“Yes, it would be hard if we took it seriously, but we don’t. It’s just like being in seaside lodgings, when the smallnesses and inconveniences make part of the fun. We are going home some day, when Jack has made his fortune, and until then my brother-in-law rents the Castle from us, and we go over and stay with him once or twice in the year. Esmeralda is mistress of Knock, and is having it put in such terrible order that we can hardly recognise the dear old tumbledown place. There is not a single broken pane in the glass-houses!” Bridgie spoke in a tone of almost incredulous admiration, the while she drew a large promenade photograph from its envelope. “There, that’s Esmeralda! Taken in the dress in which she was presented.”
Sylvia looked, and gasped with surprise. Such a vision of beauty and elegance, such billows of satin, such lace, such jewels and nodding plumes, were seldom seen in this modest suburban neighbourhood. She had never before had any connection with a girl who had been presented at Court, and the face which looked out of the photograph was as young as her own—startlingly, dazzlingly young.
“Your sister? Really! How per-fectly lovely and beautiful! Is she really as pretty as that? How old is she? What is her husband like? Is she very happy? She must be very rich to have all those beautiful things.”
“She has more money than she can spend. Can you imagine that? I can’t!” said Bridgie solemnly. “I asked Esmeralda what it felt like to be able to get whatever she liked without asking the price, and she said it was very soothing to the feelings, but not nearly so exciting as when she used to make up new hats out of nothing at all and a piece of dyed ribbon. She is only twenty—younger than I, and as beautiful as a picture. Geoffrey adores her. She has a dear little baby boy to play with, and wherever she goes people turn round to look after her, so that she walks about from morning till night in a kind of triumphal procession.”
“How nice!” sighed Sylvia enviously. “Just what I should like. No one turns round to look after me, and I feel a worm every time I walk down Bond Street among all the horrible creatures who look nicer than I do myself. People say—sensible old people, I mean—that it is bad for the character to have everything that one wants. Do you think it is so in your sister’s case? Is she spoiled by prosperity?”
Esmeralda’s sister hesitated, loyally unwilling to breathe a word against a member of her family.
“She is just as loving and generous as she can be; thinks of every single thing that father would have liked, and makes a perfect mistress of the old place. The people adore her, and are in wholesome awe of her, too—far more so than they ever were of me. The boys get cross sometimes because she expects us to do exactly what she wishes, and that immediately, if not sooner, but it doesn’t worry me. I agree with all she says, and then quietly go my own way, and the next time we meet she has forgotten all about it. She is just the least in the world inclined to be overbearing, but we all have our faults, and can’t afford to judge each other. She has been a dear sweet sister to me!”
Bridgie smoothed the tissue paper carefully over the portrait and put it back in its envelope. Then she picked up a smaller photograph from the table, and her face glowed with tenderness and pride. “Now!” she cried, and her voice was as a herald’s trumpet announcing the advent of the principal character upon the stage. “Now, here she comes! Here’s Pixie! Here’s our Baby!”
Sylvia sat up eagerly and held the photograph up to the light. She looked at it, and blinked her eyes to be sure she had seen aright. She cast a swift look at Bridgie’s face to assure herself that she was not the victim of a practical joke. She pressed her lips together to repress an exclamation of dismay. She had expected to behold a vision of loveliness—the superlative in the scale in which the two elder sisters made positive and comparative, but what she saw was an elf-like figure sitting huddled in the depths of an arm-chair, with tiny hands clasped together, and large dilapidated boots occupying the place of honour in the foreground. Lank tails of hair fell to the shoulders, and while the nose was of the smallest possible dimensions, the mouth seemed to stretch right across the face. It seemed impossible that this comical little creature could belong to such a handsome and distinguished-looking family, still more so that her belongings should be proud of her rather than ashamed, yet there sat Bridgie all beams and expectancy, her sweet lips a-tremble with tenderness.
“That’s little Pixie! Esmeralda gave her two shillings for unpicking some old dresses, and she went into the village and got photographed for my birthday present. There was a travelling photographer down for a week, and it’s wonderfully like her for eighteenpence. The other sixpence she spent on a frame—green plush, with shells at the corners. Esmeralda had remarks to make when I put it on the drawing-room mantelpiece, and offered to give me a silver one instead.” Bridgie smiled and shook her head with an expression which showed that the price of the green plush frame was above rubies. “No, indeed! It’s not likely I will give up Pixie’s present.”