Pixie O'Shaughnessy Part 22

"I've felt the same meself. Many times! I feel it every morning at school when the gong rings and I'm made to get up. It's the same as being lazy."

The Major smiled for the first time since his return home. He never could resist Pixie's quaint speeches, and Bridgie watched with delight his brightening glance.

"Is it, piccaninny? That doesn't sound very serious. You'll have to tell the doctor to be stern with me. What have you been doing with yourself all day?"

"Fretting for you, but Mademoiselle's going to play games with me, and I'll enjoy them now that you're comfortable. You've got on the very best pillow-cases, father. You do look smart! Are you tired now? Do you want to go to sleep? Will I sing to you awhile, the hymn you liked so much at church last Sunday?"

Bridgie looked dismayed at the suggestion, but it appeared that Pixie knew best what would please her father, for once more his face brightened, and the eyes flashed an a.s.sent. On Sunday evenings in winter, when the long dark walk made it difficult to get to church, the O'Shaughnessys had been accustomed to sing hymns together, not in the drawling, slipshod method in which such singing is too often done, but with at least as much care and finish as they would have bestowed on secular music, the different parts being accurately represented, and due attention given to time and expression. In this way delightful hours had been spent, and many beautiful hymns imprinted on the memory, so that in this instance Pixie had no need to consult a book. She merely leant against the bed-post, clasped her hands together, and, opening her lips, began at once to sing, with clear, full-throated sweetness--

"'Come unto Me, ye weary, And I will give you rest!'"

The beautiful old words seemed to take upon themselves an added significance in the shaded room, with the motionless figure lying upon the bed. The Major shut his eyes, and Bridgie turned aside with quivering face, but the flute-like voice went on without a tremor--

"'Come unto Me, ye fainting, And I will give you life!'

O cheering voice of Jesus, Which comes to end our strife.

The foe is stern and eager, The fight is fierce and long, But He has made us mighty, And stronger than the strong."

There was a slight quickening of time in the last two lines, a clearer, stronger tone, as the singer's emotional nature caught the triumph in the words, but the last verse was soft as an echo.

"'And whosoever cometh I will not cast him out.'

O welcome voice of Jesus, Which drives away our doubt; Which calls us very sinners, Unworthy though we be Of love so free and boundless, To come, dear Lord, to Thee!"

The Major's face was in shadow, but Bridgie saw the big tears rolling down his cheeks, and hurried the little sister from the room.

"You sang beautifully, darling. It was sweet of you to think of it, but now we must let him be quiet. I think perhaps he will go to sleep."

"Yes, he says he feels lazy! The Major was always fond of his bed!"

cried Pixie, skipping blithely down the staircase; but when Bridgie went back to the sick-room her father's eyes were fixed eagerly on the doorway, and he said in urgent tones--

"Bride, I'm wanting to see O'Brien! Send down for him at once, and when he arrives, let him come up alone. I want to have a talk!"

Bridgie obeyed, in fear and trembling. Had something in the sweet though solemn words of the hymn arrested the sick man's attention and given him a conviction of his own danger? She sent the faithful Dennis in search of the doctor, and in less than an hour's time the two old friends were once more face to face.

"O'Brien," said the Major clearly, "I want you to answer me a question before I sleep. Shall I ever hunt again?" And at this the doctor heaved a sigh of relief, for he had feared a more direct inquiry, and consequently one more difficult to answer.

"Not this season, my boy; you must make up your mind to that. A spill like yours takes a little time to recover. You must be easy, and make yourself happy at home."

"O'Brien, shall I ever hunt again?"

The doctor put his hand to his head in miserable embarra.s.sment. He had known handsome Jack O'Shaughnessy since he was a boy in knickerbockers.

It was more than he could stand to look him in the face and give him his death-warrant.

"Now--now--now," he cried impatiently, "it isn't like you, Major, to be worrying your head about what is going to happen next year! Keep still, and be thankful you've a comfortable bed to lie on and two of the prettiest daughters in Ireland to wait upon you! When next season comes it will answer for itself, but I'm not a prophet--I can't foretell the future."

The Major looked in his face with bright, steady eyes.

"You foolish fellow!" he cried. "You foolish fellow! You were always a bad hand at deception, and you are no cleverer than usual this evening.

