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Pixie O'Shaughnessy

<h3>Chapter Twenty Seven.</h3> <h4>Esmeralda’s Solace.</h4> 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 stitching 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 fiancée, 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. Voilà, ma chère, 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 Thérèse, 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, Thérèse, 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, Thérèse!” 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 assured 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. “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! God 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 God’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. <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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