“No, darling, no, I won’t; only please just one thing—it has puzzled me so much, and I have longed to know. ... There’s never been any reserve between us—you have confided in me so openly all your life till just these last years. Why didn’t you tell me you were unhappy about Stanor?”
“How could I, me dear, when I might be his wife? It wouldn’t have been loyal. And it wasn’t unhappiness exactly, only—a weight. I was trying to keep on loving him, and hating myself for finding it difficult, but I knew if he came back loving me, and wanting me to help him, the weight would go. But you see, he didn’t!”
“Pixie, dear, one should not need to try. That sort of love ought to feel no strain.”
“If Stanor had needed me, I should have married him,” Pixie said obstinately, “but he didn’t, and, me dear, excuse me! It’s not the most agreeable subject. ... Let’s talk of something else.”
The next day Stephen Glynn arrived, and put up at an hotel. An agricultural show which was being held in the town made an excuse for his visit; it also made a vantage ground for daily excursions, and gave opportunities of securing tête-à-tête to those anxious to do so. Pixie was conscious that several such opportunities had in Stephen’s case been of intent ignored and allowed to pass by, but never once did she doubt the motive which prompted such neglect. From the moment of their meeting the consciousness of his love had enveloped her. He might set a seal on his lips, but he could not control his eyes, and the wistfulness of that glance made Pixie brave.
Almost the first opportunity for undisturbed conversation came on the afternoon of the third day, when Stephen paid an unexpected call at the house to propose an expedition for the evening, and found Pixie alone.
She was sitting writing in the pretty, flower-decked room, where the French window opened wide to the garden beyond. It was only a mite of a garden, not big enough for even a tennis-court, but so much love and ingenuity had been lavished on its arrangement that it had an astonishing air of space. The flower-covered trellis at the end had an air of being there because it chose, and not in the least because it marked an arbitrary division of land. The one big tree made an oasis of shade, and had a low circular seat round its trunk, and the flowers bloomed in grateful recognition of favours bestowed.
There are points in which the small garden has a pull over the large. Its owner can, for instance, remember just how many blooms a special plant afforded last summer, and feel a glow of pride in the extra two of the present season; she can water them herself, tie up their drooping heads, snip off the dead flowers, know them, and love them in an intimate, personal way which is impossible in the large, professionally-run gardens. Bridgie’s garden this summer afternoon made a very charming background for the figure of Pixie in her white dress, with the jaunty blue band round her waist, and a little knot to match fastening her muslin Peter Pan collar. She looked very young and fresh and dainty, and the wistful expression deepened on Stephen’s face as he looked at her.
For the first few minutes conversation was difficult, for the consciousness of being alone seemed rather to close the way to personal subjects than to open it. Stephen was grave and distrait, Pixie embarrassed and nervous, but the real deep sympathy between them made it impossible that such an atmosphere should continue. Before ten minutes had passed Pixie’s laugh had sounded with the characteristic gurgle which was the very embodiment of merriment, and Stephen was perforce laughing in response. He had never been able to resist Pixie’s laugh. Tea was brought in, and the young hostess did the honours with a pretty hospitality. It was the first meal of which they had partaken à deux, and its homely intimacy brought back the wistful look into Stephen’s eyes. Perhaps Pixie noticed it, perhaps a point had been reached when she felt it impossible to go on talking generalities; in any case, she laid down her cup, straightened herself in her chair with an air of preparing for something big and momentous, and announced clearly—
“I had a letter this morning from Honor Vaughan.”