What are you afraid of, man? I'm not a coward! If my time's come, I can face it calmly. Back injured, eh? That's why I felt no pain, but it's difficult to realise that an injury is hopeless, when one is so comparatively comfortable. How long will it be?"

He was perfectly calm, but the doctor was trembling with emotion, and his voice was rough with tears.

"I can't say. You are very ill, old man--I won't deceive you--but while there is life there is hope. We are going to have a man from Dublin; we will try every means, and you must help us by keeping up your heart.

One never knows what changes may take place." But the Major only looked at him the more steadily and repeated his question.

"How long will it be? I ought to know, so that I may do what I can for the children. I haven't been the best of fathers to them, and the estate is in a rare muddle. And Jack! What about Jack? I'd like to see him again, but if it's not imminent, I won't bring him back just yet. The boy is doing well, but he is not his own master, and has just had a holiday. I must be unselfish in my last days, but you must promise, doctor, not to let me go without seeing Jack!"

"My dear fellow, it's not a question of days! At the worst it will be weeks, possibly months. My own opinion is two or three months, but we shall know better after Barrett has been down. I wish you had not asked me. It's the hardest work I've ever had to do, to tell you this; but for the children's sake--If there is anything to be done, you ought not to waste time!"

"I understand!" said the Major quietly, then suddenly a light flashed across his face, and his eyes sparkled as with joy. "I shall die at Knock!" he cried. "I shall not have to turn out after all! It was that that drove me mad, O'Brien--the thought of leaving the old place where I was born, and all my people before me! I had bad news from the bank, and it seemed as if the end had come at last, and all the time I was riding I was feeling desperate--driven into a corner. The poor beast tried to save me, she knew the jump was too much for her, but I was too reckless to care. I felt that I could face death sooner than leave the old place, and now it has come to that after all. I shall die at Knock!

Thank G.o.d for that! Go downstairs, O'Brien, and tell the girls that I know the truth, and am quite happy. You needn't mind leaving me. I shall sleep now!"

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

ESMERALDA'S SOLACE.

The Dublin specialist came down in due course, and entirely agreed with Dr O'Brien's diagnosis. There was no chance of the Major's recovery, and though there was no immediate danger, it was not likely that life would be prolonged for more than two or three months at most. He would not suffer physically nor mentally, for the brain power would become more and more dulled, so that he would hardly realise his condition.

The thought of watching him die by inches, as it were, was an even harder trial to Esmeralda's impetuous nature than the shock of a sudden death, but Bridgie was thankful for every day as it came, for every opportunity of ministering to his needs. And he was so sweet, so gentle; all his former indifference and selfishness had fallen from him like a cloak, and his one thought was for his children, his one anxiety on their behalf. When Bridgie saw how devoted he was to his piccaninny, and how she could always succeed in raising a smile, she proposed that the child should not return to school for the next term at least; but the Major would not listen to the suggestion.

"No, no! I promised Molly that she should have her chance, and I won't have her distressed. If she stayed on she would find out--and she would cry, and I never could endure to see her cry. It would be delightful to have her, but it will count for one real unselfish thing I've done in my life if I do without her for these last weeks."

So it was arranged that Pixie should return at the proper date, and Mademoiselle sat in the morning-room st.i.tching away at the pile of shabby little garments, mending, and darning, putting in "elegant"

little patches at the elbows, and turning and pressing the frayed silk cuffs. Neither of the sisters had time to help, and indeed seemed to think It unnecessary to spend so much trouble on a child's outfit, but Mademoiselle set her lips and went steadily on with her task. She knew, if they did not, that it is not too pleasant for a girl to be noticeably shabby at a fashionable school, and many a dainty piece of ribbon and lace found its way from her box to refresh hat or dress, and give an appearance of freshness to the well-worn background. When the last night came, and Bridgie tried to thank her for her help, she shook her head and refused to listen.

