Back Aa

Love Affairs of Pixie

Close

<h3>Chapter Twenty Five.</h3> <h4>Stanor comes back.</h4> It was Thursday morning. With the doctor’s permission Pat’s bed had been carried back to the minute apartment which was grandiloquently termed a “dressing-room.” A sofa took its place in the dining-room, and with the aid of a stick he could walk from one refuge to another, and enjoy what—after the confinement of the past months—appeared quite an exciting variety of scene. Bridgie Victor was still a joint occupant of the “best” bedroom, for since Pat refused to part with Pixie it was plainly the elder sister’s duty to stay on over the important meeting with Stanor Vaughan. The modern girl scoffs at the idea of chaperonage, but the O’Shaughnessys were not modern. Bridgie felt the impulse to protect, and Pixie’s piteous “Stay with me, Bridgie!” marked the one moment of weakness which she had shown. So Bridgie remained in London, comforted by the knowledge that her husband was well and her children in good hands, and seldom in her life had five days passed so slowly. Sunday itself had seemed a week long, the atmosphere strained and unreal, each member of the little party talking to pass the time, uttering platitudes, and discussing every imaginable subject under the sun but just the one which filled every mind. No need to bid Pixie to be discreet, to warn her not to sing, nor glance too frequently in a certain direction—a talking automaton could not have shown less sign of feeling. As for Stephen Glynn, the news of his nephew’s sudden return obviously came to him as a shock, but as a man of the world he was an adept in hiding his feelings, and though he curtailed his visit, so long as he was in the flat he exerted himself to preserve an ordinary demeanour. His adieux also were of the most commonplace description. “It’s hardly worth while to say good-bye. We shall meet, we shall certainly meet before long. I will write to welcome Stanor, and you—” he held Pixie’s hand and looked down at her with an inquiring glance—“you will let me hear your—news?” “I will,” answered Pixie simply. Bridgie would have given a fortune to be able to see what was in “the child’s” head at that moment, to know what she was really thinking. The sisters walked together to the door, Pat, on his stick, bringing up the rear, and stood watching Stephen descend. Once and again he looked up, smiled, and waved his hand, and as he did so his eyes had the same piteous glance which Pixie had noticed on their first meeting. The expression of those upturned eyes hurt all three onlookers in different degrees, and sent them back to their little room with downcast looks. “Now he’ll bury himself in the country again and mope! It’s been the making of him being here in town. Goodness knows what will happen to him now!” said Pat, dropping on to the couch with an impatient sigh, and Bridgie murmured softly— “The dear, man! The dear man! So hard for, him to be alone. But you needn’t be anxious, Pat. He’s so good. He’ll be looked after! ... Don’t you think, now, his eyes are the least thing in the world like Dick’s?” “Not the least least!” snapped Pixie, and that was her one contribution to the conversation. And now it was Thursday—Thursday afternoon, within an hour, of the time fixed by telegram for Stanor’s arrival. Pat had elected to stay in bed, in consequence of what he called headache and his sisters translated as “sulks.” He didn’t want to see the fellow. ... What was the fellow to him? Didn’t know how the fellow had the face to turn up at all, after dawdling away an extra six months. Hoped to goodness the fellow would make short work of it and be off, as he wanted to get up for dinner. In her heart Bridgie agreed with each sentiment in turn, but she felt it her duty to be stern and bracing. “’Deed, and I hope so, too! Else I shall have to sit here, and you’re not the best company. I’m your guest, me dear—if you haven’t the heart to be civil ye might at least have the good manners! My little Jack would never dr–eam—” “Little prig he must be, then,” mumbled Pat; but the reproof went home, and he grumbled no more. Just before the clock struck the hour Bridgie paid a flying visit to the little sitting-room to see that the tea-table was set, the kettle on the hob, the dish of hot scones on the brass stand in the fender, and everything ready to hand, so that no one need enter unless specially summoned. She found Pixie standing gazing into the fire, and started with surprise and disappointment. “Pixie, your dress! That dull old thing? Why not your pink? Me dear, you’ve time. ... There’s still time. ... Run off and change it!” But Pixie shook her head. “Bridgie, don’t fuss!” she said, and there was a note in her voice which checked the words on Bridgie’s lips. She literally dared not say any more, but her heart was heavy with disappointment. She had been so anxious that Pixie should look her best for this important interview, had been so complacently satisfied that