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<h3>Chapter Nine.</h3> <h4>Christmas Presents.</h4> Christmas morning was heralded by the luxury of a late breakfast, when no one need hurry off to town, and even Miles could satisfy the demands of appetite without casting a thought to the time-table. Porridge, bacon, eggs and sausages laid the foundation of his meal, before he tackled marmalade, strawberry jam, fresh oranges and honey, accompanied by numerous draughts of tea and coffee, and finally by a cup filled with the united drainings of both pots, which he drank with obvious relish. If it had been merry Pat who was so difficult to appease, there would have been no cause for astonishment, but Miles’s rapt eyes and ethereal expression seemed to bespeak no stronger diet than moonbeams and mountain dew, and to hear him accompany his last mouthful with an eager “When’s lunch?” was a distinct shock to the visitor. Jack, too, had sustained a relapse into sentiment, and was only awaiting opportunity to wax melancholy and confidential. With a word of encouragement he would have stayed away from church to bear her company, but Sylvia was provokingly obtuse, and he went off looking unutterable reproaches with his “humbugging eyes.” Left to herself, Sylvia hobbled to the piano and sang Christmas hymns in a weak little voice, which wavered suspiciously towards the close. Christmas is the day of all others when families are united, and it seemed hard that when she possessed just one beloved relation, he should be away off at the other end of the world. The strange house, the unusual silence, and her own inability to move about, added to the feeling of depression, and her thoughts turned towards Aunt Margaret with unusual yearning. The old lady was at times a sore trial to her niece’s patience, but at least they had a claim on each other’s affection; she was the dear father’s sister, and her own legal guardian during his absence! Sylvia wondered how the two ladies would pass their day—church in the morning as a matter of course; early dinner and reminiscences of the brougham and peach-houses; arrival of the postman with cards; renewed reminiscences and family histories of the various senders; one arm-chair at each side of the fire; two white caps nodding sleepily forward; two pairs of cashmere boots reposing on footstools. Arrival of tea and exchange of recipes and household experiences. Letters of thanks to valued friends for seasonable gifts. Supper of cold turkey and cocoa, with anecdotal references to Christmases of long ago. Mutual exchange of compliments, bed, nightcaps, and sleeping-socks. Oh dear me! It all seemed very flat to one-and-twenty, and why should one girl have health and beauty, and brothers and sisters, and an adoring young husband into the bargain, and another be a solitary unit, with no one to cosset her and help her to bear her manifold infirmities? Sylvia’s tears were still rather near the surface, and she mopped her eyes with her handkerchief, and mopped them again, and then carefully dried them on a dry place, and craned forward to look in the glass and see if they looked very red and tell-tale. The bleared reflection had a wonderfully calming effect, and she limped to her couch and read persistently to distract her thoughts, until the peal of the bell announced the Hilliards’ arrival. From her corner she could not see the doorway, but judging from the sounds of coming and going, of dragging heavy weights, of scurrying along the passage, of whispered colloquies, and sudden explosions of laughter, it was evident that some great mystery was in the air. Then the cab drove away, the dining-room door closed with a bang, she heard the furniture being dragged to and fro, and wondered how long it would be before the drawing-room was raided in its turn. For a quarter of an hour the conspirators remained shut up together, then Esmeralda came sailing into the room, all smiles and amiability. “A happy Christmas to you, Miss Trevor! Excuse me for not coming in before, but I am so anxious to arrange my presents before the others come home from church. I want the easel from that corner, and I want you to promise faithfully that you won’t come into the dining-room before you are allowed!” “I can’t walk so far without help. You are quite safe so far as I am concerned,” said Sylvia regretfully, and Esmeralda looked at her with quick scrutiny. “So bad as that! I didn’t know. Is that why you have been crying?” “No—oh no! I am used to that now. I felt a little lonely, that’s all. I wanted my father.” The beautiful face changed suddenly, the lips tightened, the eyes grew large and strained. There was a ring of pain in the clear voice. “Is he dead?” “No, no, only so far-away. At the other end of the world, in Ceylon!” “You will see him again!” said Esmeralda shortly. She looked at the portrait of a handsome, reckless face which hung on the wall above the sofa, and drew a fluttering sigh. “That was my father. It is nearly two years since he had his accident, and I thought I could never be happy again. If I could write to him, if I could get his letters, and think that some day, it might be in twenty years to come, he would be back among us again, I should feel as if there was nothing else to wish for.” She sat down suddenly by the couch with an air of having forgotten all about the errand which had brought her into the room, clasped her hands round her knee, and began a series of disconnected childish memories, while Sylvia gazed spellbound at the beautiful, dreamy face, and wondered how she could ever have thought it cold and unfeeling. “We were always such chums, from the time that I was a mite in pinafores. I remember his first explaining to me what happened when people died—how their bodies were put into the grave, while their souls went straight to heaven; but I didn’t understand what a soul was, and I was frightened and cried out, ‘Well, I won’t go one step without my body!’ I used to play tricks on him, and he would catch me up and carry me into his room, and say, ‘Will you rather be poisoned, or buried alive?’ and I would prefer the poisoning because it was chocolates out of the corner cupboard. “He used to wake me in the mornings coming battering at my door, and singing, ‘Come awake thee, awake thee, my merry Swiss lass!’ and when we were learning French fables from Miss Minnitt, we used to take arms, Bridgie and I, and walk up and down before him reciting, ‘Deux compagnons pressé d’argent!’ It didn’t make any difference whether he had the money or not—he always gave it to us. “One day we were going for a picnic, and he walked on with the men, leaving me to drive after them in the cart with the provisions. There was only one thing he told me to remember, and that was just what I forgot—his camera, to take a special view which he’d wanted for an age. Four miles from home it jumped into my mind, and I sat in misery the rest of the way. The Major laughed when I told him, and sympathised with me for my upset. ‘You’ll forget your own head next, and it will be a pity,’ he said, ‘for it’s a very pretty one.’ “I hated to vex him just because he was so sweet about it. No one ever understood me as well as the Major, and when I was in a tantrum he would say, ‘Think it over till to-morrow, my girl. If you are of the same mind then, we will discuss it together,’ and, of course, I never did think the same two days running. “When he was ill he used to lie looking at me, and his face was quite different from that in the picture—so sad and wistful. ‘I’ve not done much in the way of training you, my girl,’ he would say, ‘but I’ve loved you a great deal. Maybe that will do as well. You are not one to stand a bridle.’ He loved to have me with him; to the last he would stretch out his hand—” Her voice quivered and stopped, and Sylvia sat with lowered eyes, murmuring incoherent condolences. Esmeralda’s love for her dead father was very sweet and touching, but to the more reserved nature it seemed an extraordinary thing that she could speak so openly to a stranger, and in the twinkling of an eye change her mood from gay to grave. The hands of the clock were approaching the hour when the rest of the family might be expected to return from church, yet there she sat dreaming over the past, and apparently absolutely forgetful of the demands of the present. Sylvia dare not risk a reminder which would seem in the last degree unfeeling, but presently the door opened, and Geoffrey Hilliard appeared on the threshold, looking round with anxious inquiry. “Good morning, Miss Trevor. The compliments of the season.” Then he looked at his wife, all incredulous and aghast. “My dear girl, what are you about? Do you know that at any moment Bridgie may be here? I thought you had come for the easel.” Esmeralda leaped to her feet with a cry of dismay. “Hurry! hurry!” she cried. “Oh, what are you waiting for? Carry it for me. Be quick! be quick!” and off she rushed with a swirl of flounces, a rustle of silk, a wild waving of arms, while her husband chuckled with amusement, and confided in Sylvia— “That’s the usual programme! First keeps me waiting for hours, and then upbraids me for being slow. Keep Bridgie occupied if she comes in too soon, please, Miss Trevor. This little surprise needs a good deal of preparation.” What could it be? Sylvia grew quite excited as once more peals of laughter echoed from the dining-room. Esmeralda was evidently sparing no pains to display her presents to the best advantage, and, lucky girl, no want of money had hampered her choice of what would be appropriate and welcome. “I’m glad I gave Bridgie my minute offering this morning, so that it won’t be shamed by contrast. I shall be out of this distribution, so it doesn’t matter, but I do hope they will ask me to go in,” said Sylvia to herself. “I hated Esmeralda last night, but I rather love her this morning. She is like the little girl in the rhyme—when she is nice she is very, very nice; but when she is bad she is—horrid!” After all, the mysterious preparations were completed before the return of the church party, for the service had been unusually lengthy, and Esmeralda was champing with impatience before the latch-key clicked in the lock. There was great kissing and hugging beneath the mistletoe, and Bridgie was sent flying upstairs to take off her wraps, in preparation for the great exhibition. “I have laid out our presents in the dining-room, and they take up all the table, so there will be no dinner until they are distributed. I’ve lighted the lamp, dear, to make it look more festive. Hope you don’t mind? It was just the least thought in the world gloomy in that back room this morning.” “Anything you like, dear! anything you like!” cried Bridgie the docile; then she looked at Sylvia, and beamed with satisfaction as Geoffrey offered his arm to support the invalid’s halting footsteps. They led the way together, and she seated herself in state in an arm-chair, while the brothers and sisters crowded in at the doorway, exclaiming volubly at the sight which met their eyes. The table had been pushed lengthways against the window, the crimson curtains making an effective background to its heaped-up treasures. The lamp