Sylvia had not yet grasped the fact that her birth and upbringing made a chasm between herself and her tenants which no kindness could span. They would burn her peat, waste her food, accept, and more or less waste again, all that she chose to bestow, but given a choice between the present days of plenty and the lean, bare years of the reign of the jovial “Major” and his brood, they would enthusiastically have acclaimed the latter’s return.
Occasionally something of the same spirit would manifest itself in the O’Shaughnessys themselves, as when Jack’s voice would take on an apologetic tone in telling his brother of some improvement in the estate, or Pixie gazing at the old Persian carpet in the dining-room would sigh regretfully, “There used to be a hole!” On such occasions Sylvia was sometimes forced to depart on a visit to the nursery and relieve her feelings by a stamp en route. When she returned Jack’s twinkling eyes would search her face, and he would take an early opportunity of passing her chair and touching her with a caressing hand, and once more all would be peace and joy.
Jack and his wife heard from Pat’s lips all details as to Stanor Vaughan and his approaching marriage, but to Pixie herself the subject was never mentioned.
“Anyway, she’s not fretting!” said Jack. “Never saw her brighter and happier. Bless her big, little heart! I’m thankful the fellow has taken himself out of her way. She’d never have given him up of her own accord. We’ve all been so happy in our marriages that we can’t stand any second-bests for Pixie! When are you going to settle down, old chap?”
“Oh, about next June year,” replied Pat calmly. “Always said I would about twenty-eight. Nice time of year, too, for a honeymoon!”
“But ... but...” Jack stammered in surprise. “Have you met the girl?”
“My good man! Dozens! There’s no difficulty there. Faith, I love them all!” sighed handsome Pat.
Well, it was a happy holiday, but there was no sadness when it came to an end, for Pat was ready and eager to get back to work, and Pixie to the northern town which meant Bridgie and home. Brother and sister parted with mutual protestations of gratitude and appreciation, and with several quite substantial castles in the air as regards future meetings, and within a few days both had settled down to the routine of ordinary life.
“Pixie is just the same. All this business has not altered her at all,” Captain Victor said to his wife, and Bridgie smiled at him, the same sort of loving, indulgent smile which she bestowed on her small son when he guilelessly betrayed his ignorance.
She knew that Pixie had altered, felt the alteration every day of her life, in a subtle, indefinite manner which had escaped the masculine observation. There was a certain expression which in quiet moments had been wont to settle on the young face, an expression of repression and strain, which now appeared to have departed for good, a certain reserve in touching upon any subject connected with love and marriage, which was now replaced by eager interest and sympathy. Gradually, also, as the months rolled on there came moments when a very radiance of happiness shone out of the grey eyes, and trilled in the musical voice. The time of Stephen Glynn’s visit was drawing near; another week, and he would actually arrive. What would be the result of that visit? Bridgie could not tell. In a matter so important she dared not take any definite rôle, but in her prayers that week she implored the Divine Father to send to the dearly loved little sister that which He in His wisdom knew to be best.