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قراءة كتاب The Love Affairs of Pixie
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her brows, and stared thoughtfully into the fire. It was obvious that she was pondering over what had been said, and did not find herself altogether in agreement with the rules laid down.
“You mean,” she said slowly, “that I should have to think altogether of myself and what would suit Me and make me happy? That’s strange, now; that’s very strange! To bring a girl up all her life to believe it’s her duty in every small thing that comes along to put herself last and her family in front, and then when she’s a grown-up woman, and a man comes along who believes, poor thing! that she could help him and make him happy, then just at that moment you tell her to be selfish and think only of herself. ... ’Tis not that way I’ll conduct my love affairs!” cried Pixie O’Shaughnessy. Her eyes met Bridgie’s, and flashed defiance. “When I meet a man who needs me I’ll find my own happiness in helping him!”
“Bless you, darling!” said Bridgie softly. “I am quite sure you will. ... It’s a very, very serious time for a woman when the question of marriage comes into her life. You can’t treat it too seriously. I have not thought of it so far in connection with you, but now that I do I’ll pray about it, Pixie! I’ll pray for you, that you may be guided to a right choice. You’ll pray that for yourself, won’t you, dear?”
“I will,” said Pixie quietly. “I do. And for him—the man I may marry. I’ve prayed for him quite a long time.”
“The ... the man!” Bridgie was so surprised as to appear almost shocked. “My dear, you don’t know him!”
“But he is alive, isn’t he? He must be, if I’m going to marry him. Alive, and grown-up, and living, perhaps, not so far away. Perhaps he’s an orphan, Bridgie; or if he has a home, perhaps he’s had to leave it and live in a strange town. ... Perhaps he’s in lodgings, going home every night to sit alone in a room. Perhaps he’s trying to be good, and finding it very hard. Perhaps there’s no one in all the world to pray for him but just me. Bridgie! If I’m going to love him how can I not pray?”
Mrs Victor rose hurriedly from her seat, and busied herself with the arrangement of the curtains. They were heavy velvet curtains, which at night-time drew round the whole of the large bay window which formed the end of the pretty, cosy room. Bridgie took especial pleasure in the effect of a great brass vase which, on its oaken pedestal, stood sharply outlined against the rich, dark folds. She moved its position now, moved it back into its original place, and touched the leaves of the chrysanthemum which stood therein with a caressing hand. Six years’ residence in a town had not sufficed to teach the one-time mistress of Knock Castle to be economical when purchasing flowers. “I can’t live without them. It’s not my fault if they are dear!” she would protest to her own conscience at the sight of the florist’s bill.
And in truth, who could expect a girl to be content with a few scant blossoms when she had lived all her early age in the midst of prodigal plenty! In spring the fields had been white with snowdrops. Sylvia sent over small packing-cases every February, filled with hundreds and hundreds of little tight bunches of the spotless white flowers, and almost every woman of Bridgie’s acquaintance rejoiced with her on their arrival. After the snowdrops came on the wild daffodils and bluebells and primroses. They arrived in cases also, fragrant with the scent which was really no scent at all, but just the incarnation of everything fresh, and pure, and rural. Then came the blossoming of trees. Bridgie sighed whenever she thought of blossom, for that was one thing which would not pack; and the want of greenery too, that was another cross to the city dweller. She longed to break off great branches of trees, and place them in corners of the room; she longed to wander into the fields and pick handfuls of grasses, and honeysuckle, and prickly briar sprays. Who could blame her for taking advantage of what compensation lay within reach?
This afternoon, however, the contemplation of the tawny chrysanthemums displayed in the brass vase failed to inspire the usual joy. Bridgie’s eyes were bright indeed as she turned back into the room, but it was the sort of brightness which betokens tears repressed. She laid her hand on the little sister’s shoulders, and spoke in the deepest tone of her tender Irish voice—
“What has been happening to you, my Pixie, all this time when I’ve been treating you as a child? Have you been growing up quietly into a little woman?”
Pixie smiled up into her face—a bright, unclouded smile.
“Faith,” she said, radiantly, “I believe. I have!”
Chapter Three.
Nearly Twenty-one!
Bridgie rang the bell to have the tea-things removed and a message sent to the nursery that the children might descend without further delay. It was still a few minutes before the orthodox hour, but the conversation had reached a point when a distraction would be welcome, and Jack and Patsie were invariably prancing with impatience from the moment when the smell of hot potato cakes ascended from below.
They came with a rush, pattering down the staircase with a speed which made Bridgie gasp and groan, and bursting open the door entered the room at the double. Jack was five, and wore a blue tunic with an exceedingly long-waisted belt, beneath which could be discerned the hems of abbreviated knickers. Patricia was three, and wore a limp white frock reaching to the tips of little red shoes. She had long brown locks, and eyes of the true O’Shaughnessy grey, and was proudly supposed to resemble her beautiful aunt Joan. Jack was fair, with linty locks and a jolly brown face. His mouth might have been smaller and still attained a fair average in size, but for the time being his pretty baby teeth filled the cavern so satisfactorily, that no one could complain.
Both children made straight for their mother, smothered her with “Bunnie” hugs, and then from the shelter of her arms cast quick, questioning glances across the fireplace. There was in their glance a keenness, a curiosity, almost amounting to awe, which would at once have arrested the attention of an onlooker. It was not in the least the smiling glance of recognition which is accorded to a member of the household on meeting again after one of the short separations of the day; it resembled far more the half-nervous, half-pleasurable shrinking from an introduction to a stranger, about whom was wrapped a cloak of deepest mystery. As for Pixie herself she sat bolt upright in her seat, staring fixedly into space, and apparently unconscious of the children’s presence.
Presently Jack took a tentative step forward, and Patsie followed in his wake. Half a yard from Pixie’s chair they stopped short with eager, craning faces, with bodies braced in readiness for a flying retreat.
“Pixie!”
No answer. Still the rigid, immovable figure. Still the fixed and staring eye.
“P–ixie!”
The eyes rolled; a deep, hollow voice boomed forth—
“I’m not Pixie!”
The expected had happened. They had known it was coming; would have been bitterly disappointed if it had failed, nevertheless they writhed and capered as though overcome with amazement.
“P–ixie, Pixie, Who—Are—You—Now?”
“I’m a wild buffalo of the plains!” answered Pixie unexpectedly, and as a wild buffalo she comported herself for the next half-hour, ambling on hands and knees round the room, while the children wreathed her neck with impromptu garlands made of wools from their mother’s work-basket, and made votive offerings of sofa cushions, footstools, and india-rubber toys.
In the midst of the uproar Bridgie jumped from her seat and flew to the door, her ears sharp as