stood at the farther end of the room, casting a subdued rosy light on the eager faces. It was not exactly a “cheery” illumination, but it was certainly becoming, and lent an air of mystery to the everyday surroundings. “A new lamp-shade! How lovely! Pink silk and roses. Wouldn’t it make a sweet garden hat?” exclaimed Bridgie rapturously. “Is that my present, Joan? How did you know I wanted a shade?” “That’s a present for the house; yours is over there in that round box; Geoffrey will hand it to you. There’s a present for everybody, and one for you all together. You’ll see that last!” At that every eye turned curiously at the curtained picture-frame which stood artfully supported by boxes at the place of honour at the farther end of the table. Evidently this was the grand climax of the entertainment, but meantime there were half a dozen excitements in store, all calling for rapturous acknowledgments. Bridgie’s round box was found to contain a muff of real Russian sable, on receiving which, to use her own expressive phrase, she “nearly swooned with delight.” She sat purring over it, and rubbing it fondly against her cheeks, while dandy Jack was presented with a dressing-case, fitted with silver and ivory, Pat with a handsome camera, and Miles with a bicycle deftly wheeled from behind the curtains. Even the servants had been remembered, for there was a bulky parcel addressed to each name, and Sylvia grew red with mingled pleasure and embarrassment as a casket of French bon-bons was deposited on her knee. It was a delightful scene, and not the least delightful part of it was the enjoyment of the young couple themselves, and their whole-hearted participation in the pleasure of the recipients. It is the custom of most donors to depreciate their gifts, but that was not Esmeralda’s way. Not a bit of it! She was a capital show-woman, and if by chance any detail of perfection passed unnoticed, she pointed it out forthwith, and dilated at length upon its virtues. Jack turned over the silver-topped bottles, and peeped at his reflection in the mirror; Miles tingled his bicycle-bell, and balanced himself on the saddle; Sylvia handed round bon-bons and surreptitiously fumbled to discover how many rows the box contained; and Pat demanded immediate orders for family groups. It took some little time to restore order, but Geoffrey stood patiently waiting until he could make himself heard, his hand stretched out to uncover the curtained frame. “Now for the general present! With best wishes to the family circle, from Joan and myself. Are you ready? Very well, then, here you are! One, two, three!” With the last word he whisked off the cloth, and a gasp sounded through the room, followed by a silence more eloquent than words. Sylvia stared with widened eyes at the picture of a girl’s head, strangely like and yet unlike that precious photograph which Bridgie had exhibited with so much pride. It was Pixie—that was quite evident—but an older, bigger, wonderfully smartened edition of the elf-like child. The dark locks were rolled back in pompadour fashion over a high cushion, the plait turned up in a queue, fastened at the nape of the neck by an enormous outstanding bow; the cheeks were fuller in outline, and the disproportion between nose and mouth less marked. She was by no means pretty, yet there was a charm about the quaint little face which made the onlooker smile involuntarily and feel a sudden outgoing of affection. “P–pixie!” gasped Bridgie in a breathless whisper. She rested her cheek against the muff, and stared before her with rapt grey eyes. “Pixie’s portrait! Oh, Esmeralda—what a lovely thought! You had it taken for us? You sent to Paris for it?” “Yes—yes!” cried Esmeralda gleefully. “I knew it would please you more than anything else to have her with us. Do you like it? Do you think it is good? Is it quite like her?” “It’s like—yes, but not quite lifelike. Does she really do her hair like that? I can’t imagine Pixie looking so neat. She looks grave, too—graver than she ever looked, except when she was up to mischief. I hope she is not fretting, poor child! Oh, it makes me long for her more than ever! I could look at it all day long!” Jack stroked his chin, and smiled contentedly. “That’s what I call something like a present! It’s a rattling good portrait of the Piccaninny, judiciously flattered as portraits ought to be. We can’t see it, though, in this light. Let me put the lamp a little nearer, or take off the shade.” Esmeralda, however, was standing next the lamp, and refused to move aside. “We arranged it to give the best light, so it’s no use trying to improve it. The best view is from over there by the door,” she said in her masterful fashion which would brook no contradiction. “One can never see a picture to the best advantage by lamp-light, but you must make allowances for that. Do you think it is well done? It is by a very good master!” “Rather starry about the eyes!” said Pat critically. “Laid on the red rather too thickly about the cheeks!” objected Miles. Bridgie put down her muff, and went stooping across the room to get a nearer view. “Is it oil or water-colour? I seem to know the frame. Oh, it is like her, Esmeralda—oh, so like! Pixie, Pixie, my little Pixie!” “Bridgie!” cried an answering voice. The picture swayed, rocked forward, and fell on its face on the table; a little figure stood squeezed in between the table and the window. It was no picture, but a reality. Pixie herself stood among them in warm, living flesh and blood! <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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