"I was a stranger to you, and you welcomed me among you as if I had been your own. You were more than kind, you seemed to love me, and never let me feel for one moment that I was one apart. That means a great deal to a woman who is alone in a strange land, and I could not be more happy than to find something to do for you in return. What is a little sewing? Bah! I tell you, my friend, it is much more than that I intend to do for your Pixie. You say that you will not long be able to send her to school, but I can do better for her than school. At the end of this year I must go 'ome, for my sister is _fiancee_, and when she is married I must be there to look after the old father. Lend Pixie to me, and she shall learn to speak French, the proper French, not that dreadful language of Holly House, and I will take her myself to the Conservatoire--there is no better place in the world to learn music than the Conservatoire in Paris--and she shall learn to sing and make use of that lovely voice. _Voila, ma chere_, at the end of a few years she comes back to you, and you will not know her! A young woman, with grace, with charm, with--what shall I say?--an air such as your English girls do not know how to possess, and everyone shall say, 'How she is accomplished, that Pixie! How she is clever and _chic_!'"

The tears had risen in Bridgie's eyes, but now she was obliged to laugh at the same time, for it was so droll to think of Pixie as a young lady "with an air!" She laid her hand on Mademoiselle's arm, with one of her pretty caressing gestures.

"You are a dear, kind Therese, and it all sounds too charming, but I am afraid it cannot be done. We shall be very poor, dear father's pension will die with him, and if we cannot afford school, we could not pay you properly for all your trouble. You are a darling for thinking of it, but--"

She stopped short in dismay, for Mademoiselle had straightened her back until it was as stiff as a poker, and was glaring at her with the air of an offended Fury.

"Did you ask me for money when I came here? Did you expect me to pay when you asked me to your house? Am I a pauper, then, that you insult me with such an idea? It is the first time, I must say, that I have invited a guest, and been offered a payment."

"Oh! oh! oh! What will I do? Don't glare at me like that, Therese, or I'll expire with fright! I never offered you a payment, my dear; I said I couldn't pay. I don't know what I said, but I never meant to make you angry! If you don't forgive me this instant, I'll cry, and if I once start crying, I shall go on till to-morrow, and so I warn you!

_Please_, Therese!"

She held out her hand appealingly, but Mademoiselle still tilted her head, and kept up an air of offence.

"My feelings are 'urt," she said with dignity, "and they can only be appeased if you withdraw your remarks, and promise that Pixie shall come. You can pay for the lessons she takes, and the Paris Conservatoire will not ruin you, my dear, I can tell you that; but for the rest, do you suppose Pixie will do nothing for me in return for her board? It is not too lively, a house with an invalid and an old maid, and they may perhaps be glad to have a young thing about; to be made to laugh sometimes and have some interest in life beyond rheumatism and asthma! Do not disturb yourself; if you are too proud to accept help from me, be a.s.sured that I shall make the child useful. She shall work for her living!"

"You are pretending to be cross, to make me say 'Yes,' but you needn't keep it up any longer, dear. I'll say it with thankfulness this minute, if it is indeed a pleasure to you too. I don't feel at all too proud to accept a favour from you, and besides, it seems as if Providence meant it to be so, and just the most wonderful and beautiful reason for your coming here, which seemed at first so extraordinary. If you will really let us pay for her lessons and make her as useful as if she were your own little sister, why, then, thank you a thousand times, and a thousand times more for lifting a weight off my mind. I was worrying myself about her future, and now I shall worry no more, and father will be so relieved, so happy! Are you sufficiently appeased to let me kiss you, you haughty Mademoiselle?"

"With pleasure; yes! but my feelings are still sensitive. With the slightest irritation I should have a relapse!" said Mademoiselle stiffly; for it would not do to indulge in sentiment to-day, and Bridgie's tears were dangerously near the surface.

The time for parting came at last, and the Major nerved himself to bid adieu to his piccaninny with a composure which should leave her unsuspicious of its final nature. He was very white, but Pixie had grown accustomed to his pallor, and mingling with her grief at leaving home was a keen pleasure at the thought of returning to her school companions, of seeing Margaret and Ethel, of hearing Flora's fat, contented chuckle, and seeing poor Lottie, and hearing how she had fared at home. It was all very interesting and exciting, and somehow or other home had been unusually dull during the last fortnight. Even Esmeralda had turned quiet and mild, and Pat abandoned practical joking, and for once been as good as he looked. The longing for some of the old mischievous days made Pixie listen to her father's precepts with a decided lack of enthusiasm.