Back Aa

Love Affairs of Pixie

<h3>Chapter Nineteen.</h3> <h4>Pixie seeks Advice.</h4> A tall young man lay stretched upon a narrow bed which filled an entire wall of the one and only sitting-room in a diminutive London flat. On the wall opposite was a fireplace and a small sideboard; against the third wall stood a couple of upright chairs. In the centre of the room stood a table. A wicker arm-chair did duty for an invalid tray, and held a selection of pipes, books, and writing materials, also a bottle of medicine, and a plate of unappetising biscuits. The young man took up one of the biscuits, nibbled a crumb from the edge, and aimed the remainder violently at a picture at the other end of the room. It hit, and the biscuit broke into pieces, but the glass remained intact, a result which seemed far from satisfactory to the onlooker. He fumbled impatiently for matches with which to light his pipe, touched the box with the tips of his outstretched fingers, and jerked it impatiently, whereupon it rolled on to the floor to a spot just a couple of inches beyond the utmost stretch of his arm. There it lay—obvious and aggravating, tempting, baffling, inaccessible. Pipe and tobacco lay at hand to supply the soothing which he so sorely needed at the end of a lonely, suffering day, and for the want of that box they might as well have been a mile away! A bell was within reach, but what use to ring that when no one was near to hear? The slovenly woman who called herself a working housekeeper found it necessary to sally forth each afternoon on long shopping expeditions, and during her absence her master had to fend for himself as best he might. Dislocation of the knee was the young man’s malady, just a sharp, swift rush at cricket, a slip on the dry grass, and Pat O’Shaughnessy shuddered every time he thought of the hours and days which followed that fall. He had asked to be taken home, for the tiny flat was a new possession, and as such dear to his heart. And to his home they carried him, and there he had lain already for longer than he cared to think. He had progressed to the point when he had been able to dismiss an excellent but uncongenial nurse, and manage with an hour’s assistance morning and night; and what with reading the newspapers, smoking his pipe, and writing an occasional letter the first part of the day passed quickly enough. Lunch was served at one o’clock on a papier-maché tray spread with a crumpled tray cloth. It was a tepid, tasteless, unappetising meal, for the working housekeeper knew neither how to work nor to cook, and Pat invariably sent it away almost untasted; yet every day he looked forward afresh to the advent of one o’clock and the appearance of the tray. It was something to happen, something to do, a change from the reading, of which he was already getting tired. But, after lunch, after he had wakened from the short siesta; and realised that it was not yet three o’clock, and that six, seven hours still remained to be lived through before he could reasonably hope to settle for the night—that was a dreary time indeed, and Pat, whose interests lay all outdoors, knew no means of lightening it. For the first week of his confinement Pat had had a string of visitors. The members of his cricket team had appeared to express sympathy and encouragement; some of the men against whom he had been playing had also put in an appearance; “fellows” had come up from “the office,” but in the busy life of London a man who goes on being ill is apt to find himself left alone before many weeks have passed. There was only one man who never failed to put in an appearance at some hour of the day, and on that man’s coming Pat O’Shaughnessy this afternoon concentrated every power in his possession. “They say if you wish hard enough you can make a fellow do what you like. If there’s any truth in it, Glynn ought to come along pretty soon. How am I going to lie here all afternoon and stare at those miserable matches? That wretched woman might be buying the town ... wish to goodness she’d fetch something fit to eat. If that doctor fellow won’t tell me to-morrow how much longer I have to lie here, I’ll—I’ll get up and walk, just to spite him!” Pat jerked defiantly and immediately gave a groan of pain. Not much chance of walking yet awhile! He wriggled to the edge of the sofa, and made another unsuccessful stretch for the matchbox, but those baffling two inches refused to be mastered. Pat looked around in a desperate search for help, seized a biscuit, and aimed it carefully for