it appeared, Stephen had been on the verge of saying “Pixie,” pure and simple) “you leap too hastily to conclusions. I am afraid I must appear an odious person! Believe me, I had no intention of rushing into the very heart of this matter as we have done. My plan was to call upon your sister and explain to her my position—” “’Tis not my sister’s business, ’tis mine,” interrupted Pixie firmly. “And it would be a waste of time talking to her, for she’d agree with every word you said. They don’t want me to be engaged. They think I’m too young. If you have anything to say, say it to Me. I’m the person to be convinced.” She settled herself more comfortably as she spoke, turning towards him with one arm resting on the back of the bench, and her head leaning against the upturned hand. The sun shone on her face through the flickering branches. No, she was not pretty; not in the least the sort of girl Stanor was accustomed to fancy. Yet there was something extraordinarily attractive about the little face, with its clear eyes, its wide, generous mouth, its vivacity of expression. Already, after a bare ten minutes’ acquaintance, Stephen Glynn so shrank from the prospect of hurting Pixie O’Shaughnessy that it required an effort to keep an unflinching front. “I agree with your people,” he said resolutely, “that you and Stanor are too young, and that this matter has been settled too hastily. Apart from that, I should object to any engagement until he has proved his ability to work for a wife. I have a position in view for him in a large mercantile house in New York. After a couple of years’ experience there he would come back to the London house, and, if his work justified it, I am prepared to buy him a partnership in the firm. He would then be his own master, free to do as he chose, but for these two years he must be free, with no other responsibility than this work.” “You think,” queried Pixie slowly, “that I should interfere ... that he would do his work better without me?” “It’s not a question of thinking, Miss O’Shaughnessy. I am not content to think. I want to make sure that Stanor will settle seriously to work and keep in the same mind. He is a good fellow, a dear fellow, but, hitherto at least, he has not been stable.” “He has never been engaged before?” “Not actually. I have been forewarned in time to prevent matters reaching that length. Twice over—” A small hand waved imperiously for silence. “I don’t think,” said Pixie sternly, “that you have any right to tell me things like that. If Stanor wants me to know, he can tell me himself. It’s his affair. I am not at all curious.” She drew a fluttering breath, and stared down at the ground, and a silence followed during which Stephen was denouncing himself as a hard-hearted tyrant, when suddenly a minute voice spoke in his ear— “Were they—pretty?” It was impossible to resist the smile which twitched at his lips. Unpleasant as was the nature of his errand, he, the most unsmiling of men, had already twice over been moved to merriment. Stephen was reflecting on the incongruity of the fact, when Pixie again answered his unspoken retort. “It’s not curiosity, it’s interest. Quite a different thing! And even if they were, it’s much more serious when a man cares for a girl for her—er—mental attractions, because they go on getting better, instead of fading away like a pretty face. It’s very difficult to know what is right. ... I’ve promised Stanor, and he has promised me, and it seems a poor way of showing that you know your own mind, to break your word at the beginning!” “I don’t ask you to break your word, Miss O’Shaughnessy; only to hold it in abeyance. I am speaking in Stanor’s interests, which we have equally at heart. I know his character—forgive me!—better than you can do, and I am asking you to help me in arranging a probation which I know to be wise under the circumstances. Let him go to New York a free man; let him work and show his mettle, and at the end of two years, if you are both of the same mind, I will give you every help in my power: but meantime there must be no engagement, no tie, no regular correspondence. You must both be perfectly free. I am sorry to appear hard-hearted, but these are my conditions, and I can’t see my way to alter them.” “Well—why not?” cried Pixie unexpectedly. “What’s two years? They’ll pass in no time. And men hate writing. Stanor will be relieved not to have to bother about the mails. He can do without letters. He will know that I am waiting.” She held out her hand with a sudden, radiant smile. “And you will be pleased! It is the least we can do to consider your wishes. If I persuade Stanor—if I send him away alone to work,” the small fingers tightened ingratiatingly over his, “you will like me, won’t you? You will think of me as a real niece?” Stephen Glynn’s deep blue eyes stared deeply into hers. He did not deliberately intend to put his thoughts into speech; if he had given himself a moment to think he would certainly not have done so, but so strong was the mental conviction that the words seemed to form themselves without his volition. “You don’t love him! You could not face a separation so easily if you loved him as you should...” For the first time a flash of real anger showed itself on Pixie’s face. Her features hardened; the child disappeared and he caught a glimpse of the woman that was to be. “What right have you to say that?” she asked deeply. “You prove to me that it would be for Stanor’s good to wait, and then say I cannot love him because I agree! You love him, yet you can hurt him and bring him disappointment when you feel it is right. I understood that, so I was not angry, but in return you might understand me!” “Forgive me!” cried Stephen. “I should not have said it. You deserved a better return for your kindness. I suppose I must seem very illogical, but it did not occur to me that the two cases were on a parallel. The love of a fiancée is not as a rule as well balanced as that of