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Love Affairs of Pixie

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<h3>Chapter Twenty Three.</h3> <h4>Complications.</h4> On the following afternoon Stephen Glynn failed to pay his daily visit to the flat. After the revelation of the night before he had neither the strength nor the courage to encounter Pixie anew. Little use to shut the stable door after the steed had flown, but he must at least have time to think, to face the future, and decide upon his own course. And then at seven o’clock came the ring of the telephone, and Pixie’s voice speaking piteously in his ear— “Is it you? You yourself? Oh, why didn’t you come? I was waiting for you. I wanted you. Pat’s ill! He’s ill, and he won’t let me send for the doctor. Oh, do come round!” “I’m coming!” Stephen said, and hung up the receiver. Pixie wanted him, that settled the matter. In half an hour’s time his car stopped before the entrance to the flat, and the chauffeur was bidden to wait for further orders, while his master mounted the long flights of steps. Pixie was seated beside the fire, and the glance of her eyes spoke of a warning which he was quick to understand. Pat was not to suspect that his friend had been summoned on his behalf. He turned towards the bed, and said lightly— “Sorry to be late, old man. How goes it? Tried the walking again?” “This morning. Yes. But—” Pat shrugged wearily—“not since. Got a head—” Stephen looked at him critically. Bright eyes, flushed cheeks, shortened breath, all the danger signals to the fore. “Bit feverish, old man, that’s the trouble! Exerting yourself too much perhaps. Good thing I didn’t come to tire you further. Get that doctor fellow to give you something to cool you down, and give you a good night’s rest, and the little cherub will wake up bright as a button.” “Shan’t!” Pat cried. “No more doctors! Sick of the sight of doctors! What have doctors done for me? Chained here all these weeks, and worse at the end! I can look after myself.” “Taken your temperature by any chance?” “What’s the good? Don’t you start worrying, Glynn! I’ve had enough of it from Pixie. I’m not going to be worried with temperatures.” “Don’t behave like a child, O’Shaughnessy. No one wants to worry you with doctors if it can be helped. I don’t wonder you are tired of them, but you can’t run risks. Take your temperature like a sensible fellow, and if it’s under a hundred, I’ll leave you in peace. Otherwise I go downstairs this minute and telephone for Braithey. Where’s the thermometer, Miss O’Shaughnessy? Now then, in with it!” Pat scowled, but submitted. The glass tube was held between set lips, and a silence ensued which Stephen made no effort to break. Pixie waited expectantly for him to join her, but he kept his position by the bed, without so much as turning his head in her direction. And upon entering he had avoided her glance, had dropped her hand after the most perfunctory, clasp, and last night he had gone away without even saying good-night. ... She had offended him: certainly she must have offended him, Pixie told herself, though how she was unable to think. She stared into the fire, feeling tired, and sad, and discouraged. “Three minutes. Yes, that’s enough. Let me see! I’m getting quite clever with these puzzling things. Ye–es!” With a deft jerk of his wrist Stephen shook the thermometer, and returned it to it’s case. “Slightly up! No escape for it, Pat. Braithey must come!” “I won’t see him. I won’t see him if he comes! Look here, Glynn, it’s my affair! Leave me alone, there’s a good fellow! I can look after myself...” Stephen walked steadily to the door. “I’ll take good care you don’t. That’s enough, Patrick, don’t waste your strength! I’m going downstairs to telephone, and if Braithey’s at home my car shall bring him round. It’s waiting outside.” He disappeared, and the storm burst over Pixie’s head, but she bore it meekly, with a kind of stunned acceptance. Everything seemed going wrong! The sunny harmony of the last ten days had suddenly changed to gloom. Pixie’s thoughts made a lightning review of those different days. How perfectly, incredibly happy they had been! Until this moment she had not fully realised their perfection. “Ah, now, Pat, stop! Don’t worry, boy! It’s not my head! ... Wait till to-morrow and you’ll be better than ever, and think of the trouble it’ll give you to apologise. ... It’s because we care!” “Wish to goodness you didn’t then,” cried the impenitent one. However he might wish to apologise to-morrow, he was in no mood to begin to-night, but the pain in his head was so acute that by sheer exhaustion he was forced into silence. Stephen did not return as had been expected after sending his telephone message. He preferred, it appeared, to go on the car, and personally bring back the doctor, and half an hour later the two men entered the room together. Then ensued the usual tapping and sounding, the enforced reiteration of “Ah-ah!” the feeling of the pulse, the ignominious presentation of the tongue. Pat went through the performance with the air of a martyr at the stake, sank back against the pillow when it was over, and hunched himself beneath the clothes. “That’s right! That’s right! Lie still and rest. We’ll soon have you all right again. Have a little nap if you can, while I give Miss O’Shaughnessy my instructions in the er—er—” Doctor Braithey reminded himself in time that there was no second sitting-room, and concluded grandiloquently—“in the hall!” They went out into the tiny passage, and Stephen and Pixie waited for the verdict. “Well! The