the farther edge of the box, which, hit at the right angle, might perhaps have been twitched nearer to the sofa, but though Pat had considerable skill in the art of throwing, he had no luck this afternoon. Biscuit after biscuit was hurled with increasing violence, as temper suffered from the strain of failure, and each time the matchbox jumped still farther away, while another shower of biscuit crumbs bespattered the carpet. Then at last when the plate was emptied, and the last hope gone, deliverance came at the sound of the opening of the front door, and a quick, well-known whistle. Glynn! No one else knew the secret of the hidden key. Pat halloed loudly in response, and the next moment Stephen stood in the doorway, looking with bewildered eyes at the bespattered carpet. “What’s this? Playing Aunt Sally? Rather a wanton waste of biscuits, isn’t it?” “Try ’em, and see! Soft as dough. Give me that matchbox, Glynn, like a good soul. It fell off my chair, and I’ve been lying here pining for a smoke, and making pot shots of it, till I felt half mad.—If you only knew—” Stephen Glynn did know. It was that knowledge which brought him regularly day by day to the little flat at the top of eighty odd stairs. He walked across the room, his limp decidedly less in evidence through the passage of the years, reclaimed the matchbox, and seated himself on the edge of the couch. “Light up, old fellow! It will do you good.” Pat struck the match and sucked luxuriously. There was no need to make conversation to Glynn. He was a comfortable fellow who always understood. It was good to see him sitting there, to look at his fine, grave face, and realise that boredom was over, and the happiest hour of the day begun. “I say, Glynn, I made you, come! Mesmerised you. It drives a fellow crazy to be done by a couple of inches. They say if you concentrate your thoughts—” “I arranged this morning to call at five o’clock. I should say by the look of things you had concentrated on biscuits. ... Where’s that old woman?” Glynn inquired. “Shopping. Always is. And never buys anything by the taste of the food. You should have seen my lunch! I’ll be a living skeleton at this rate.” Pat spoke laughingly, but the hearer frowned, and looked quickly at the sharpened face, on which weeks of solitary confinement had left their mark. “Why don’t you round into her?” “Daren’t! Might make off and leave me in the lurch. They do, you know. Fellows have told me. Any one is better than no one at all when you are minus a leg.” “And about that letter? The time limit runs out to-morrow. You know what I threatened?” Pat shrugged impatiently. “You and your threats! What’s the sense in worrying when it’s got to end in worrying, and can do no good? I’ve told you till I’m tired—the Hilliards are abroad, Dick Victor is down with rheumatism, and Bridgie makes sure he’s going to die every time his finger aches. She’d leave him if I died first, I suppose, but I wouldn’t make too sure even of that. ’Twould have finished her altogether to know that I was lying here all these weeks. However!” Pat shrugged again, “you’ve got your way, bad luck to you! Bridgie wrote to ask me to run down over a Sunday, to cheer Victor, so there was nothing for it but to own up. She’ll write me reams of advice and send embrocations. Serve you jolly well right if I rubbed them on you instead!” “Fire away, I don’t mind! Your muscles would be the better for a little exercise.” Stephen Glynn leaned back in his chair and looked affectionately at Pat’s dark, handsome face. Twelve months before the two men had been introduced at a dinner following a big cricket match in which Pat had distinguished himself by a fine innings. Stephen Glynn from his seat on the grand stand had applauded with the rest of the great audience, and looking at the printed card in his hand had wondered whether by chance P.D. O’Shaughnessy was any relation of the Irish Pixie to whom Stanor Vaughan had wished to be engaged. The wonder changed to certainty a few hours later on as he was introduced to the young player, and met the gaze of his straight, dark eyes! Pat was the handsomest of the three brothers, nevertheless it was not so much of beautiful Joan Hilliard that the beholder was reminded, at this moment, as of the younger sister, who had no beauty at all, for Esmeralda’s perfect features lacked the irradiation of kindliness and humour which characterised Pat and Pixie alike. Stephen Glynn was not given to sudden fancies, but Pat O’Shaughnessy walked straight into his heart at