the rose-coloured gown was as becoming as it could be, and now the aggravating, mysterious little thing had deliberately left it hanging in the wardrobe, and put on instead an old brown dress which had been a failure at the beginning, and was now well advanced in middle age. One result of Pixie’s sojourn in Paris had been an acquired faculty for making the best of herself: she put on her clothes with care, she wore them “with an air,” she dressed her hair with neat precision, and then with a finger and thumb gave a tweak here, a pat there, which imparted to the final effect something piquant and attractive. To-day it appeared as if that transforming touch had been forgotten, and Bridgie, looking on, felt that pang of distress which all motherly hearts experience when their nurslings show otherwise than at their best. “Are you not going to sit with Pat?” inquired Pixie at the end of a pregnant silence, and at that very obvious hint Bridgie retired perforce, repeating gallantly to herself, “Looks don’t matter! Looks don’t matter! They don’t matter a bit!” and believing just as much of what she said as would any other young woman of her age. Another ten minutes and the sound of the electric bell rang sharply round the flat. The door opened and shut, and Moffatt, entering the sitting-room in advance, announced loudly— “Mr Vaughan!” A tall, fair man entered with a rapid step. Pixie looked at him, and felt a consciousness of unutterable strangeness. This was not the man from whom she had parted on the deck of that ocean-bound steamer! This man was older, broader; the once lazy, laughter-loving eyes were keen and shrewd. His shoulders also were padded into the exaggerated square, characteristic of American tailors. “Well—Pixie!” Even the voice was strange. It had absorbed the American accent, the American clip and drawl. Pixie had the consciousness of struggling with stiffened features which refused to smile. “Well—Stanor!” He took her hand and held it in his, the while he stared down at her upturned face. His brows contracted, as though what he saw was more painful than pleasant. “I guess you’ve been having a bad time,” he said. “I was sorry to hear your brother’s been sick.” “He is better now,” Pixie said, and gently withdrew her hand. Two and a half years’ waiting, and this was the meeting! She drew herself up, with the little air of dignity which she knew so well how to assume, and waved him to a seat. “Won’t you sit down? I will give you some tea. It is all ready, and the kettle is boiling. When did you arrive in town?” “Two hours ago. I went straight to my hotel to write some letters, and then came along here. ... This is your brother’s apartment? Nice little place! It’s good news that he is better! Hard luck on him to be bowled over like that!” The accent, the intonation carried Pixie’s thoughts irresistibly towards another speaker, whose memory war associated with her own first meeting with Stanor. On the spur of the moment she mentioned her name. “Where is Honor Ward? Is she in London, too?” Stanor started; over his features passed a quiver as of anxiety or dread. He glanced across the fireplace, and the new keenness in his eyes became still more marked. “Er—no! She stopped half way. Later on ... perhaps—” “She is quite well?” Again a moment’s hesitation. “Fairly well, only ... Very tired.” “I don’t wonder she is tired; she does so much. Always rushing about after something new. They seem very restless people in America.” “They’re alive, anyway; they don’t rust! They’re bound to get the most that’s possible out of life, and they get it! It shakes a fellow up to get out of the rut here and have a taste of their methods.” “You like it—better than home?” Pixie paused, teapot in hand, to cast upon him a glance full of patriotic reproach, whereat he laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “Isn’t home the place where one settles down, and which feels to be most congenial?” “You find America more congenial than England?” He shrugged again, and the old gleam of laughter showed in his eyes. “Now look here, isn’t it bad luck to begin asking embarrassing questions straight away off? I hoped I was going to avoid this point! If you must have the truth—I do! America suits me!”—his smile was full of complacence—“I suit America. That’s not by any means a sure thing. Many Englishmen throw up the sponge and return home. They can’t adapt themselves, don’t want to adapt themselves. In my case I had had no business experience in England, so I began with an open mind without prejudice, and—it went: I like the life, I like the people. I like the climate. The climate is answerable for a lot of the extra energy which you over here call ‘restlessness.’ You want to do just about twice as much beneath those skies!” He cast an impatient glance towards the window. “It’s all so grey! ... I’ve had a headache straight on the last two days.” “Tea’s ready now; it will do you good. There are hot scones in that dish,” Pixie said quietly. The greyness of the street seemed to have entered the room—to have entered her heart. It was all grey. ... “We knew, of course, that you must like it, when you stayed so long.” Now there was something which was not grey. Stanor’s face flushed a painful red; he looked at his cup, at the floor, in the fire, at anything but in Pixie’s face. His voice was hard with repressed embarrassment. “Er—just so; you would, of course! There was work on hand. I waited to see it through. When a man has spent two years in the same place so many claims arise, in social life as well as in work. It is difficult for him to break away at a moment’s notice. He is hardly his own master.” “I’m sure it is. And when there was work you were quite right to stay on. It would have been wrong to have left it unfinished.” Stanor, looked up sharply, met clear, honest eyes, which looked back into his without a trace of sarcasm. She meant it! Voice and look alike were transparently genuine. At that moment she was essentially the Pixie of old, the Pixie to whom it came naturally to believe the best. The flush on Stanor’s cheeks deepened as he realised the nature of the “work” which had made his excuse. His voice deepened with the first real note of intimacy. “That’s like you, Pixie! You always understood. ... And now tell me about yourself. What’s happened to you since I heard last? Six months ago, was it? No! barely four. Didn’t you write for Christmas? Been jogging along as usual at home, playing games with the babies?” “Yes; just jogging,” said Pixie. Then of a sudden her eyes flashed. “‘Over here’ we don’t find the ‘best of life’ in a rush! It comes to some of us quite satisfactorily in a jog! ‘I guess,’ as you say, that my life as been as much ‘worth while’ as if I’d spent it in a round of pink luncheons and green teas, as your American friends seem to do.” The unexpected happened, and, instead of protesting, Stanor sighed, and looked of a sudden grave and depressed. “You’re right there, Pixie; that’s so, if you are built the right way! But some of us—” He checked himself, and began afresh in a voice of enforced enthusiasm. “Well!—and then you came up here to nurse your brother, and found the Runkle already in possession. I was surprised to read about that in your letter at Liverpool. Odd, isn’t it, how things come about? And how is the old fellow?” Again Pixie’s eyes sent out a flash. How was it that every fresh thing that Stanor said seemed to hurt her in a new place? “Considering his great years and infirmities, the old fellow seems surprisingly well.” “Halloo, what’s this?” Stanor stared in surprise. “Said the wrong thing, have I? What have I said? He seems old, you know, if he isn’t actually so in years. I used to look upon him as a patriarch. Not so much his looks as his character. Such a sombre old beggar!” “He wasn’t sombre with us!” Memory flashed back pictures of Stephen’s face as he sat in the arm-chair by the fire, listening to those impromptu concerts which had enlivened Pat’s convalescence. Pixie saw him as he leaned forward in his chair, waving his hand baton-like, heard his voice, joining lustily in the “Matches” chorus. In that very room—in the very chair in which Stanor now sat. ... What centuries seemed to have lolled by, between that day, and this! “Wasn’t he? That’s good! I’m glad to hear that,” Stanor said perfunctorily. “It takes time, of course, to get out of invalid ways. I shall have to be running down to see him one of these days.” “Oh, of course; he’ll expect you. And then—then you’ll begin your work over here. In London, I suppose?” “I ... er ... the firm is in town. There—er—there will be a lot to arrange.” Suddenly Stanor leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes searching her face. “Pixie, this is an odd sort of conversation for our first meeting! ... We’ve got wrong somehow. ... Can’t we get right? Why waste time on generalities. ... Are you glad to see me back, Pixie?” “I am!” Pixie’s eyes gazed back without a flicker. “When I got your letter I was—thankful! I think it was—time—you came back.” “Have you missed me, Pixie, while, I’ve been away?” Now she hesitated, but her eyes remained steady and candid. “It had been such a little time, you know; and you had never stayed with us at home. I could hardly miss you out of my life, but I ... thought of you!” “Did you, Pixie? Did you, little Pixie? ... I wonder what you thought!” Pixie did not answer that question. The answer would have been too long, too complicated. She smiled, a wistful little smile, and turned away her head. Then Stanor rose. She heard him rise, heard the chink of the tea-things on the tray as he pressed upon it in rising, heard his footsteps passing round the table towards her chair, heard in a sickening silence his summoning voice— “Pixie!” “Stanor!” They looked at each other;—white, strained, tense. “Pixie, will you marry me?” “Yes, Stanor, I will. If you want me...” <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2