“You were right about Pixie, darling. It is dull for her here in this strange town, where we have so few friends; and now that she is nearly twenty-one it does not seem right to shut her up. She ought to go about and see the world, and meet boys and girls of her own age. And so, dear, would it be convenient to you to have her for a few months until you go up to town? Your life in the country will seem a whirl of gaiety after our monotonous jog-trot, and she has been so useful and diligent, helping me these last years with never a thought for her own enjoyment, that she deserves all the fun she can get. I am sad at parting from her, but if it’s for her good I’ll make the effort. She has two nice new frocks, and I could get her another for parties.” Thus Bridgie. Esmeralda’s reply came by return—the big, slanting writing, plentifully underlined—
“At last, my dear, you have come to your senses. For a sweet-tempered person, you certainly have, as I’ve told you before, a surprising amount of obstinacy. In future do try to believe that in matters of worldly wisdom I know best, and be ruled by me!
“Pixie can come at once—the sooner the better, but for pity’s sake, my dear, spare me the frocks. Felice can run her up a few things to last until I have time to take her to town. If I am to take her about, she must be dressed to please me, and do me credit.
“We have people coming and going all the time, and I’ll be thankful to have her. I wouldn’t say so for the world, Bridgie, but you have been selfish about Pixie! Never a bit of her have I had to myself; she has come for the regular Christmas visits, of course, and sometimes in summer, but it’s always been with you and Dick and the children; it’s only the leavings of attention she’s had to spare for any one else. Now my boys will have a chance! Perhaps she can keep them in order—I can’t! They are the pride and the shame, and the joy and the grief, and the sunshine and the—thunder and lightning and earthquake of my life. Bridgie, did you ever think it would feel like that to be a mother? I thought it would be all pure joy, but there’s a big ache mixed in—
“Geoff was so naughty this morning, so disobedient and rude, and I prayed, Bridgie—I shut myself in my room and prayed for patience, and then went down and spoke to him so sweetly. You’d have loved to hear me. I said: ‘If you want to grow up a good, wise man like father, you must learn to be gentle and polite. Did you ever hear father speak rudely to me?’—‘Oh, no,’ says he, quite simply, ‘but I’ve often heard you speak rudely to him!’ Now, what was a poor misguided mother to say to that? Especially when it was True! You are never cross, so your youngsters can never corner you like that; but I am—often! Which proves that I need Pixie more than you do, and she’d better hurry along.”
Pixie came lightly into the dining-room, just as Bridgie was reading the last words of the letter. She was almost invariably late for breakfast, a fact which was annoying to Captain Victor’s soldierly sense of punctuality. He looked markedly at the clock, and Pixie said genially, “I apologise, me dear. The young need sleep!” Then she fell to work at her porridge with healthy enjoyment. She wore a blue serge skirt and a bright, red silk shirt, neatly belted by a strip of patent-leather. The once straggly locks were parted in the middle, and swathed round a little head which held itself jauntily aloft; her eyes danced, her lips curved. It was a bare eight o’clock in the morning, a period when most people are languid and half-awake. But there was no languor about Pixie; she looked intensely, brilliantly alive. A stream of vitality seemed to emanate from her little form and fill the whole room. The dog stirred on the rug and rose to his feet; the canary hopped to a higher perch and began to sing; Dick Victor felt an access of appetite, and helped himself to a second egg and more bacon.
“This is Wednesday,” announced Pixie genially, “and it’s fine. I love fine Wednesdays! It’s a habit from the old school-time, when they were half-holidays, and meant so, much. ... I wonder what nice thing will happen to-day.”
Husband and wife exchanged a glance. They knew and loved this habit of expecting happiness, and looking forward to the joys rather than the sorrows of the future, which had all her life, been characteristic of Pixie O’Shaughnessy. They realised that it was to this quality of mind, rather than to external happenings, that she owed her cheerful serenity, but this morning it was impossible not to wonder how she would view the proposed change of abode.
“I’ve had a letter from Esmeralda,” announced Bridgie baldly from behind the urn, and, quick as thought, Pixie’s sharp eyes searched her face.
“But that’s not nice. It’s given you a wrinkle. Take no notice, and she’ll write to-morrow to say she’s sorry. She’s got to worry or die, but there’s no reason why you should die too. Roll it up into spills, and forget all about it.”