right lung is touched. He has taken a chill. Now we must see what we can do to prevent it from going farther.” He cast an inquiring glance at Pixie. “D’you know anything about poulticing?” “Yes, everything! I’ve helped my sister with her children, and I brought the things...” “That’s well! Poultice him then, a fresh one every two hours. Here! You understand, in this position,” he tapped himself in illustration. “I’ll send in medicines, and we’ll see how he is to-morrow morning. If he is no better you’ll need help. We’ll see about that when I call.” A few more words and he was gone, racing down the long stairway, while Stephen lingered behind with an air of uncertainty. “I—suppose I can be of no use! Pat ought to be quiet, and I’m no hand at poulticing. You are sure you can manage alone?” Pixie nodded, struggling with a lump in her throat. Why wouldn’t he stay? Why did he so obviously not want to stay? “I can. It will be all right. Moffatt will help me.” “And to-morrow ... to-morrow you must get a nurse!” “No!” cried Pixie with sudden energy, “I will not. I’ll have no stranger. I’ll have Bridgie.” Her heart swelled at the sound of the beloved name; she felt a helpless longing to cast herself on that faithful breast. “Bridgie must come. There’s no room for a nurse in this tiny place. Bridgie could share my room.” “We’ll telegraph for her,” Glynn said. “I will come round after breakfast, and if Pat is not quite himself, I’ll telegraph at once. She could be with you by tea-time.” He was kind and considerate. He was thoughtful for her comfort, ready to help by deed as well as word. Pixie could not explain to herself wherein lay the want, but the reality of it gnawed at her heart, and darkened still further the hours of that long, anxious night. Despite poultices, despite medicine, there was no doubt even to Pixie’s inexperienced eyes that Pat was worse the next morning. His breathing was heavier, he was hotter, more restless. Without waiting for Stephen she sent the little maid to telephone to the doctor, and through the same medium dispatched a summoning wire to Bridgie in her northern home. The succeeding hours were filled with a nightmare-like struggle against odds which palpably increased with every hour. Stephen came in and out, turned himself into a messenger to obtain everything that was needed, sent round a hamper of cooked dainties which would provide the small household for days to come, drove to the station to meet Bridgie and bring her to the flat, and oh! the joy, the relief, the blessed consciousness of help, which came to nurse and patient alike at the sight of that sweet, fair face! In one minute Bridgie had shed her hat and coat, in the second moment she was scorching herself by the fire, to remove all trace of chill before she approached the bedside, in the third she was sitting beside it—calm, sweet, capable, with the air of having been there since the beginning of time, and intending to stay until the end. For the next few days Pat had a sharp struggle for his life. Pneumonia clutched him in its grip, and the sound of his painful breathing was heard all over the little flat. There was a dreadful night when hope was well-nigh extinguished, when Stephen Glynn and the two sisters seemed to wrestle with the very angel of death, and Pat himself to face the end. “Shall I—die?” he gasped, and Bridgie’s answering smile seemed to hold an angelic sweetness. “I hope not, dear lad. There’s so much work for you to do down here, but if you do—it’s going home! Mother’s there, and the Major! They’ll welcome you!” But Pat was young, and the love of life was strong within him. He had loved his parents, but still more at that moment he loved the thought of his work. He fought for his life, and the fight was hard. Into most lives there comes at times such a night as this; a night of dark, illimitable hours, a night when the world and all its concerns withdraws itself to unmeasurable distance, and the division between life and the eternal grows thin and faint. Would Pat live to see the morning? That was the question which to his sisters overwhelmed every other thought. Afterwards, looking back, Pixie could recall certain incidents registered by the sub-conscious self. Being gently forced into a chair; being fed with cups of something hot and nourishing, placed suddenly in her hands by Stephen Glynn, always by Stephen, who seemed by his actions to regard her as a secondary invalid, to be tended with tenderest care. Once, becoming suddenly conscious of his presence, as she stood in the kitchen preparing some necessary for the sick man, a growing fear burst into words, and she asked him pitifully—how pitifully she herself could never know— “Was it my fault? Was there anything I could have done?” “No, dear,” he said simply. “It is not your fault.” Pixie was certain that he had said “dear.” The rhythm of it remained in her ears, that, and the deep gentleness of his tone. He had been sorry for her, so sorry! And he was so much older, and he was Stanor’s uncle. Why should he not say “dear?” Short and sharp was the attack, but by God’s mercy the crisis passed, and brought relief. Weak as a child, but peaceful and quiet, Pat slept, and took his first steps back towards life. At last the danger was over, and Pat’s natural vigour of constitution made the convalescence unusually quick, but even when he was comparatively well again, Bridgie refused in an altogether amazing and unprecedented manner to return to her beloved home. She suggested not once, but many times in succession, that Pixie should return in her place to take the