“Ye hear that, Patrick? Listen to that, now, and see your sister in tears, and think shame to yourself on a good Christmas Eve. And now I’ve the trouble of punishing you into the bargain. What will I do with him, Esmeralda? Will I send him off to his bed before Jack comes home?”
And then a pretty thing happened, for among the chorus of groans which greeted this suggestion, Esmeralda’s “No, no!” sounded shrillest of all, and off she rushed to Pat’s side in a whirlwind of repentance.
“No, no! Not that! He would be so disappointed. He must see Jack. I won’t have him punished after all, father. It’s Christmas-time, and he’s sorry already. Tell the Major you are sorry, Pat, and I’ll shake hands and say no more.”
“I’m sorry, sir, there’s been such a stupid row,” said Pat truthfully enough; but when his father turned away with a sigh of relief, he put his arm round his sister and gave her a bear-like hug.
“What did you howl about, silly?” he asked affectionately. “When you’ve had time to cool down you will think it the finest joke of the year. And you so well plucked, too, holding on like grim death, for all his struggles. You ought to be proud instead of sorry. Look here, now, you shall have the racket after all! I won’t have you the loser for your dealings with me. I’ll give it to you at once, if you’ll be troubled to come to my room!”
Then Esmeralda cried, “Oh, Pat, me darlin’!” and Pat hung on to her arms, crying, “Hold me tight! Hold me tight!” at which she blushed and tugged his curly locks, and off they went together, laughing, squabbling, protesting; sworn enemies, dearest of friends!
Jack arrived in due course, and a happier Christmas party than that assembled round the breakfast-table at Knock Castle next morning it would have been hard to find. Each one had provided presents for the others, and if they were of infinitesimal value, they were apparently none the less valued by the recipients. Mademoiselle thought she had never seen anything more charming than the manner in which Pixie presented, and the Major received, a solitary bone stud for his collar, amidst the acclamations of an admiring family.
“A happy Christmas to ye, father darlin’, and many happy returns!” said Pixie in deep sweet accents, as she pressed the tiny packet into his hand, and blinked at it with an air of elaborate indifference. “It’s just a little present I was buying you, thinking maybe you would like to wear something I’d chosen meself.”
“And now what can this be next?” soliloquised the Major, untwisting the paper with tenderest fingers and an air of absorption seldom seen on his merry features. When wrapping number two was undone, and the stud was disclosed in all its glory, he appeared almost dizzy with rapture, holding it out on an outstretched palm, and gazing at it with incredulous joy. “Did ever anything fall out so lucky as that? The very thing I was breaking my heart over not an hour ago. Somebody eats my studs—I’m sure they do—and what are left Esmeralda steals for her cuffs. But I’ll be even with anybody who dares to take this one from my drawer. Thank you, my piccaninny. It’s a broth of a stud, and you could not have given me anything I liked better.”
“I hope it may never break on you when you are in a hurry,” said Pixie politely, and with sundry memories of past occasions when the Major had dressed for a function, while the sounds of his groans and lamentations had been heard without the portals of his dressing-room.