“Yes; but why especially at this moment? I always am, aren’t I? And how superfluous, me dear, to talk of trust? What have I got to trust?”
A fortnight later Geoffrey and Joan Hilliard, Stephen Glynn, and Pixie journeyed to Liverpool to see the last of the travellers. The little party stood together on the deck of the great vessel, surrounded on every side by surge and bustle, but silent themselves with the silence which falls when the heart is full. Travelling down to Liverpool they had been quite a merry party, and there had been no effort in keeping the conversation afloat; but the last moments sealed their lips. Honor drew a few yards apart with the elderly, kindly-faced maid who was her faithful attendant; Stephen Glynn and the Hilliards strolled away in an opposite direction. Pixie and her lover stood alone.
“Well, little girl... this is good-bye! Don’t forget me, darling...”
Pixie gulped.
“Take care of yourself, Stanor. Be happy! ... I want you to be happy.”
“I shall be wretched!” said Stanor hotly. “I’m leaving you. Oh! Pixie—” He broke off suddenly as the last bell sounded its warning note, and bent to kiss her lips; “Good-bye, my little love!”
The tears poured down Pixie’s face as she turned aside, and Geoffrey Hilliard led her tenderly down the gangway on to the landing-stage, where they stood together, tightly jammed in the crowd which watched the great steamer slowly move into the stream. Stanor and Honor were standing together leaning over the towering hull; their faces were pale, but they were smiling bravely, and Pixie wiped away her own tears and waved an answering hand. Esmeralda was holding her hand in a tender pressure; Geoffrey on one side, and Stephen Glynn on the other were regarding her with anxious solicitude. She smiled back with tremulous gratitude and gripped Esmeralda’s hand. Though Stanor was going, there was still much left, so many people to care and be kind.
The great vessel quivered and moved slowly forward. Honor drew a little white handkerchief from her bag and waved it in the air; on all sides the action was repeated, accompanied by cries of farewell mingled with sounds of distress. Pixie caught the sound of a sob, and craned forward to look in the face of a girl about her own age who stood on the other side of Stephen Glynn. She wore a small, close-fitting cap, which left her face fully exposed as it strained towards that moving deck, and on the small white features was printed a very extremity of anguish. She was not crying; her glazed eyes showed no trace of tears, she seemed unconscious of the deep sobs which issued from her lips; every nerve, every power was concentrated in the one effort to behold to the last possible moment one beloved face. Instinctively Pixie’s eyes followed those of the girl’s, and beheld a man’s face gazing back, haggard, a-quiver, almost contorted with suffering. The story was plain to read. They also were lovers—this man and this girl. They also were facing years of separation, and the moment of parting held for them the bitterness of death. Pixie O’Shaughnessy glanced from one to the other, and then thoughtfully, deliberately along the deck to the spot where stood her own lover, handsome Stanor, bending his head to overhear a remark from Honor, stroking his blonde moustache. He looked dejected, depressed; but compared with the depth of emotion on the other man’s face, such meagre expressions faded into nothingness. The moment during which she gazed at his face held for Pixie the significance of years; then once more her eyes returned to the girl by her side...
With every minute now the great vessel was slipping farther and farther from the stage; the faces of her passengers would soon cease to be distinguishable; in a few minutes they would be lost to sight, yet Pixie’s gaze remained riveted on the girl by her side, and on her own face was printed a mute dismay which one onlooker at least was quick to read.