Pixie O'Shaughnessy Part 23

"You will be a good child now, piccaninny, and work hard at your tasks.

Remember what I say to you, that you couldn't please me more than by being good and industrious, and obedient to your teachers. I let you run wild too long, and that's made you behind other girls of your age, but you'll promise me that you will settle down, and make the most of your opportunities?"

"I don't feel as if I wanted to 'settle down.' It sounds so dull! Ye can work without being so awfully proper, can't you, father? I can be a little mischievous sometimes, can't I--especially on half-holidays?

I'll work all the better for it afterwards. And the girls would be so disappointed if I were proper. You wouldn't believe how I liven them up. Ye wouldn't like it yourself, now, Major, if ye never saw any more of my pranks!"

He winced at that, but smiled bravely, his eye resting longingly upon the thin little figure wriggling to and fro in the earnestness of its appeal. With the remembrance of all that her brightness had been to him, he could not bring himself to forbid it to others.

"Be as happy as you can, darling, and make other people happy too. So long as you consider their feelings, and are careful not to go too far, you will do no harm. Good-bye, my piccaninny! G.o.d bless you! Never mind if you are not clever. Go on loving and making sunshine, and you will do a great work in the world. Remember your old father when you get back among your new friends!"

"I'll think of you for ever!" said Pixie solemnly. "Haste and get well, Major, and come and take me out. You must be getting tired of your bed, poor creature, but I'm glad you have no pain! You won't be here long now."

"No, not long," said the Major quietly. Then he held up his lips to be kissed, murmuring the last, the very last words of farewell, "Good-bye, dearest. Thank you for being such a good, loving little daughter!"

"Thank you, me dear, for the father you have been to me!" returned Pixie, in a tone of gracious condescension which made the listener smile through his tears. That was a sweet characteristic little speech to cherish as the last! He shut his eyes in token of dismissal, and Pixie stole away, somewhat sobered and impressed, for the Major had not been given to improving an occasion, but free from the vaguest suspicion that she had bidden him her last farewell.

Downstairs Esmeralda was waiting to drive the cart to the station, and at the station itself Mr Hilliard was standing ready to receive the travellers and make every preparation for their comfort. No one seemed in the least surprised to see him, for in Jack's absence he had quietly taken upon himself the part of an elder son, and in every emergency had stepped forward and filled the gap so efficiently and with such tact that he seemed more like a friend of years' standing than an acquaintance of a few weeks. His business in London had apparently been accomplished in a flying visit of forty-eight hours, during which time he had seen Jack, and eased anxiety by a personal report of the invalid, and here he was back again, declaring that there was no reason to keep him in town, and that if he could be of the slightest use at Bally William, there was no place in the world where he would sooner remain.

Bridgie smiled to herself with quiet understanding, and Esmeralda grew thoughtful, and her white cheeks hung out a flag of welcome every time he made his appearance.

To-day she made no objections to his proposal that they should walk back from the station, leaving a boy to drive the cart home during the afternoon, and they struck across the fields together, disregarding damp and mud with the callousness of true lovers of the country. The girl's face was worn and downcast, for the Castle would seem sadder and emptier than ever, now that the little sister had gone and that dear, helpful Mademoiselle; and at nineteen it is hard to look forward and know for a certainty that the shadows must deepen. There were still sadder times ahead, and a loneliness such as she dared not even imagine; for Esmeralda had not Bridgie's sweet faith and trust, and hers was a stormy, rebellious nature, which made trouble harder to bear by useless fightings against the inevitable. Bridgie found a dozen reasons for thankfulness among all her distresses--the kindness of friends, the ceaseless attentions of the good old doctor, her father's freedom from pain, and the fact that he would be spared the dread of his lifetime--a separation from the old home. Joan saw nothing but clouds and darkness, and tortured herself with useless questionings. Why--why--why--why should all this trouble fall upon her? Why should other girls have father and mother and money and opportunity, and she be deprived of all?

Why should the accident have been allowed to happen when her father's life was of such value--such inestimable value to his young family? Why should her life be darkened just at the time when she was most able to appreciate joy and gladness?

Hilliard watched the clouds flit over the beautiful face, and was at no loss to understand their meaning. During the last fortnight he had more than once been a witness to a storm of misery and rebellion, and apart from that fact he had an instinctive understanding of the girl's moods, which seemed all the more curious, as his own nature of happy optimism was as great a contrast to hers as could possibly be imagined.