that first meeting, and during the year which followed the acquaintance so begun had ripened into intimacy. Stephen spent a great part of his time in chambers in town, where the young man became a welcome guest, and no sooner had Pat soared to the giddy height of possessing a flat of his own, and settled down as a householder, than the accident had happened which made him dependent on the visits of his friends. Pat was aware of Stephen’s connection with his family, and more especially with Pixie, but after one brief reference the subject had been buried, though Pixie herself was frequently mentioned. There was a portrait of her on Pat’s mantelpiece to which Stephen’s eyes often strayed during his visits to the flat. Truth to tell it was not a flattering portrait. Pixie was unfortunate so far as photography was concerned, since all her bad points were reproduced and her charm disappeared. Stephen wondered if Stanor were gazing at the same photograph in New York, and if his imagination were strong enough to supply the want. For himself he had no difficulty. So vivid was his recollection that even as he looked the set face of the photograph seemed to flash into smiles... “Well, I am glad you have given in,” he said, continuing his sentence after a leisurely pause, “because my threat was real. I should certainly have written to your people if you hadn’t done it yourself. You are not being properly looked after, young man. To put it bluntly, you are not having enough to eat. When do you expect that obnoxious old female to come back and make tea?” “’Deed, I’ve given over expecting,” said Pat despondently. “Most days I’m ready to drink the teapot by the time she brings it in. It’s a toss up if we get it at all to-day as she’s gone out.” Stephen rose to his tall height and stood smiling down at the tired face. “You shall have it, my boy. I’ll make it myself. It won’t be the first time. Have you any idea where the crocks live? I don’t want to upset—” Before he could complete his sentence, a thunderous knocking sounded at the front door, causing both hearers to start with astonishment. So loud, so vigorous, so long continued was the assault, that the first surprise deepened into indignation, and Pat’s dark eyes sent out a threatening flash. “This is too strong! Lost her key, I suppose, and expects me to crawl on all fours to let her in. You go, Glynn, and send her straight here to me! I’ll give her a bit of my mind. I’m just in the mood to do it. Leaving me alone for hours and then knocking down my door—!” Stephen Glynn crossed the floor, his face set into an alarming sternness, for his irritation against his friend’s neglectful domestic had been growing for weeks, and this was the culminating point. He seized the handle, turned it quietly, and jerked the door open with a disconcerting suddenness which had the effect of precipitating the new-comer into his arms. “Me dear!” she cried rapturously, as she fell, but the same moment she was upright again, bolt upright, scorching him with disdainful glance. “It’s not!—Where am I? ... They said it was Mr O’Shaughnessy’s flat!” “It is! It is! Pixie! Pixie! Come in, come quick! Oh, you blessed little simpleton, what’s the meaning of this? You’d no business to come. There’s no room for you. I’m nearly well now. There’s no need—I—I— oh, Pixie!” and poor, tired, hungry Pat lay back weakly in his sister’s arms, and came perilously near subsiding into tears. It had been hard work keeping up his pecker all these long weeks, it was so overwhelmingly home-like to see Pixie’s face, and listen to her deep mellow tones... “There’s got to be room, me dear, for I’ve come to stay. How dare you be ill by yourself? It’s a bad effect London has had on you to make you so close and secretive. You! Who yelled the roof down if you as much as scratched your finger! We got the note this morning—” “Glynn made me send it. He’s been worrying at me for weeks. Glynn!” Pat raised his voice to a cry. “Where are you? Come in, you beggar. It’s Pixie! My sister Pixie. Come and shake hands.” Stephen and Pixie advanced to meet each other, red in the face and bashful of eye. The encounter at the door had been so momentary that she had hardly had time to recognise the pale face with the deep blue eyes, but for him the first note of her voice had been sufficient. “I—I thought you were Pat!” “I—I thought you were the cook.” She straightened at that, with a flash of half-resentful curiosity. “Why? Am I so like her? And do you always—” “No, I don’t. Never. But to-day she