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Pixie O'Shaughnessy

<h3>Chapter Twenty One.</h3> <h4>Bridgie’s Confession.</h4> After Mr Hilliard’s departure, Mademoiselle was treated to an exhibition of what was known in the family as “Esmeralda’s tantrums.” Hardly had her father turned from the door than she had rushed towards him, and begun pouring out the story of her wrongs. Eyes flashed, head tossed, arms waving about in emphatic declamation, little foot tapped the floor all a-quiver with excitement, while Pixie stood in the background faithfully imitating each gesture, and Pat gazed at the ceiling with an expression of heart-broken innocence. Esmeralda called upon all present to witness that she was despised and ridiculed by the members of her own family; that by this evening’s work she had been made the laughing-stock of the county; and announced her intention of leaving home by the first train that steamed out of the station. She would earn her own living, and if necessary, wander barefoot through the world, rather than submit any longer to insults from her own kith and kin, and when she died a beggar’s death, and lay stretched in a pauper’s grave, they might remember her words, and forgive themselves if they could! The invective was originally directed against Pat alone, but as she warmed to her work it grew ever more comprehensive, until at last it seemed as though the whole household were in conspiracy against her. Then suddenly the climax was touched and passed; the last stage of all was announced by a tempest of tears, and the Major tugged miserably at his moustache, nerving himself to the task most difficult in the world to his easy-going nature,—that of finding fault! “Pat, ye rascal, what’s this I hear about you? Mark my words, now. I’ll not have your sisters made the subject for practical jokes! If you can’t keep yourself out of mischief, I’ll find a way to occupy you with something you’d like worse. Can I have no peace in me own home for the complaints of you and your doings? If ye can’t carry yourself as a gentleman, I’ll apprentice ye to a trade, and wash me hands of you once for all. Mind what I’m telling ye, for there’s truth in it! Will I be giving him a punishment now, Esmeralda? Is it your wish I should punish him?” “It is so! And the harder the better!” sobbed Esmeralda; and the Major heaved a sigh of ponderous dimensions. “Ye hear that, Patrick? Listen to that, now, and see your sister in tears, and think shame to yourself on a good Christmas Eve. And now I’ve the trouble of punishing you into the bargain. What will I do with him, Esmeralda? Will I send him off to his bed before Jack comes home?” And then a pretty thing happened, for among the chorus of groans which greeted this suggestion, Esmeralda’s “No, no!” sounded shrillest of all, and off she rushed to Pat’s side in a whirlwind of repentance. “No, no! Not that! He would be so disappointed. He must see Jack. I won’t have him punished after all, father. It’s Christmas-time, and he’s sorry already. Tell the Major you are sorry, Pat, and I’ll shake hands and say no more.” “I’m sorry, sir, there’s been such a stupid row,” said Pat truthfully enough; but when his father turned away with a sigh of relief, he put his arm round his sister and gave her a bear-like hug. “What did you howl about, silly?” he asked affectionately. “When you’ve had time to cool down you will think it the finest joke of the year. And you so well plucked, too, holding on like grim death, for all his struggles. You ought to be proud instead of sorry. Look here, now, you shall have the racket after all! I won’t have you the loser for your dealings with me. I’ll give it to you at once, if you’ll be troubled to come to my room!” Then Esmeralda cried, “Oh, Pat, me darlin’!” and Pat hung on to her arms, crying, “Hold me tight! Hold me tight!” at which she blushed and tugged his curly locks, and off they went together, laughing, squabbling, protesting; sworn enemies, dearest of friends! Jack arrived in due course, and a happier Christmas party than that assembled round the breakfast-table at Knock Castle next morning it would have been hard to find. Each one had provided presents for the others, and if they were of infinitesimal value, they were apparently none the less valued by the recipients. Mademoiselle thought she had never seen anything more charming than the manner in which Pixie presented, and the Major received, a solitary bone stud for his collar, amidst the acclamations of an admiring family. “A happy Christmas to ye, father darlin’, and many happy returns!” said Pixie in deep sweet accents, as she pressed the tiny packet into his hand, and blinked at it with an air of elaborate indifference. “It’s just a little present I was buying you, thinking maybe you would like to wear something I’d chosen meself.” “And now what can this be next?” soliloquised