Pixie’s red merino dress was the pride of little Miss Lock-keeper’s heart, but about two sizes too big for its present occupant. The bodice hung in folds about her tiny figure, the sleeves came down to her finger-tips; the Captain’s shiny black suit made him appear quite clumsy and awkward, but that was all part of the fun, in the estimation of three members of the party, at least.
Mrs Wallace was undecided whether to laugh or to cry as she welcomed her truants and listened to the story of their adventures. Nothing would satisfy her but to despatch Pixie to bed forthwith, to that young lady’s intense mortification, and to order the Captain upstairs to have a hot bath and a dose of quinine. When he came downstairs, she was putting a letter in the post-box in the hall, and, motioning towards it, explained its purport.
“I’ve been writing to Mamzelle’s sister in London. These lock accidents get into the papers sometimes, and are generally exaggerated into something really so thrilling and terrible. It’s best to tell the true story ourselves.”
“And I have brought this trouble upon you! I could kick myself for my stupidity. You will never trust me again, but please make me the scapegoat to the sister, and let her wreak her wrath on me. It’s not fair that you should be blamed.”
“Oh, I am not afraid of any wrath, I assure you. She’s a charming girl, and as sweet as Mamzelle herself. I have asked her to come down to-morrow and see for herself that there is no harm done. I thought that was the best way out of the difficulty; and please don’t blame yourself too much. It was an accident, and we must just be very, very thankful that you were all preserved from harm.”
The next morning the Captain took himself off for a long walk, ostensibly to call on some friends, in reality to avoid meeting the visitor from town; for though a man may boldly acknowledge his responsibility and offer to bear the blame, he has an instinctive shrinking from the society of females in distress, and will walk a very long distance in order to avoid anything like a scene.
It seemed the height of bad fortune that this particular visitor should arrive in the afternoon, instead of the morning, and that he should stumble into the library almost immediately after she had arrived. She was seated on an ottoman with her back towards him, but Mrs Wallace’s quick exclamation took away any chance of retreating unseen.
“Why, here he is!” she cried. “This is the culprit, or the hero, whichever you choose to call him. Come and tell your own story, Dick. This is Mademoiselle’s sister, Miss O’Shaughnessy.”
But he had recognised her already. She had turned her head as Mrs Wallace spoke, and beneath the curving brim of the hat he had seen the face which had been enshrined in his heart for three long years, the sweet face which had brought to him at once the greatest joy and the bitterest sorrow of his life! He stood still in the middle of the room, staring at her as if suddenly turned to stone, and Bridgie rose to her feet, the pretty colour fading out of her cheeks, her lips a-tremble with emotion.
Mrs Wallace looked from one to the other, and with a woman’s intuition divined something very nearly approaching the truth. Dick was quite changed from his old happy self—everyone had noticed it, and speculated as to the cause. In his last furlough he had stayed some time in Ireland. Could it be—could it possibly be—