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<h3>Chapter Eighteen.</h3> <h4>At the Circus.</h4> Mamzelle Paddy began and continued her work in the Wallace nursery with complete satisfaction to all concerned. Esmeralda, it is true, had surpassed herself in violence of diction in the letter which came in answer to the one breaking the news; but while Bridgie shed tears of distress, and Jack frowned impatience, the person against whom the hurricane of invective was hurled, received it with unruffled and even sympathetic composure. As Pixie read over the crowded sheets her eye flashed approval of dramatic points, she set her lips, and wagged her head, entering so thoroughly into the spirit of the writer that she unconsciously adopted her manner when aroused, and when the concluding words were read, heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction. “She’ll feel a lot better after that!” she remarked tersely, and the prophecy could not fail to be comforting to those who knew Mrs Hilliard’s temperament. After such an outburst, repentance might be expected to set in even more speedily than usual, and a peace-offering in the shape of a hamper crowded with good things could be confidently looked for in the course of the next few days. Esmeralda disliked formal apologies, and from the boys’ point of view, at least, turkeys and game made a more eloquent amende. Viva and Inda Wallace were loving and lovable children, but possessed with a nervous restlessness, an insatiable curiosity, and with such easily-roused tempers as would have reduced an ordinary adult governess to despair within a very short period. Their delicate mother was occupied with many social duties, and the father, though devoted to his pretty daughters, had little patience with their vagaries, while the frequent screaming attacks which sounded through the house had a trying effect on nerves already strained by long residence abroad. Parents and servants alike breathed sighs of relief when each morning punctually as the clock struck ten, Mamzelle Paddy came running upstairs primed with half a dozen thrilling devices for amusement and occupation. Viva, as ringleader and rebel-in-chief, had flatly refused to speak, or listen to, a word of French, but when it was presently revealed to her that the Spoopjacks understood no other language, there was no course left but to withdraw her opposition. The Bobityshooties were English, and stupid at that, but by the time that Nicholas Spoopjack had succeeded in teaching them how to address him with propriety, the two unsuspicious listeners to the conversation had themselves mastered the lesson without once suspecting what they were about. The adventures which those two enterprising and admirable families went through, were as varied as they were endless, and each day brought a thrilling development of the situation. Nicholas Spoopjack thought nothing of going out in a diving-bell in the morning, and a balloon in the afternoon, while the Bobityshooties entertained royalty to dinner in the kitchen cupboard, and feasted luxuriously on the cruets, and the pinked-out paper which covered the shelves. “She don’t teach us nuffin’: we only plays!” was little Inda’s summing up of the situation; but a moment later she would repeat a dialogue which had taken place between the rival factions during the morning, reproducing, with the wonderful imitative faculty of children, the very accent and gesture with which it had been delivered, and her parents would look at each other with delighted appreciation. Mamzelle Paddy was a grand institution, and being generously disposed people, Mr and Mrs Wallace endeavoured to show their gratitude by including her in the many amusements which were arranged for the children’s benefit. She accompanied them on sight-seeing expeditions, organised games at evening parties, and on one memorable occasion paid a visit to the circus. Pixie had always cherished a passion for clowns, and when in Paris had appreciated nothing more than an evening at the “Nouveau Cirque,” where Auguste the Frenchman played a secondary part to his English brother, and the performance concluded with a play in which the British tourist played a large part, conspicuous in plaid suits, sailor hats, and thick-soled shoes. She was all eagerness to see the London circus, and nearly as much excited as her pupils, as they drove up to the door, and took their seats on the red velvet chairs. Inda sat by her mother and stared solemnly around, but Viva insisted upon being next her dear Mamzelle, and pranced up and down in a manner which augured ill for future comfort. Once she began to fidget, adieu to all hope of peace for her companions. Once she began to ask questions, it was safe to predict that she would go on until despair seized those who were obliged to answer. Pixie recognised signs of the coming attack, and managed an adroit change of places which would leave Mrs Wallace free to enjoy the afternoon, and punctually at three o’clock the performance began. The ring-master walked in and cracked his whip; the clown tumbled head