was out and your brother wanted—” “Oh, never mind, never mind!” Pat was too greedy for attention to suffer a long explanation. “What does it matter? She’s a wretch, Pixie, and she goes out and leaves me to starve. That good Samaritan was going to make tea when we heard your knock.” “I’ll make it for you!” Pixie said smiling, but she seated herself by Pat’s side as she spoke, and slid her hand through his arm, as though realising that for the moment her presence was the most welcome of all refreshments. She wore a smartly cut tweed coat and skirt, and a soft felt hat with a pheasant’s wing, and her brown shoes looked quite preposterously small and bright. In some indefinable way she looked older and more responsible than the Pixie of two years before, and Stephen noticed the change and wondered as to its cause. “I think I will go now,” he said hastily; “your sister will look after you, O’Shaughnessy, and you will have so much to talk about. I’ll come again!” But Pat was obstinate; he insisted that his friend should stay on, and appealed to Pixie for support, which she gave with great good will. “Please do! We’ll talk the better for having an audience. Won’t we now, Pat? We were always vain.” “We were!” Pat assented with unction. “Especially yourself. Even as a child you played up to the gallery.” He took her hand and squeezed it tightly between his own. “Pixie, I can’t believe it! It’s too nice to be true. And Bridgie, what does she say? Does she approve of your coming?” “She did one moment, and the next she didn’t. She was torn in pieces, the poor darling, wanting to come to you herself, and to stay with Dick at the same time. You know what she is when Dick is ill! His temperature has only to go up one point, to have her weeping about Homes for Soldiers’ Orphans, and pondering how she can get most votes. He’s buried with military honours, poor Richard, every time he takes a cold. So I was firm with her, and just packed my things and came off. At my age,” she straightened herself proudly, “one must assert oneself! I asked her what was the use of being twenty-two, and how she’d have liked it herself if she’d been thwarted at that age, and she gave in and packed up remedies.” Pixie picked up the brown leather bag which lay on the floor, and opening it, took out the contents in turns, and laid them on the sofa. “A tonic to build up the system. Beef-juice, to ditto. Embrocation to be applied to the injured part. ... Tabloids. Home-made cake. ... Oh, that tea! I’d forgotten. I’ll make it at once, and we’ll eat the cake now.” She jumped up and looked appealingly towards Stephen. “Will you show me the kitchen? I don’t know my way through these lordly fastnesses!” They went out of the room together, while Pat called out an eager, “Don’t be long!” It was only a step into the tiny kitchen. In another moment Stephen and Pixie stood within its portals, and she had closed the door behind with a careful hand. Her face had sobered, and there was an anxious furrow in her forehead. “He looks ill!” she said breathlessly. “Worse than I expected. He said he was getting well. Please tell me honestly—Is it true?” “Perfectly true in one sense. The knee is doing well, but his general health has suffered. He has been lonely and underfed, and at the first there was considerable pain. I did my best to make him write to you before, for he is not fit to be left alone. That servant is lazy and inefficient.” Pixie glanced round the untidy room with her nose tilted high. “’Twill be a healthful shock for her to come back and find a mistress in possession. We’ll have a heart to heart talk to-morrow morning,” she announced, with so quaint an assumption of severity that Stephen was obliged to laugh. She laughed with him, struggling out of her coat, and looking round daintily for a place to lay it. “That nail on the door! There’s not a clean spot. Now for the kettle! You fill it, while I rummage. What’s the most unlikely place for the tea? It will be there. She’s the sort of muddler who’d leave it loose among the potatoes.” “It’s in the caddy. The brown box on the dresser. I’ve found it before.” “The caddy!” Pixie looked quite annoyed at so obvious a find. “Oh, so it is. Where’s the butter then, and the bread, and the sugar? Where’s the spoons? Where does she put the cloths? Rake out that bottom bar to make a draught. Does he get feverish at nights? It’s a mercy I brought a cake, for I don’t believe there’s a thing. Does he take it strong?” She was bustling about as she spoke, opening and shutting