the Major, untwisting the paper with tenderest fingers and an air of absorption seldom seen on his merry features. When wrapping number two was undone, and the stud was disclosed in all its glory, he appeared almost dizzy with rapture, holding it out on an outstretched palm, and gazing at it with incredulous joy. “Did ever anything fall out so lucky as that? The very thing I was breaking my heart over not an hour ago. Somebody eats my studs—I’m sure they do—and what are left Esmeralda steals for her cuffs. But I’ll be even with anybody who dares to take this one from my drawer. Thank you, my piccaninny. It’s a broth of a stud, and you could not have given me anything I liked better.” “I hope it may never break on you when you are in a hurry,” said Pixie politely, and with sundry memories of past occasions when the Major had dressed for a function, while the sounds of his groans and lamentations had been heard without the portals of his dressing-room. Esmeralda presented Bridgie with a card of hat-pins; Bridgie had knitted woollen gloves for the boys, and the most exciting presentations were those which Mademoiselle had thoughtfully brought with her—dainty lace ties for the sisters, which were received with a rapture almost too great for words, and the grey Suède gloves which were Jack’s happy inspiration. Dark and threatening as the day appeared, on went gloves and tie, when it was time to start for church, and Esmeralda at least was proudly conscious of her stylish appearance, when half-way along the muddy lane the Trelawneys’ carriage bowled past, and the laughing eyes of the stranger met hers once more. The mud flew from the carriage-wheels, and she held up her skirts with a great display of grey-gloved hands, and backed up against the hedge, frowning and petulant—my Lady Disdain in every gesture and expression. Mademoiselle had never before attended a Christmas service in an English church, and though it was impossible to resist some pangs of homesickness, she was still interested and impressed. The little building was tastefully decorated, and the beautiful hymns were sung with delightful heartiness and feeling. The O’Shaughnessys themselves would have constituted a creditable choir, for Pat’s still unbroken voice was a joy to hear as he joined in the air with Bridgie and Pixie, the Major rolled out a sonorous bass, Jack sang tenor, while Esmeralda’s alto was rich and full as an organ stop. They sang with heart as well as voice, as indeed who can help singing those wonderful words? First, the heralds’ call to Christendom to greet the great festival of the year, the birthday of its Lord: “Christians, awake! Salute the happy morn.”—It must be a cold heart indeed which does not thrill a response to that summons; then the description of the angelic joy at His coming, “Hark, the herald angels sing”; and last, and perhaps most beautiful of all, the summons to the saints on earth to join in that praise, “Oh, come, let us adore Him, Christ the Lord!” The service passed in a glow of exaltation, and the softening influence continued throughout the long walk home, when the younger members of the family walked on ahead, and the two older girls followed sedately in the rear. Bridgie’s eyes glowed as she looked after her “children”, Pat and Miles, tall and graceful even in this their hobbledehoy stage, Esmeralda queening it in their midst, and Pixie dancing blissfully through every puddle that came in her way. “Doesn’t it make you rejoice to see them all so well and happy?” she cried fervently. “Last Christmas we were so sad that it seemed as if the sun would never shine again; but mother said she wanted us to be happy, and it would do her heart good to see them to-day. I was thinking about her in church, and asked myself if I had done all I could to keep my charge. She left them in my care, you know, for I had to take her place, and on days like this I feel as if I had to answer to her for all that is wrong. Pixie is happy at school, and it’s lovely to know you, and feel that you will be good to the darling; Jack is getting on with his work, and the boys and Esmeralda quarrel less than they used to do. She’s the one I am most anxious about, for she is not satisfied with this quiet life, and her head will be turned with flattery before many years are over. Did you notice that young Englishman last night, and the way he fixed his eyes upon her? If he comes over here flirting with her, what will I do, Thérèse? He is here for a week or two only, and after he has gone she will feel duller than ever, poor creature. I wonder what I had better do?” “Mees Esmeralda seems to me exceedingly able to take care of herself,” remarked Mademoiselle quietly. “I don’t think you need distress yourself about her in this instance. Monsieur ’Illiard has had the misfortune to make a bad impression, by placing her in an uncomfortable