an uncle, Miss O’Shaughnessy!” “It ought to be,” asserted Pixie. “It ought to be everything that another love is, and more! A man’s future wife ought to be the person of all others to be reasonable, and unselfish, and logical where he is concerned, even if it means separation for a dozen years.” No answer. Stephen gazed blankly into space as if unconscious of her words. “Oughtn’t she?” “Er—theoretically, Miss O’Shaughnessy, she ought!” “Very well, then. I am proud that I am, and so ought you to be, too. ... It’s strange how I’m misunderstood! My family say the same thing—Esmeralda, Geoffrey, Stanor himself, and it hurts, for no one before has ever doubted if I could love...” She was silent for a minute, twisting her fingers together in restless fashion, then looking suddenly into his face she asked: “What do you know about it to be so sure? Have you ever been in love?” Stephen flushed. “Never. No. I was— My accident cut me off from all such things.” “What a pity! She would have helped you through.” She smiled into his eyes with a beautiful sweetness. “Well, Mr Glynn, if I am too reasonable to please you, perhaps Stanor will make up for it. You mayn’t find it so easy to influence him.” “I’m sure of that. I look forward to a stiff time, but if you are on my side we shall bring him round. Now perhaps I had better continue my way to the house and see Mrs Hilliard. This is pre-eminently your business, as you say, but still—” “She’ll expect it! Yes—” Pixie rose to her feet with an air of depression—“and she’ll crow! They’ll all crow! It’s what they wanted, and when you come and lay down an ultimatum, they’ll rejoice and triumph.” Her small face assumed an aspect of acute dejection. “That’s the worst of being the youngest. ... It’s a trying thing when your family insist on sitting in committees about your own affairs, when you understand them so much better yourself. I’m not even supposed to understand the feelings of my own heart without a sister to translate them for me. Shouldn’t you think, now, a girl of twenty—nearly twenty-one—is old enough to know that?” “I don’t think it is a foregone conclusion. More things than years go to the formation of character, Miss O’Shaughnessy, and if you will allow me to say so, you seem to me very young for your age.” “I always was,” sighed Pixie sadly. “They’ve said that all my life. Some people always are young, and some are old. There was a girl at school, middle-aged at thirteen, poor creature, and had been from her birth. My sister Bridgie will never be more than seventeen if she lives to a hundred, and I mean myself to stick at twenty. It doesn’t mean trying to look younger than you are, or being ashamed of your age, and silly, and frivolous: it’s just keeping your heart young!” The man, who was young in years and old in heart, looked down at the girl with a very sad smile. She spoke as if it were such an easy thing to do: he knew by bitter experience that under such circumstances as his own it was of all tasks the most difficult. To stand aside during the best years; to see the tide of life rush by, and have no part in the great enterprise; and then to regain his powers when youth had passed, and the keen savour of youth had died down into a dull indifference; to be dependent for love on the careless affection of a lad,—how was it possible for a man to keep his heart warm in such circumstances as these? “Life has been kind to you,” he answered dryly, and Pixie flung him a quick retort— “I have been kind to it! If I’d chosen I might have found it hard enough. We were always poor. I never remember a time when I hadn’t to pretend and make up, because it was impossible to get what I wanted. Then I was sent to school, and I hated going, and my father died when I was away, and they told me the news with not a soul belonging to me anywhere near, and I loved my father far more than other girls love theirs! ... Then we left Knock. ... If you’d lived in a castle, and gone to a villa in a street, with a parlour in front and a dining-room behind looking out on the kitchen wall, you wouldn’t talk about life being kind—! “I was in France for years being educated, and not able to repine because it was a friend and she’d taken me cheaply. Perhaps you’d say that was luck, and an advantage, and it was, but all the same it’s hard on a young thing to have to enjoy herself in a foreign language, and spend the holidays with a maiden lady and a snuffy old Père, because there wasn’t enough money to come home. Yes,” concluded Pixie, with a smirk of satisfaction, “I’ve had my trials, and now I’m to be crossed in love, and have my young lover rent from me. ... You couldn’t have the audacity to call life easy after that!” Stephen tried valiantly to look sympathetic, but it was useless; he was obliged to smile, and Pixie smiled with him, adding cheerily— “Anyway, it’s living! ... And I do love it when things happen. It’s so dreadfully interesting to be alive.” The man who was old before his time looked down upon the girl with a wistful glance. Small as she was, insignificant as she had appeared at first sight, he had never seen any one more intensely, vitally alive. Her tiny feet skimmed the ground, her tiny head reared itself jauntily on the slender neck, the brilliance of her smile, the embracing kindliness of her glance more than compensated for the plainness of her features. Like most people who made the acquaintance of Pixie O’Shaughnessy, Stephen Glynn was already beginning to fall under her spell and marvel at the blindness of his first impression. She was not plain; she was not insignificant; she was, on the contrary, unusually fascinating and attractive! “But she does not love him,” Stephen repeated to himself. “She does not know what love means. When she does—when she has grown into a woman, and understands—what a wife, what a companion she will make!” <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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