A smile flickered over his face as he reflected on the strangeness of his present position. A month ago, if anyone had described to him the O'Shaughnessy sisters, he would have declared without a moment's hesitation that Bridgie would be his favourite--that in every way her character would be more attractive to him than that of Esmeralda. Even now--even now, yes!--if the question were put plainly before him, he must still confess that "Saint Bridget" was sweeter, simpler, less wayward, more unselfish; yet in spite of all there remained the extraordinary fact that he liked Bridgie and loved Esmeralda with the whole strength of a warm and loving heart! He saw her faults clearly enough with those keen, quizzical eyes; but what the sight roused in him was not so much disapproval as pity, and an immense longing to help and comfort. He loved her; he understood her; he honestly believed he could help her to rise above the weaknesses of girlhood, and become the fine large-hearted woman which Providence had intended her to be; and the time had come when he intended to speak his mind and ask her to be his wife. The silence had lasted so long that at last Joan herself became conscious of it, and roused herself to apologise for her rudeness.

"But I'm miserable," she said simply. "I can't remember to be polite.

I was miserable last time when the Pixie left us, but now it is a hundred times worse. I can't bear to think of going back to that big empty place, with that dreadful shadow coming nearer and nearer every day. I am a coward, and can't face it!"

"You are a very brave girl--one of the bravest I have known. If anyone but yourself dared to call you cowardly, you would never forgive him!"

"I know. It's quite true. I am brave physically, but I've never been tried in this way before, so I didn't know how weak I was. It arises from selfishness, I suppose. It's so hard to suffer like this."

"No one can be selfish who loves another person more than himself. I have never seen two sisters so devoted to each other as you and Miss Bridgie. You will think of her before yourself, and try to help her, simply because you will not be able to help it!"

"Darling Bridgie--yes, I do love her. Who could help it? She takes this trouble like the saint she is, and believes that it is G.o.d's will, and must be for the best. I can't feel that--I can't! It's against reason. It's no use pretending that I do, for I should only be a hypocrite."

"You have a different nature from your sister's. It is more difficult for you to be resigned, and therefore all the more praiseworthy if you fight against your rebellious thoughts, and learn submission."

The tears rose slowly to Joan's eyes, and she looked at him with a flickering smile.

"It's no use talking to you. You won't believe how wicked I am. You make excuses for me all the time."

"Because I love you, Joan, that's why! Have you found that out for yourself? I began to love you the first night I saw you, and I've been progressing rapidly ever since. We have not known each other for long, as time goes, but so much has happened, and we have been thrown so much together, that we know each other as well as many acquaintances of years' standing. My mind is made up, at any rate; there is no other girl in the world for me! Do you think if you tried very hard, and I waited very patiently, you could possibly bring yourself to love me in return?"

Esmeralda gazed at him with her wonderful grey eyes, not shyly, not self-consciously, but with slow, solemn deliberation.

"I don't know," she said simply. "I can't tell. I like you very much; you have been very kind to us, and it does me good to talk to you, but that isn't enough, is it? I don't know if I love you, but I love you to love me! It comforts my heart, and makes me feel braver and less lonely. Sometimes this last week--just once or twice when we have been alone--I have thought perhaps you did, and I hoped I was right. I hoped I was not mistaken."

"You darling! Oh, you darling!" cried Hilliard rapturously. "You do make me happy by telling me that. That's all I want--the very best proof you could give me that you care for me too. Don't you see, my beauty, that you must care, or you would not want my love? Don't you see that you have been drawn to me, just as I have been drawn to you, and have felt the need of me, just as I have longed and wearied for you ever since we met?"

He tried to take hold of her hand as he spoke, but Esmeralda drew back, refusing to be caressed. She was trembling now, and her cheeks were flushed with the loveliest rosy blush, but there was an almost piteous appeal in her voice.

"No, no! I don't see, and I don't want to see. My father is dying--he has only a little time to live, and I don't want to think of anything but him. If it is as you say, there will be all my life after that, but I can't think of love-making and being happy just the very last weeks we shall have him with us. You mustn't be vexed; you mustn't think me ungrateful. Indeed, indeed I can't help it!"

