the_love_affairs_of_pixie.txt Part 13

Pixie leaned back in her seat, and lived dreamily over the happenings of the last three days. The morning after the accident the three visitors had made haste to pack, and depart in different directions--Honor and Robert Carr to town, Stanor Vaughan to friends at the other side of the county. Honor had relied on Robert's escort, but he had hurried off by the nine o'clock train, excusing himself on the score of urgent business, which fact added largely to the girl's depression.

It was four, o'clock. All day long Pixie had been alone, unneeded, un.o.bserved, for Joan refused to leave the nursery floor, even for meals, and Geoffrey remained by her side. Looking back over the whole course of her life, the girl could not remember a time when she had been so utterly thrown on herself. Always there had been some one at hand to love, to pity, to demand. At school, at the time of her father's death, there had been a bevy of dear girl friends--saintly Margaret, spectacled Kate, Clara of the high forehead and long upper lip, Lottie, pretty and clever, each vieing with the other to minister to her needs. Pixie followed in thought the history of each old friend. Margaret had become a missionary and had sailed for far-off China, Clara was mistress in a High School, Lottie lived in India, married to a soldier husband, Kate was domiciled as governess in Scotland. All were far away, all engrossed in new interests, new surroundings.

Later on, in Pixie's own life, a lonely time had come when she had been sent to Paris, to finish her education in the home of the dear school Mademoiselle. She had been lonely then, it is true--homesick, homeland-sick, so sick that she had even contemplated running away. But how good they had been to her;--Mademoiselle and her dear old father-- how wise, how tactful, above all, how _kind_! Monsieur had died a few years before and gone to his last "repose," and Mademoiselle--marvellous and incredible fact--Mademoiselle had married a grey-bearded, bald-headed personage whom her English visitor had mentally cla.s.sed as a contemporary of "_mon pere_" and tottering on the verge of dotage. It appeared, however, by after accounts, that he was barely fifty, which d.i.c.k Victor insisted was an age of comparative vigour. "Quite a suitable match!" he had p.r.o.nounced it, but Pixie obstinately withheld her approval. Mademoiselle, as mademoiselle, would have been a regular visitor for life; Madame, the wife of a husband exigent in disposition, and deeply distrustful of "_le mer_" must perforce stay dutifully at home in Paris, and was therefore lost to her English friends.

Ah! The years--what changes they brought! What toll they demanded! So many friends lost to sight, drifted afar by the stream of life. So many changes, so _many_ breaks. _What would the years bring next_?

Pixie shut her eyes and leaned back in her seat, and being young, and sad, and faint, and hungry, and very, very tired, Mother Nature came to her aid, and laying gentle fingers on the closed lids sealed them in sleep, her kindliest gift.

Pixie slept, and round the corner of this straight green hedge fate came marching towards her, with footsteps growing momentarily louder, and louder upon the gravel path.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.

Stanor Vaughan stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets looking down upon Pixie's pale, unconscious face. He had motored thirty miles to hear the latest news of the little patient--that was certainly _one_ reason of his visit; but a second had undoubtedly been to see once more the little patient's aunt! At the house he had been informed that Miss O'Shaughnessy was in the garden, and had tracked her without difficulty to her favourite seat, and now there she lay, poor, sweet, tired little soul! With her head tilted back against the hedge, and the wee mites of hands crossed upon her lap--an image of weariness and dejection.

Stanor Vaughan felt within him the stirrings of tenderness and pity with which a strong man regards weakness in any form. Pixie was by nature such a jaunty little thing that it seemed doubly pathetic to see her so reduced. A fellow wanted to take her up in his arms, and comfort her, and make her smile again. A flush rose in Stanor's cheeks as he recalled an incident of the night of the accident. After the hurried return to the house, the three guests had sat alone, waiting in miserable suspense for the doctor's verdict, but Pixie had disappeared.

No one knew where she had gone. Honor searched for her in vain, and at last in an access of anxiety Stanor himself took up the quest. He found her at last, perched on the wide window-seat of an upper window, but all his persuasions could not move her from her post.

"Let me stay here!" she persisted. "It comforts me. I can see--I can see the _lights_!"