head of the household, but here Pat grew obstinate in his turn. No! Pixie had had all the dull work of nursing; he was not going to allow her to return until she had had some fun. And when he began to go out for walks, pray, who was going to accompany him, if Pixie went away? “You’d be off after her, the moment you saw me on my feet. Don’t deny it, for I know better!” Pat declared, and Bridgie blushed, and did not deny it. Already she was pining for Dick and the children; already counting the hours to her return, but... Movement was evidently in the air; perhaps it was caused by the bright, spring days which had replaced the former gloom. Pat on his bed discussed a possible holiday before returning to work. “It might hurry things,” he said. “What do you say, Pixie, seaside or country? Must go somewhere where there’s something to do! Winter garden, concerts, bands, people to look at. I want to be amused. We’ll have a week somewhere, and blow expense. You might come too, Glynn, and bring the car.” Glynn was sitting in his usual place beside the fire; Bridgie was by the bed; Pixie prone on the hearthrug. During the last few days the invalid had been sufficiently strong to enjoy the society of his fellows, had even called upon Pixie to sing, and had apparently greatly enjoyed the hearing, though Bridgie seemed for once unappreciative, and had discouraged further efforts. Now his mind had turned on to holidays, and he had made this direct appeal to Stephen, which seemed to find scant favour from two out of the three hearers. Bridgie frowned, and stared at the carpet; Stephen’s pale face showed a discomfited flush. “You shall have the car with pleasure. It shall take you wherever you decide to go, and be at your service for as long as you please, but for myself, I must get home. I—I am not usually in town for so long at a time. There are several things waiting attention which should not be delayed. I must get back...” There was a dead silence, while each one of the three hearers realised the futility of the excuse. Stephen’s estate was in the hands of a capable agent: an extra week’s absence could make little difference; moreover, previous statements had made it plain that he had originally intended to stay for some considerable time in town. Plain, therefore, as print, and impossible to misunderstand was the fact that he did not want to accompany his friends on their holiday; that in addition he did not for the moment desire more of their company in town. Bridgie raised her head: she was smiling, a bright, unaffected, relieved-looking smile. “There’s no end to the work on a big estate. The Major—my father—used to say that every man was his own best bailiff, though he made a fine muddle of it himself, poor darling! But my brother Jack agrees with him. He’s educated Miles to look after the Irish property, and so does Geoffrey Hilliard. ... It’s true he is away half his time—” At the best of times Bridgie was scarcely a special pleader, and to-day she seemed no sooner to make a statement than she contradicted it straight away. She mumbled vaguely, and relapsed into silence. “Of course we won’t take your car. You will need it for your business excursions!” Pat said icily. “We are very much indebted to you for letting us have the use of it here. It’s been of great service, hasn’t it, Pixie?” “It has! I don’t know what we’d have done without it. We are grateful,” agreed Pixie warmly. Her voice out of all the four was the only one which rang true; her eyes smiled across the room with unembarrassed friendliness. Nevertheless Bridgie, looking on, felt a cramp of pain. How much older Pixie had grown in appearance! The lines of strain and repression over which she had sighed more than once before now had surely deepened during the last weeks! Anxiety, no doubt, the strain of nursing—Bridgie comforted herself as best she might, but no explanation could take away the pang which the mother heart feels at the sight of pain on a young face! “Come, Pixie,” she said, rising, “we’ll make tea! I promised Pat potato cakes as soon as the doctor allowed them, and that’s to-day. We’ll have a feast!—” “Leave them to themselves,” she said confidingly to Pixie when the kitchen was reached. “They’ll shake down better without us. Pat’s fractious; he always was from a child when he was crossed, but the potato cakes will soothe him. I’m sorry for Mr Glynn. Really, you know, dear, Pat’s exacting!” “’Deed he is. It’s no wonder he is tired of it.” Bridgie needed no explanation as to the significance of that second he. “He’s been fussing about us for weeks, and now he’ll go home and rest. It’s a good thing! Will I mash the potatoes for you, Bridgie?” “Thank you, darling,” said Bridgie humbly, but her face remained troubled. Once more, and with all her heart, she wished that Pixie were safe at home. The rumble of men’s voices could be heard from the kitchen—an amicable rumble it appeared to be, though with mysterious breaks from time to time. Bridgie bustled in, tea-tray in hand, in the middle of one of these breaks, and surprised a look of sadness on each face. She decided that Stephen was to depart forthwith, but such was not the case, since over tea he alluded to an old promise to take Pixie to the Temple, and included Bridgie in an invitation for the following Sunday. “And then I must be off—on Monday—or—or perhaps on Tuesday,” he said vaguely. “One day next week.” “I leave on Monday too,” said Bridgie, and ate her potato cake with recovered zest. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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