position, and have you not observed the air with which she has bowed to him to-day as he passed? It was not, to say the least of it, encouraging.” Bridgie laughed,—a little, tender, indulgent laugh. “But it was very pretty all the same, and sort of encouraging discouraging, don’t you think? If I were in his place I don’t think I should be exactly depressed. It was like a challenge thrown down before him, and from his look I believe he means to accept it too! Ah dear, it’s a great responsibility to have a beauty for a sister! I am in terror every time a young man comes to the house, in case he should fall in love with her.” “There is more than one girl in the house, however, and I know vich of the two would be my choice, if I were, as you say, a young man myself,” returned Mademoiselle sturdily. Bridgie’s utter unconsciousness of her own claims to attention filled her at once with admiration and impatience, and she could not resist putting her feelings into words. “Does it never give you any fear in case one should fall in love with you instead?” “No, never; how could they when she was near?” cried Bridgie fervently, and then suddenly flushed all over her delicate face and began a stammering explanation. “At least, that’s not quite true. There was one man—I never told anyone about it before, and indeed there’s not much to tell. Joan and I went to stay ten days with some friends at the other side of the county, nearly a year ago last autumn, and he was staying there too. He was not like other men I had met, or I thought he was different. He was graver than most young men, though he liked fun all the same, and when we talked it seemed as if we shared the same thoughts. It was not long after mother’s death, and I was feeling very lonely, but I didn’t feel lonely when I was with him. On the third day we went a picnic, and I drove in a wagonette with the ladies, and he walked with the men. Just as we overtook them the horses took fright, and began to gallop down a hill. We thought for a few minutes that we should certainly be thrown out at the bottom, but the driver managed to pull up in time, and we were none the worse except for the fright. The men came racing along to see what had happened, and his face was as white as death. When he came up he looked straight at me, and at no one else, though his sister was there and several old friends, and he said, ‘Thank God!’ Only that, but his voice shook as he said it, and he turned away, as if he could not bear any more. And I felt so strange and glad, so happy and proud; all that day I felt as if I were walking on air, but when I went to bed at night I could not sleep, for I realised suddenly what it meant. He was growing fond of me, and I of him; if we were together another week, perhaps he would ask me to marry him and go away to the other end of the world, for he was a soldier—did I tell you that? And I had promised mother to look after the children until they were old enough to manage for themselves. I couldn’t break my word, and yet if I stayed on and was nice to him, he might think it was wrong of me to say No. And I was afraid I couldn’t help being nice.” The sweet voice broke off suddenly, and Mademoiselle looked into the grey eyes, and thought that the young soldier was to be congratulated both on his own good taste, and on the feelings which he had been fortunate enough to awaken in this best and sweetest of girls. “Eh bien, and what have you done then?” she inquired eagerly. “It was a difficult position. What have you done?” “Oh, I did nothing. I came away!” said Bridgie, as simply as if that were not just the most difficult thing she could have done under the circumstances. “The next morning he went out shooting, and the post came in at ten o’clock with a letter from father saying that Pat had fallen from the barn and twisted his ankle. It was very few weeks he did not fall from the barn, as a matter of fact, but it was an excuse, so I said I must go home and nurse him, and they drove me to the station that very afternoon before the men came home.” Mademoiselle drew in her breath, in a gasp of amazement. She looked at Bridgie, and her eyes flashed with eloquent comment. It was so wonderful to think of the courage with which this young thing, with the bright, pleasure-loving nature which had come to her as an inheritance, had yet had the courage to deliberately put from her the greatest happiness which she could have known, in order to devote herself to the care of others. The simple, unpretentious manner in which the tale was told, made so light of the incident that it might have involved little or no suffering; but Mademoiselle knew better, and her voice trembled with sympathy as she put the low-toned question— “And afterwards—did it hurt—did it hurt very much, chérie?” “I think it did. I cried a great deal for several nights when I thought of the good