"You mean the motor lamps as they come up the drive?"

"No," she said simply, "I mean the stars."

Stanor was as unimaginative as most men of his age, and his first impression was that the poor little thing was off her head. He crept downstairs and rang for a basin of the good warm soup with which he and his companions had been provided an hour before. When it was brought he carried the tray carefully up three long flights of stairs, and besought of Pixie to drink it forthwith.

She shook her head, and all his persuasions could not rouse her to the exertion; but being an obstinate young man, he but set his lips and determined to succeed.

This time, however, he resorted to force instead of persuasion, for, having placed the tray on a corner of the sill, he filled the spoon with soup and held it determinedly to the girl's lips. Now, if she moved or made a fuss, the soup would a.s.suredly be spilled, and no living girl would voluntarily pour soup over her frock! But Pixie made no fuss.

Meekly, obediently as a little bird, she opened her lips, and swallowed, and swallowed again and again, until the bowl was emptied of its contents. There was something so trustful and unconscious about the action that the young man felt the smart of tears in his eyes--the first tears he had known for many a long year.

When the soup had been finished he went away again, and came back with a warm shawl which he had procured from a maid. In wrapping it round the quiescent figure his hands had accidentally come in contact with hers, and finding them cold as ice, it seemed the natural thing to chafe them gently between his own. Quite natural also Pixie appeared to find the action, for the cold little fingers had tightened affectionately round his own. It was left to him to flush and feel embarra.s.sed; Pixie remained placidly unmoved.

The memory of those moments was vivid with Stanor as he stood this morning looking down on the sleeping girl. All through the three days of separation her image had pursued him, and he had longed increasingly to see her again. The tragic incidents of that long night had had more effect in strengthening his dawning love than many weeks of placid, uneventful lives. It had brought them heart to heart, soul to soul; all the little veneers and conventions of society had been thrust aside, and it seemed to him that the crisis had revealed her altogether sweet and true.

When a young man is brought suddenly face to face with death, when it is demonstrated before his eyes that the life of the youngest among us hangs upon a thread, he is in the mood to appreciate the higher qualities. Stanor had told himself uneasily that he had been "too slack," that he had not thought enough about "these things." The friends with whom he had consorted were mostly careless pleasure-lovers like himself, but this little girl was made of a finer clay. To live with her would be an inspiration: she would "pull a fellow together."

... There was, however, to be quite honest, another and less worthy impetus which urged Stanor forward, but over this he preferred to draw a mental veil. We are all guilty of the absurdity of posing for our own benefit, and Stanor, like the rest, preferred to believe himself actuated wholly by lofty motives rather than partially by the wounded pride of a young man who has just discovered that he has been "managed"

by an elder!

He sat down on the seat beside Pixie, and laid his hand gently over hers. They opened automatically to receive it; even before she lifted her lids he felt the welcoming touch; and felt it characteristic of her nature.

"_You_!" she cried gladly, "Mr Vaughan, 'tis you! Oh, that's nice!

Was I sleeping, that I didn't see you come? I thought I should never sleep again. Jack can't sleep! If he slept he might get well."

"He is sleeping now," said Stanor quietly. "A man was sent to the lodge to answer all inquiries, so that there should not be even a crunch on the path. He is sleeping soundly and well. If he sleeps on--"

Pixie nodded, her face aglow.

"Oh, thank G.o.d! _How_ I thank Him! Sleep will make all the difference.

... Till now it's been nothing but a moment's nap and awake again, with a scream. We've _agonised_ for sleep! I could not have gone off so soundly if I hadn't known, _inside_, that Jack was asleep too. When you love anyone very, very much, what touches them touches you. You can't keep apart. You mayn't always know it with your _mind_, but the best part of you, the part that feels, _it_ knows!"

She smiled in his face with frank, glad eyes, but Stanor flushed and looked at the ground.

"Should you know it, if _I_ were unhappy, Pixie? I should know it about you. I came this afternoon partly, mostly, because I knew how you'd be feeling, and I thought, I hoped, that I might help. Does it help you, Pixie, to have me sitting beside you, instead of being alone? Ought I to have come, or stayed away?"

