“I am honoured!” said Pixie flatly. “I am honoured!”
She rose slowly from the bed, moving stiffly as though the mere physical effort were a strain, and passing by Bridgie’s inviting arms walked over to the dressing-table and began to loosen her own hair.
“You have finished, Bridgie? I’m not in your way?” she asked quietly, and Bridgie faltered a weak “No!” and felt that the world was coming to an end.
Pixie silent; Pixie dignified; Pixie quietly but unmistakably holding her sister and guardian at arm’s length, this was an experience petrifying in its unexpectedness! She had not spoken on the impulse of a moment; for days past she had been nerving herself to open Pixie’s eyes. At the bottom of her heart had lain a dawning hope that such an opening might not be in vain, for Pixie had never really loved Stanor Vaughan. At the time of their engagement she had not even understood what love meant; during the years of their separation there had been nothing but an occasional letter to preserve his image in her mind, and when the allotted two years were over, Stanor himself had voluntarily extended his exile. Bridgie set her lips as she recalled a fact so hurtful to her sister’s dignity. She heard again Pat’s voice, echoing the sentiments of her own heart. “Tell her, Bridgie! She ought to know. He’s worth a thousand of that other fellow. Don’t let her throw away the substance for the shadow.”
So she had spoken, and a new Pixie—a Pixie she had never even imagined in dreams—had listened, and made her reply. “I am honoured!” she had said, and straightway, sweetly, courteously, irrevocably, had closed the subject.
Bridgie bent her head and plaited her hair in the two long ropes which made her nightly coiffure. She was thankful of the employment, thankful of an excuse to hide her face; she listened to the ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece and asked herself what she should do next. The incredible had come to pass, and she, Bridgie, sister, guardian, married woman, mother of a family, was nervous in Pixie’s presence! Not for any bribe that could have been offered would she have ventured to hint at that hope which she and Pat had shared in common.
Suddenly through the little flat rang the sound of the postman’s knock. The last of the many deliveries of the day had arrived, and Bridgie peeping out of the door spied a couple of white envelopes prone on the mat. She crept out to get them, thankful of the diversion, and was overjoyed to behold on one her husband’s writing.
“One for me, Pixie, and one for you—an enclosure forwarded from home. I’m so glad to get mine. It’s nice for the postmen in London to have Sundays free, but we country people do miss letters,” she said glibly, as she handed Pixie her share of the spoil, and seated herself in the one comfortable chair which the room afforded, to enjoy to the full the welcome message from home.
Perhaps Dick had divined the double anxiety which was burdening his wife, perhaps he realised how long she would feel a Sunday without news, perhaps out of his own loneliness had arisen a need for words—in any case, that special letter was the longest and, to Bridgie’s heart, the dearest which she had received since her departure from home. He told her of the children, and of their latest sayings; he told her of himself and his work; he comforted her, where she needed comfort, cheered her, where she needed cheer, called her by the sweet love names which she most loved to hear, and held before her eyes the prospect of a swift return. And Bridgie reading that letter thanked God for the thousandth time, because on her—undeserving—had been bestowed the greatest gift which a woman can receive—the gift of a faithful love!
Ten minutes had passed before she had read and re-read her precious letter, but when she turned her head it was to find Pixie standing in the same position as that in which she had seen her last, gazing down upon a sheet of paper on which a few short lines were written in a masculine writing. At Bridgie’s movement she raised her head, and spoke in a curiously low, level voice—