"Vexed!" echoed Hilliard. "Ungrateful!" His glance was eloquent enough to show how far such words were from expressing his real feelings; and indeed, if it had been possible to love Esmeralda more dearly than he did, he would have done so at this moment, when she had shown him the reality of the generous nature which lay beneath her girlish extravagances, "You are absolutely and perfectly right, dearest," he said warmly, "and I promise you faithfully that I will not try in any way to absorb your attention so long as your father lives. But after that, Esmeralda, (I may call you Esmeralda, mayn't I? Dear, charming, ridiculous name--I love it, it is so deliciously characteristic!) after that you must let me take my right place as your chief helper and comforter. I won't be put off any longer, and I think I shall be able to do more for you than anyone else."

"I believe you would, but--" Esmeralda looked at him beneath a troubled, puckered brow--"please understand exactly what you are doing! We are dreadfully poor--we shall be poorer than ever after father's death. If I marry I shall not have a penny; for what little there is will be needed, and more than needed, for Bridgie and the children. It would be rather hard on you, for, as you are not rich yourself, you ought to marry a rich wife."

"The same argument would apply to you, wouldn't it? Are you quite sure that you would not mind marrying a poor man, and that you would be willing to give up luxuries for my sake?"

"If I cared enough in other ways, it would not be money that would prevent me, but I should not like to be _very_ poor!" returned Esmeralda honestly. "I've had a taste of it, you see, and it is so dull to be always worried about butchers' bills, and not be able to have nice puddings because of the eggs, and to have to turn your dresses over and over again. I've never once in my life bought a thing because I liked it best. I've always had to think that it was cheaper than the others, and I must make it do. I suppose men can't realise how hard that is, for they need so much less, and their things are so much alike; but it's hard to know for certain that you could look just twice as nice, and have to put up with the frumpy things, because you have no money to pay for the pretty ones!"

"Could you look twice as nice as you do now--really?" Hilliard laughed with happy incredulity. "Esmeralda, I don't believe it; but if you marry me you shall try! I am not so poor that I cannot afford to be a little extravagant for my wife, and I promise you faithfully that you shall never be worried about the bills. I'll protect you from that, and every other trouble, I hope, my darling!"

"It--it seems to me we are getting on very fast. I thought I said that nothing was decided. Oh, please talk of something else!" cried Esmeralda urgently; and Hilliard laughed once more, and obediently discussed the weather until the Castle gates were reached.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

A TELEGRAM.

It was six weeks later that the girls in Holly House heard a sharp, wailing cry from within the portals of Miss Phipps's private room, and looked at each other with eyes of sympathetic understanding. The knowledge that Pixie's father was seriously ill had leaked out among the elder pupils, and this afternoon, as they returned from their walk, a telegraph boy had met them in the drive, and Mademoiselle had turned pale and muttered below her breath. Miss Phipps called her aside on entering, and at tea-time there were unmistakable tear-marks round her eyes, and she was even more affectionate than usual in her manner to Pixie,--poor, unconscious Pixie, who was in radiant spirits, and quite puffed up with pride because she had suddenly remembered a favourite exploit as practised at Knock Castle, and had issued invitations to the fifth-form to come to the cla.s.sroom before tea and play the part of spectators, while she made a circuit of the room without touching the ground.

"Without--touching--the--ground! Pixie O'Shaughnessy, are you demented?" demanded Flora incredulously. "You can't fly, I suppose?

Then how on earth could you get round a room without touching the floor?"

"Come with me, me dear, and you shall see," returned Pixie graciously, and forthwith led the way into the big, bare room. There was no cla.s.s being held at the time, so that the performer and her friends were the only persons present; the chairs were neatly ranged beside the desks, the matches and vases of spills which usually graced the mantelpiece were placed together on a corner bracket, otherwise no article had been moved from its place. Pixie sprang lightly on to a chair near the door, kissed her hand after the manner of the lady riders at the circus, and started off on her mad career.

From one chair to another, from chair number two to the shelf of the old bookcase which filled the middle s.p.a.ce of the wall; from the bookcase, with a leap and a bound, on to the oak chest in which were stored drawing-books and copies; from the chest to another chair, and thence with a whoop and wildly waving hands to the end of an ordinary wooden form. Why that form did not collapse at once, and land the invader on the floor, no one of the spectators could understand! Flora gave a hollow groan and leant against the wall in palpitating nervousness; Kate shut her eyes, and Ethel pinched Margaret's arm with unconscious severity; but, after all, nothing happened! With instantaneous quickness Pixie had fallen forward on her knees, and so restored the bench to its normal position; and now she was off again with another kiss, another flourish, another whisk of those absurd short petticoats.