"I'm glad you came; I love to have you. I've been sad before this, but I've never been sad by myself! Esmeralda isn't my sister at this moment, she's just Jack's mother, and there's only one person who can help her, and that is Jack's father. Later on 'twill change!" A flash of joy lit up the white face. "Do you know what I'm waiting for? If Jack lives, as soon as he's conscious and out of pain he'll send for me!

He'll want me to tell him stories, and the stronger he grows the more stories he'll want! He'll need me then--they'll all need me!"

"Of course they'll need you. Other people need you, Pixie, besides your relations. Why do you always go back to them? I was speaking of myself. _I_ need you! I've felt all at sea without you these last days. I never met a girl like you before. Most girls are all one way or another--so serious that they're dull, or so empty-headed that it's a waste of time to talk to them. You--you are such a festive little thing, Pixie; a fellow could never be dull in your company, and yet you're so good! You have such sweet thoughts; you are so unselfish, so kind."

"_Go_ on!" cried Pixie urgently. "_Go_ on!" Her cheeks had flushed, her eyes sparkled with animation. "It's the most reviving thing in the world to hear oneself praised, I could listen to it for hours. In what particular way, now, would you say that I was '_sweet_?'"

She peered at him, complacent, curious, blightingly unconscious of his emotions, and the young man felt a stirring of hot impatience.

Insinuation and innuendo were of no use where Pixie O'Shaughnessy was concerned; an ordinary girl might scent a proposal afar off and amuse herself by an affectation of innocence, but nothing short of a plain declaration of love would convince Pixie of his sincerity.

"Pixie," he said suddenly, "look at me!" He took her hands in his, and drew her round so as to face him as they sat. "Look at me, Pixie," he repeated. "Look in my eyes. Tell me, what do you see?"

Pixie looked, her own eyes wide and amazed. Her fingers stirred within his hands with a single nervous twitch, and then lay still, while into her eyes crept an expression of wonder and awe.

"I don't know.--I don't know. ... What do I see?"

"Love, Pixie! My love. My love for you. ... I've fallen in love with you, darling; didn't you know? I knew it that last evening when we were together upstairs. I've known it better and better each day since; and to-day I couldn't stay away, I couldn't wait any longer. ... Pixie, do you love me too?"

"Of course I love you. How could I help it?" cried Pixie warmly. Her fingers tightened round his with affectionate pressure, her eyes beamed encouragingly upon him.

Never could there have been a warmer, a more spontaneous response, and yet, strange to relate, its very ardour had a chilling effect, for Stanor, though young, was experienced enough to realise that it is not in this fas.h.i.+on that a girl receives a declaration of love from the man of her heart. He himself had struggled with shyness and agitation; he was conscious of flushed cheeks, of a hoa.r.s.eness of voice, of the beating of pulses; then surely a girl taken by surprise, faced suddenly, with the question of such enormous import, should not be less moved than he.

The words died upon his lips; involuntarily his hands relaxed their grasp. There was a moment of impossible impa.s.se and strain before, with a realised effort, he forced himself to express a due delight.

"That makes me very happy, Pixie. I--I was afraid you might not care.

I'm not half good enough for you, I know that, but I'll do my best.

I'll do everything I can to make you happy. I'm not rich, you know, darling; we should have to live on what I can make independently of the uncle, for he has peculiar views. He doesn't wish me to marry."

"_Marry_!" repeated Pixie deeply. She sat bolt upright in her seat, her eyes suddenly alight with interest and excitement. Incredible as it might appear, Stanor realised that this was the first moment when the idea of marriage had entered her brain. "Is it _marrying_ you are talking about? You want _me_ to marry you?"

"You funny little soul. Of course I want it. Why else should I talk about loving?"

"I thought," she said sighing, "it was just nice feeling! It's natural for people to love each other. When they live together in the same house and come through trouble. ... And we're both attractive. ... You don't need to marry every one you love!"

"I do," declared Stanor, "when it's a girl--when it's _you_! I want to have you for my own, and keep you to myself, and how can I do that if you're not my wife? If you love me, you must want to be with me too.

Don't you, dear, don't you wish it? Shouldn't you like to be my wife?"

Pixie tilted her head in her well-known att.i.tude of consideration.