Mrs Geoffrey Hilliard, née Joan O’Shaughnessy, was the second daughter of the family, and had been christened Esmeralda “for short” by the brothers and sisters of whom she had been alternately the pride and the trial. The fantastic name had an appropriateness so undeniable that even Joan’s husband had adopted it in his turn for use in the family circle, reserving the more dignified “Joan” for more ceremonious occasions.
“Esmeralda” had been a beauty from her cradle, and would be a beauty if she lived to be a hundred, for her proud, restless features were perfectly chiselled, and her great grey eyes, with the long black lashes on the upper and lower lid, were as eloquent as they were lovely. When she was angry, they seemed to send out veritable flashes of fire; when she was languid, the white lids drooped and the fringed eyelashes veiled them in a misty calm; when she was loving, when she held her boys in her arms, or spoke a love word in her husband’s ear, ah! Then it was a joy indeed to behold the beauty of those limpid eyes! They “melted” indeed, not with tears, but with the very essence of tenderness and love.
“Esmeralda’s so nice that you couldn’t believe she was so horrid!” Pixie had declared once in her earlier years, and unfortunately there was still too much truth in the pronouncement.
Seven years of matrimony, and the responsibility of two young sons, had failed to discipline the hasty, intolerant nature, although they had certainly deepened the inner longing for improvement. Joan devotedly loved her husband, but accepted as her right his loyal devotion, and felt bitterly aggrieved when his forbearance occasionally gave way.
She adored her two small sons, and her theories on motherhood were so sweet and lofty that Bridgie, listening thereto, had been moved to tears. But in practice the theories were apt to go to the wall. To do Joan justice she would at any time have marched cheerfully to the stake if by so doing she could have saved her children from peril, but she was incapable of being patient during one long rainy afternoon, when confinement in the house had aroused into full play those mischievous instincts characteristic of healthy and spirited youngsters; and if any one imagines that the two statements contradict each other, he has yet to learn that heroic heights of effort are easier of accomplishment than a steady jog-trot along a dull high-road.
Joan Hilliard’s reflections on the coming of her younger sister were significant of her mental attitude. “Pixie’s no trouble. She’s such an easy soul. She fits into corners and fills in the gaps. She’ll amuse the boys. It will keep them in good humour to have her to invent new games. She’ll keep Geoff company at breakfast when I’m tired. I’ll get some of the duty visits over while she’s here. She’ll talk to the bores, and be so pleased at the sound of her own voice that she’ll never notice they don’t answer. And she’ll cheer me up when I’m bored. And, of course, I’ll take her about—”
Pixie’s amusement, it will be noticed, was but a secondary consideration to Joan’s own ease and comfort; for though it may be a very enjoyable experience to be a society beauty and exchange poverty for riches, no one will be brave enough to maintain that such an experience is conducive to the growth of spiritual qualities. Sweet-hearted Bridgie might possibly have come unscathed through the ordeal, but Esmeralda was made of a different clay.
Pixie started alone on the three hours’ journey, for the Victor household possessed no maid who could be spared, and husband and wife were both tied by home duties; moreover, being a modern young woman, she felt perfectly competent to look after herself, and looked forward to the experience with pleasure rather than dread. Bridgie was inclined to be tearful at parting, and Pixie’s artistic sense prompted a similar display, but she found herself simply incapable of forcing a tear.
“It’s worse for you than for me,” she confessed candidly, “for you’ve nothing to do, poor creature! But go home to cold mutton and darning, while I’m off to novelty and adventure. That’s why the guests sometimes cry at a wedding, out of pity for themselves, because they can’t go off on a honeymoon with a trousseau and an adoring groom. They pretend it’s sympathetic emotion, but it isn’t; it’s nothing in the world but selfish regret. ... Don’t cry, darling; it makes me feel so mean. Think of the lovely tête-à-tête this will mean for Dick and you!”
“Yes—in the evenings. I’ll love that!” confessed Bridgie, with the candour of her race. “But oh, Pixie, the long, dull days, and no one to laugh with me at the jokes the English can’t see, or to make pretend!—”