times they were all having together; but I knew it would have been worse later on, and I comforted myself with that. Besides, what is the use of giving up a thing at all if one can’t do it cheerfully? It would have been better for me to have married and left home, than to stay and make them all miserable by moping and looking sad. And they are all such darlings, and so loving and kind. I don’t think any other girl ever had such a family as mine!” “The Major ignores you; the boys worry you to death; my lady Joan orders you about as if she were a queen, and you her servant; only the little Pixie worships you as you deserve to be worshipped,” reflected Mademoiselle mentally; but she kept her reflections to herself, and asked another question, the answer to which she was longing to hear with truly feminine curiosity. “And was that all,—the end of everything? What happened next? Have you not heard or seen him since that time?” The red flew over Bridgie’s face, and she smiled—a soft, contented smile. “I have never seen him—no! Only a month after that he was ordered to India, and sailed almost at once, but he wrote to me before he left. A letter arrived one day in a strange handwriting, but I guessed almost at once that it was from him. He said he had intended to come to Ireland in the spring, and to call at Knock Castle, but that now it would be impossible for some years to come. He said he had enjoyed so much meeting me for those few days, and he hoped I should not altogether forget him while he was away. Would I allow him to write to me now and again, and would I send a photograph for a poor exile to take away to comfort his loneliness? I had a very nice photograph that a friend of father had taken the summer before, and I thought there was no harm in sending him that, and writing a polite little note. It was very short, and I tried not to make it too nice, and I said nothing at all about writing, only just remarked that it would be interesting to receive letters from India,” said Bridgie, with a naïvété which made Mademoiselle throw up her hands in delight. “He has written to me four times since then, and,”—her eyes began to dance, and a dimple danced mischievously in her cheek—“I enjoy writing to him so much that I answer them the very next day; but it would not be proper to send them so soon, you know, so I put no date, but just lock them away in my desk, and wait for six weeks, or two months before I send them off. Once I waited for three, and then he sent a newspaper. There was nothing in it that could interest me in the least, but it was just a gentle hurry up. I did laugh over that newspaper!” “Bridgie, Bridgie! this is more serious than I thought. No wonder you look upon new-comers with indifference. I hope they are very interesting, those letters. They must be, I suppose, since you are so eager to reply.” But at this Bridgie shook her head, and shrugged her shoulders deprecatingly. “You are a teacher; perhaps you would call them interesting. For me they are just a trifle instructive! I want to hear about himself, and he describes the country, and the expeditions they make. Don’t please think they are love-letters, Thérèse. They are very, very proper, not in the least affectionate, and my replies are terribly dull. You see I’m in an awkward position, for everything that would be interesting it would not be proper to say, and everything I can say must be uninteresting, for he knows almost nothing of us or of our people.” “And yet you are compelled to answer these ‘instructive epistles’ the moment they arrive, and he cannot wait patiently to receive your so dull replies. That has only one meaning, my dear, and it will come when he returns home in a few years, and your children are grown up and able to be left. It will come. I am sure it will come!” “If it is the right thing for me—if it is God’s will—yes! it will come, and meanwhile I am very happy. It is good of Him to have given me such a hope in my life,” said Bridgie simply; and Mademoiselle’s eyes dimmed with sudden tears. Her own nervous, restless spirit was for ever kicking against the pricks, but she was at least honest enough to acknowledge her shortcomings, and the example of this young girl filled her with shame and a humble desire to follow in her footsteps. “And I am thankful that He has let me know you. You do me good, chérie. I wish to be more like you,” she said humbly; and Bridgie opened her great eyes in bewilderment. “Like me!” she echoed incredulously. “My dear!” The dimple dipped again, and she slipped her hand through Mademoiselle’s arm and shook her in playful remonstrance. “Don’t you make fun of your hostess, or she’ll starve you for your pains. The very idea of clever, accomplished You wanting to be like blundering Irish Me!” <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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