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Love Affairs of Pixie

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<h3>Chapter Twenty Seven.</h3> <h4>Honor’s Letter.</h4> Bridgie was angry. It was rarely indeed that her placid nature was roused to wrath, but she did the thing thoroughly when she was about it. In a flow of eloquence, worthy of Esmeralda herself, she revived incidents in Pixie’s life, dating from babyhood onwards, to prove to the chairs and tables, and any odd pieces of furniture which might happen to be listening, the blameless and beautiful character of the maid who had even been spurned (“spurned” was the word used) by a recreant unworthy the name of scoundrel. She dived into the past, and pictured the feelings of those past and gone; she projected herself into the future, and bequeathed a Corsican legacy of revenge. She lavished blame on Joan, Geoffrey, herself, Jack and Sylvia, Pat and Miles, even the beloved Dick himself, and refused to hear a word in Honor’s defence. The only person who came unscathed through the ordeal was Stephen Glynn, whom, it would appear, had absorbed in himself the wisdom which every one else had so shamefully lacked. When Bridgie ended Pat began. The news had had an unexpected effect, in rousing the invalid and restoring him to a feeling of health more powerfully than a hundred tonics could have done. For the first time for weeks past he forgot himself and his woes, and behold a new man, with a strength and vitality astounding to witness. Pat announced his intention of sallying forth and thrashing the beggar forthwith; he dealt bitterly with the squeamishness of the English law with regard to duels, declared in the same breath that he could never have believed in the possibility of such behaviour, and that he had prophesied it from the first. He adjured Pixie repeatedly, and with unction, to “Buck up!” and when the poor girl protested valiantly that she was bucking, immediately adjured her to be honest, for pity’s sake, and “let herself go!” An ordinary person would have found such a form of comfort far from soothing, but Pixie was an O’Shaughnessy herself, and it did soothe her. She understood that Bridgie and Pat were relieving themselves by saying all that they felt, more than they felt, and that presently the storm would pass and the sun shine again. By to-morrow all bitterness would have passed. She sat in her chair and submitted meekly to be lectured and cajoled, wrapped in a shawl, provided with a footstool, ordered to bed, supplied with smelling-salts, and even—tentatively—with sal-volatile, but she made no attempt to still the storm. She knew that it would be useless! Finally Pat stumped off to his bedroom, to draft a rough copy of a letter intended to be the most scathing communication which had ever passed through the post; and Bridgie, very white and shaken, seated herself on a chair by her sister’s side. “Pixie, dear—I’m afraid we’ve not been helpful. ... I lost my head, but it was such a shock.—I flew into a passion without hearing what you had to say for yourself. ... Darling, tell me—tell me honestly—how do you feel?” “I feel—” Pixie raised both hands, and moved them up and down above her shoulders, as though balancing a heavy load—“as though a great ton weight had been rolled off my shoulders. ... Bridgie! You are angry; I was angry too, but now I’ve had time to think. ... There have been two and a half years since he went away—that’s about nine hundred days. ... Bridgie! If you only knew it—there’s not been one day out of all that nine hundred when you hadn’t more cause to pity me than you have to-day!—” Suddenly, passionately, she burst into tears. <hr /> Two days later Bridgie Victor returned home. The need for chaperonage was over, and it was abundantly evident that Pixie was in no need of consolation. The first shock of disillusionment over, it was pre-eminently relief that she felt—relief from a bond which had weighed more and more heavily as time passed by. If Stanor had come home, looking his old self, caring for her, depending on her as he had done during the days of their brief engagement, she would have been ready and willing to give him her life, but it had been a strange man who had entered the sitting-room of the little flat, a man with a strange face, and a strange voice, and a heart that belonged to another girl. Pixie was free; the bonds which had bound her were loosed, and with each hour that passed her liberty became more sweet. She shared in her sister’s relief that the understanding with Stanor had been known to no one outside the family, for no human girl enjoys being pitied for such an experience, and Pixie had her own full share of conceit. It was comforting to know that there would be no talk, no fuss; that she could go her way, free from the consciousness of watching eyes. On the morning of Bridgie’s departure two letters arrived by the first post, and were read in silence by their respective owners. Bridgie’s was in a man’s handwriting, and the perusal of its lines brought a flush to her cheeks and the glimmer of tears to her eyes. She put it in her pocket when she had finished reading, and remained densely oblivious of her sister’s hints. “What does he say?” “Who?” “Mr Glynn, of course. Don’t pretend! I know his writing.” “He’s very ... very—I don’t know exactly what he is, Pixie. He is as we all were at first—upset!” “What does he say?” “Oh, er—er—the usual things. Sorry. Ashamed. It’s so difficult for him, because, of course, in a certain sense it is his doing. ... Naturally, he feels—” “What does he say?” “Pixie, don’t go on repeating that! It’s stupid. I’ve told you! And there’s a message for you. He thanks you for your message, (I didn’t know you had sent one!) and says it was ‘like you.’ What did you say?” But Pixie did not enlighten her. “I think he ought to have written to me!” she said decisively. “After all, Bridgie, it is my business, not yours. I thought he would write.” Bridgie had the grace to blush. “But just at first, dear, it is difficult.—He feels it so much. It’s easier to a third person. Later on, in a few months’ time, when things have settled down, he wants to come north to see us. It will be easier then...” “Oh!” Pixie seemed of a sudden as eager to avoid the subject as she had been to continue it. She handed her own letter across the table with a short “From Honor! You may read it,” and thereby protected herself against the scrutiny of Bridgie’s eyes. The sheet was covered with a large, straggling handwriting, and Pixie, reading it, had seemed to hear Honor’s very voice speaking to her. <blockquote> “My dear Patricia,—I guess you may not want to hear from me, but I’m bound to write, and maybe I can say a few things that will help us both. You’re feeling pretty badly at the moment. But I want you just to realise that I’ve been feeling that way for a good year back, and to try to see both sides. “It began, Patricia, through our both feeling lone and lorn and trying to comfort each other. You’ll recollect you asked me to be good to him! Things went on all right for a spell, but before we knew where we were that friendship had got to be too important to us both. There wasn’t a thought of disloyalty in it, Patricia, on his part or mine, and the very first time I had an inkling of what was happening I went off west for a tour of four months. I presume it was too late by that time, for when I went home (I was bound to go home!) matters didn’t seem to have mended. After a while we had it out—it was bound to come some time—and I told Stanor straight he’d either got to make a clean breast of things to you or never see me again. Up till then, I guess, we’d behaved as well as any two youngsters could have been expected to do under the circumstances, but after that things went to pieces. He wouldn’t tell, and he couldn’t keep away! I’m not defending Stanor. He’s shown up pretty badly over this business. He’s been weak, and obstinate, and dishonourable. I don’t delude myself a mite, but, you see, Pixie, I love him! It’s the real thing with both of us this time, and that makes a mighty difference. I can see his faults and feel sorry about them, but it don’t make me love him any the less; and if all my money were to pan out to-morrow he’d be sorry, but he’d love me just the same. So there it was, Pixie—and a wearing time I’ve had of it, fighting against his wishes—and my own! In the end I decided to join some friends and come over to Europe, and leave him to think things over by himself. Maybe I guessed he’d follow and be forced to meet you. It’s difficult to understand one’s own motives at these times. Anyway, before I knew where I was he’d taken a berth in the same boat, and—here we are! “Stanor says you have grown-up, and look different. You are both different after these years apart, and, anyway, it was a mistake from the beginning, Patricia, and wouldn’t have worked out. Now, we suit each other, and the life we are going to lead will bring out the best in us both! He seems to you pretty contemptible at this moment, but there’s so many sides to one human creature, and that is only one side. He’s got lots of others that are good and true— “Yesterday I had an ordeal. I was introduced to the ‘Runkle.’ Why didn’t I know he was like that? He was quite courteous—he couldn’t be anything else. But his eyes, (what eyes!) made arches at me, as if to say, ‘He prefers her!’ and I felt frozen stiff. Now I shan’t rest satisfied till that man’s my friend, but it will take time— “Pixie, we’re going to be married quite soon—as soon as ever we can fix up the necessary formalities, spend a honeymoon in Switzerland, and get back to our work. I don’t ask to see you—just at the moment it would do no good, but couldn’t you just manage to send me a line to melt this stone in my heart? I’d be so happy if it wasn’t there. But it won’t melt till I hear from you, that you understand, and you forgive! “Lovingly,—Honor.” </blockquote> Bridgie read and sighed, folded the sheet carefully, and sighed again. “It’s so difficult,”—she began. “What is difficult?” “To be as angry with people as you would like!” replied Bridgie unexpectedly. “You start by thinking that all the right is on your own side, and all the wrong on theirs, and that you’re a martyr and they are brutes, and that your case is proven and there’s not a word that could be said in their defence; and then of a sudden—” she lifted the letter in her hand—“you get this! And they have a side, and they are not brutes; and instead of being angry you have to be—you are forced into being—sorry instead! It does feel hard! I didn’t want to be sorry for Honor Ward...” “I’m not sorry for her,” said Pixie softly, “I’m glad. She’s going to be happy. ... Bridgie, dear, what can I send her, for a wedding present?” <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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