Esmeralda is Troubled.
“Engaged!” cried Esmeralda shrilly. “Engaged! You! To Stanor Vaughan? Pixie O’Shaughnessy, I never heard such nonsense in my life.”
“Then you’ve listened to an uncommon amount of sense. I should not have thought it, to judge from your actions,” returned Pixie, nettled, “’Twould be interesting to hear what strikes you as so ridiculous about it!”
It was three days after Stanor’s unexpected visit with its momentous consequences, but in consideration of the anxiety of Jack’s parents, the news had been withheld until the boy had been pronounced out of danger. Only this morning had the glad verdict been vouchsafed. Jack would live; given a steady, even improvement, with no unforeseen complications, he would live, and in a few weeks time be up and about once more. The eye trouble would be more lasting, for the child was of a peculiarly sensitive nature, and the shock seemed inclined to localise itself in the eyes. The sight itself would be saved, but for some years to come it would need the most careful tending. He must wear darkened spectacles; be forbidden to read; be constantly under skilled care. Given such precautions the sight would probably become normal in later years...
When the first verdict was given, the father, and mother clung to one another in an ecstasy of relief and thankfulness. Throughout those last terrible days, when every conscious breath had carried with it a prayer, Joan had looked deep into her own soul and beheld with opened eyes the precipice on which she stood. How far, how far she had travelled since those early married days, when, with her first-born in her arms, her highest ambition had been that she should be enabled so to train him that he should grow up, to be, in the words of the beautiful old phrase, “A soldier of Christ!” Of late years she had had many ambitions for her boys, but they had been ambitions of the world, worldly. The old faith had been gradually neglected and allowed to sink into the background of life. In her own strength she had walked, in her own weakness she had failed. Yet now, in default of punishment, goodness and mercy were once more to be her portion! All the nobility in Joan’s nature rose up as she pledged herself afresh to a new—a higher life! Jack would live, their boy would live—that was for days the one thought of which the parents were conscious. For the father it was perfect joy, but for the mother there still remained a pang. Only Esmeralda herself ever knew the anguish of grief which she endured on account of her baby’s altered looks. Little Jack, with his angel face, his halo of curls, his exquisite, innocent eyes, had been a joy to behold. Waking, sleeping, merry, sad—at one and every moment, of his life the mere sight of him had been as an open sesame to the hearts of those who beheld. The knife turned in his mother’s heart at the thought of Jack shorn, scarred, spectacled. She dared not confide her grief to her husband. He would not understand. Looks! What could looks matter, when the child had been delivered from death? Joan could see in imagination the expression on his face, hear the shocked tones of his voice; she would not betray her feelings and risk a break of the new, sweet understanding between them. All men were alike. There were occasions when only another woman could understand.
Joan went upstairs to the empty nursery and found Marie weeping in her chair.
“Petite lapin! Petite chérie! Petite ange! Comfort thyself, Madame,” she sobbed, “we can have glasses like the young American—she who visited Madame last year. No rims hardly to be observed! And the hair—that will grow—of a surety it will grow. A little long upon the forehead, and voilà! The scar is hid. ... A little care, Madame, a little patience, and he will be once more our petit amour!”
“Marie,” said her mistress firmly, “looks are a secondary affair. We ought to be too thankful to think of looks!”
“C’est vrai, Madame,” replied Marie demurely, “C’est vrai,” and Joan Hilliard went back to her room with a lightened heart, and determined to write at once to town to ask particulars concerning rimless spectacles.
And now here was Pixie, with this preposterous, ridiculous tale! At sight of her young sister Joan had felt a pang of contrition. She had forgotten all about her these last terrible days. Poor girl! She must have been terribly lonely, but that was the best of Pixie—she was always ready to forgive and forget. Joan kissed her warmly, murmured apologies, and inquired affectionately how the long days had been passed. And then—out it came!