drawers, standing on tip-toe to peer over kitchen shelves, lifting the lids of dishes upon the dresser. One question succeeded fast upon another, but she did not trouble herself to wait for a reply, and Stephen, watching with a flickering smile, was quite nonplussed when at last she paused, as if expectant of an answer. “What strong?” “Tea! What else could it be? We were talking of tea.” “I beg your pardon. So we were. Yes, he does like it strong, and there’s only one set of cups, white with a gold rim. There were two left the other day, but it’s quite possible they have disappeared. She is a champion breaker.” “We’ll have tumblers then,” Pixie said briskly. “The nicest tea I ever had was at a seaside inn where we made it ourselves in a bedroom to save the expense. Oh, here they are, and here’s the milk. Now we shan’t be long!” Then suddenly, standing before the cupboard door, and tilting her head over her shoulder, “When did you hear from Stanor?” she asked, in a still, altered voice which struck like a blow. Stephen Glynn gave no outward sign of surprise, yet that sudden question had sent racing half a dozen pulses, as voicing the words in his own mind. “When did you hear from Stanor? What do you hear from Stanor?” The first sight of the girl’s face had added intensity to the curiosity of years—a curiosity which within the last months had changed into anxiety. He hesitated before answering the simple question. “He does not write often. We had a good deal of correspondence when he decided to stay in New York the extra six months. He seems to have acclimatised wonderfully, and to be absorbed in his work, unusually absorbed for his age.” “But that is what you wanted. You must be pleased about that,” Pixie said quietly. She was arranging the cups and saucers on the tray, but she looked at him as she spoke, a straight, sweet look, which yet held so much sadness that it cut like a knife. “Miss O’Shaughnessy,” he cried impetuously, “can you forgive me? I took too much upon myself. I did it for the best, but—two years is too long. One settles down. It was a blow to me when he stayed on, for my own sake, and—” Pixie nodded gravely. “Yes. We were both sorry. We wanted of course to see him, but you should not blame him for loving his work. You blamed him before because he was changeable; now he has done so well, you must be proud.” She smiled at him with determined cheerfulness. “I am proud. And it is not as if it were making him ill. He finds time to play. Honor Ward often writes and she tells me—” “Miss Ward seems an adept at play,” returned Stephen dryly. In truth, the lavishness of the entertainments which Honor had planned during the past two years had called the attention of even the English papers. Pixie had read aloud descriptions thereof in the journals in the northern town where Captain Victor was still stationed, and Bridgie listening thereto had exclaimed in horror: “Special liveries for all the men-servants just for that one evening! How wicked! All that money for a few hours, when poor children are starving, and myself wanting a velvet coat...” At first Pixie had divined that Honor was trying to drown her sorrow in gaiety, and was even guilty of a girlish desire to “show off” before her former lover, but as the months grew into years it was impossible to read her letters and not realise that her enjoyment was real, not feigned, and that she had outgrown regret. Yes, Honor was happy; and to judge from her accounts Stanor was happy too, able even in his busiest days to spare time to join the revels, and, indeed, to help in their organisation. “Miss Ward is an adept at play. I don’t approve of these gorgeous entertainments,” said Stephen, and Pixie’s eyes lightened with a mischievous flash. “Seems to me you are never satisfied! Now for myself nothing could be gorgeous enough!” She held out a brown teapot with a broken spout. “The water’s boiling. Pour it in please, and don’t splash! I’ll carry it right in, for Pat is impatient. We mustn’t keep him waiting.” She waited until the pot was safely on the tray, and then added a warning: “Please don’t talk about—things—before Pat. He’d worry, but I’d like your advice. Another time, perhaps, when we are alone.” Her eyes met his, gravely beseeching, and he looked searchingly back. Yes, she had suffered. It was no longer the face of a light-hearted child. Loyal as ever, Pixie would not listen to a word against her friend, but what secret was she hiding in her heart? <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.