As for Pixie she had promised not to be angry, but it appeared to her at that moment that she had never before known what anger meant. It burned within her—a flame of indignation and wounded faith, a throwing back on herself of all the arduous mental battles of the last few days. Never, even to herself, had Pixie acknowledged that she had learned to love Stephen Glynn. That it hurt her to know of his love for her; hurt intolerably to see him depart, were truths which could not be ignored, but while Stanor lived and was faithful it was impossible even to contemplate love for another man. Pixie had enough knowledge of her own nature to realise that she could be happy in giving Stanor a happiness which he could only gain through her. It was as natural to her to be happy as for a flower to lift its face in the sun, but for both the sun was needed. A more introspective soul would have realised that there were degrees in happiness, and that she would be missing the best; Pixie with characteristic simplicity accepted what seemed to her the right step, and shut her mind against vain regrets.
But—Stanor did not want her. He was not faithful. He had had so little consideration for her feelings that he would have let her read of his marriage in a public print. He had appeared now only at the command of another.
“I think,” said Pixie deeply, “you are a cowardly man. I am sorry for the girl you are going to marry. She seems to have a conscience, but it would have been kinder of her if she had made you tell me the truth without first trying to spoil my life. I suppose you would have married me if I had said ‘yes,’ or was it only a form which you never intended to keep?”
“You are hard on me, Pixie, but I deserve it. I have no excuses to make. My only comfort is that I have not ruined your happiness. Like you, I have learnt my lesson, and I can see one thing clearly: You don’t love me, Pixie!”
“No, I don’t love you, but I have kept myself for you. I have closed my heart to every other thought. I would have loved you if you had needed me. Nothing, nothing in the world could have made me deceive you!”
“I knew it! We both knew it! Honor said—”
“Honor!” Pixie’s cry rang sharp. “Is it Honor? Honor Ward?” Somehow the knowledge seemed an additional hurt; she sat down on a chair and clasped her cold hands. The brain flashed back memories of occasions dating back to the very beginning of Stanor’s life in America, when his name and Honor’s had been coupled together. “Honor Ward and I.” “Stanor Vaughan and I.” ... Memories of an earlier occasion still when Honor had said with empressement. “You can trust me, Pixie!” Even then, had she foreseen what might happen—even then, with her knowledge of her own character and Stanor’s, seen danger ahead? Well, Honor had been loyal! From Stanor’s manner, even more than his words, it was obvious that had there been no impediment in the way as regards her own wishes, yet she had refused him, had sent him home to keep his troth. After that first sharp moment Pixie had no coldness in her heart towards Honor Ward.
Stanor was talking, moving restlessly to and fro, telling the story of the past years in jerky, disconnected sentences, blaming himself, exonerating Honor. The sound of his words penetrated to Pixie’s brain, but not the sense. It seemed to her useless to listen; there was nothing more to be said.
Suddenly she rose from her seat with an air of decision.
“I think you had better go. Bridgie, my sister—Mrs Victor—is here. I would rather you didn’t see her. She will be angry; they will all be angry. They are fond of me, you see; and they will think I have been humiliated. I am not humiliated! No one can humiliate me but myself; but just at first they won’t be reasonable. ... Will you please go?”