Providentially there was a table close at hand which she could mount without difficulty, and so bring herself to the completion of the first half of her task, but the harder part was still to come.

It was easy enough to run along the blackboard, but what about that s.p.a.ce between it and the shelves at the other side of the fireplace?

"She can't do it!" cried Ethel confidently; but Pixie had not made her boast without counting the cost. What if there was no article of furniture within reach, there was a shelf overhead to which one could cling and work slowly along hand over hand until the coal-box offered a friendly footing! Then, when one had been accustomed to climb trees all one's life, what could be easier than to rest the elbows on the mantelpiece, and with the aid of one foot pressed lightly on that fat, substantial bell, (horrors! suppose it rang!) to wriggle upward until knees joined elbows, and a perpendicular position was once more possible! The gasps and groans from the doorway were even more encouraging than applause, and under their influence it was impossible to resist indulging in a few extravagances, such as standing poised on one leg, blowing more kisses, and bowing from side to side after the manner of that fascinating circus lady. Another bound sent her lightly on to the one substantial chair which the room possessed--Miss Phipps's seat when she came to take a cla.s.s. It rocked, of course, but to balance it was child's play, compared with the really difficult feat with the form, and for the rest of the course the way was easy. Anyone could have run along the substantial dumb waiter, stepped down to the chair by its side, and so, with a leap, to the one from which the start had been made. Pixie stopped, panting, gasping, and smirking at her companions, expectant of adulation, but there was more reproach than praise in store.

"You are mad!" cried Ethel shortly. "Stark, staring mad! No thanks to you that every bone in your body isn't broken. I wonder what Miss Phipps would have said if she had come in, while you were pirouetting on the mantelpiece! It would have been your turn to be surprised then, my young friend."

"I n-n-never did see such a sight in all my born days," stuttered Flora blankly. "You've made me feel quite ill. My heart is pumping like an engine. I thought every moment you would be killed. I call it mean and unkind to ask us to look on, while you play such tricks, for you know very well we should be blamed if anything went wrong! I'll never come again, so you needn't trouble to ask me!"

"Pixie dear, it really is most dangerous! You might have sprained your ankle a dozen times over. Promise me, promise me faithfully, that you will never do it again!" pleaded Margaret gently; but Pixie shook her head in obstinate fashion.

"Me dear, don't ask me! I'll tell you no stories. I've done it a dozen times at home, and so have Bridgie and Esmeralda. It was a fine handicap we had one night, boys against girls, and Bridgie the winner, being so light on her feet. You wouldn't wish to forbid what my own family approves." She drew herself up with an air of dignity as she p.r.o.nounced the last words, and skipped out of the room, as the quickest way of closing the argument; but when tea-time arrived she was still abeam with complacency, and pleasantly conscious of being the object of an unusual amount of attention. The girls all looked at her and smiled so kindly when they met her eye; jam and scones were pressed upon her from half a dozen different quarters; Mademoiselle called her "_cherie_," and even Miss Phipps said "dear." "Are you having a good tea, dear?" "Won't you have another cup of tea, dear?" It was all very pleasant and gratifying, and she felt convinced that the fame of her exploit had spread over the school, and that even the teachers had been unable to resist it.

She was strutting out of the dining-room at the conclusion of the meal, when Miss Phipps laid a hand on her shoulder and said, "Come into my room, Pixie," and a moment later she stood within the boudoir, staring around with wide, astonished eyes. Mademoiselle had followed, and was twisting her hands together, trying vainly not to cry. Miss Phipps looked at her and made a little signal, but Mademoiselle only shook her head, and held out her hands with a helpless gesture, and then Miss Phipps began to speak herself, in such a gentle voice--a voice quite different from her usual brisk, decided accents.

"Pixie dear, I have something to tell you. G.o.d has been very kind to the dear father whom you love so much. He saw that he could never be well again--never able to move about, nor walk, nor ride, as he had done before, and instead of leaving him to lie helpless upon his bed for long weary years, as so many poor sufferers have had to do, He took him home at once, and made him well and strong again. You must not think of your father as dead, Pixie. He is alive and happy in heaven!"

But it was too early for the dead man's child to realise that beautiful truth, and Pixie burst into a pa.s.sion of grief, and the girls without heard the long pitiful wails and nestled close to each other and sobbed in sympathy.