over heels into the arena, and cried, “Here we are again!” the lady rider jumped through paper hoops, and blew kisses to the audience. Viva’s cheeks grew a vivid pink, and at each change in the performance she adopted a change of position. When the hook of her jacket had been extricated from the hair of the lady in front, she perched herself on the arm of her own chair; when she had applauded herself backward into Pixie’s arms, she leant against the supercilious-looking gentleman in the next seat, and tickled his cheeks with her fluffy hair. Then the first wonder wore away, and she found her tongue. “Why does the clown look like that?” “It’s a way they have in the family. They always have those funny eyes, and red and white faces.” “Did he always look like that?” “He did—all the time he has been a clown.” “Is it the same clown that was here before?” “It says on the paper it’s a new one for the occasion.” “Then why does he say he is here again?” “I’ll ask him next time we meet! Hush now, and listen to what he is saying. See how they are all laughing!” “Does the clown sleep in the circus?” “’Deed he does not, poor creature! There are no beds, and the seats are too hard.” “Where does he sleep, then? What is his true home?” “Number Seven, Poplar Gardens, corner of Phillamore Park—the corner house with the red curtains!” Pixie understood her pupil’s love of detail by this time, and Viva put her head on one side and stared at her with gratified admiration. If she had asked her mother, she would have looked tired and sighed, and said, “My dear child! how should I know? Don’t ask ridiculous questions,” but Mamzelle Paddy knew better than that. Her face assumed an expression of radiant satisfaction as she pondered on that house in Poplar Gardens. Big and grey, with flower boxes in the windows and little clowns looking out of the nursery windows. Delightful! She was silent for several minutes, and the supercilious gentleman took advantage of the pause to examine the party with curious eyes. The elegant-looking woman was plainly the mother of the little girls, but who was this, who was scarcely more than a child herself, who was addressed as “Mamzelle” and spoke with a strong Irish accent? He stared at her, and Viva discovering his glance turned round with her back to the ring, and stared back with leisurely enjoyment. At first her face expressed nothing but curiosity, but gradually her features became twisted, the lips down drawn, the eyebrows elevated to an unnatural height, until the beholder realised with horror that she was experimenting on his own expression, and endeavouring to copy it on her own small visage. Many a long year had passed since he had known what it meant to blush, but he blushed then, and hitched round in his seat to hide his scarlet face from view, while Viva once more turned her attention to the ring. The white-skirted lady had disappeared and another was cantering round, clad in a riding habit and gentleman’s hat. The horse was black, and shone like satin; he pawed the ground with dainty, cat-like tread; the ring-master followed him as he went, and cracked his whip in encouraging fashion. Viva planted one foot on Pixie’s toe, and jumped up and down to attract attention. “Is the gentleman really angry, that he cracks his whip? Does he pitend to be angry? If he pitends to be angry, why do all the others pitend that they think he doesn’t pitend, but only,—Why does the gentleman crack his whip?” “Maybe he hears you talking! I saw him cast his eye upon you,” replied Pixie sagely, and the supercilious gentleman pointed the sentence with a sigh, and privately resolved to remove his seat at the first opportunity. The threat of the whip, however, had the effect of quietening Miss Viva for a good two minutes, and in the meantime Fate sent an unexpected deliverance. Certain portions of the auditorium were portioned off into squares, which did duty for private boxes, and into the nearest of these there now entered a party of ladies and children, in whom he recognised some intimate friends. To advance towards them and beg the use of a vacant chair was the work of a moment, when he proceeded to pour the story of his woes into the ear of the young lady by his side. She was fair and pretty, charmingly dressed, and almost as supercilious in expression as he was himself. “Little wretch! How impossible of her!” she ejaculated, and bent forward to examine the wretch forthwith. Viva had climbed on the empty seat, and was craning her little face to right and left to discover where the deserter had fled. With her great blue eyes and rose-leaf complexion set in a frame of golden hair, she looked like an angel from heaven, or one of the sweet-faced cherubs who float in space at the top of Christmas cards and valentines. But it was not on Viva that the young lady’s attention was riveted, but upon the figure by her side—Mamzelle Paddy in all the glory of a French hat, wearing the very biggest hair-ribbon in her possession, in honour of the occasion. At sight of the profile the young lady started and cried, “It is! It must be!” Then she dodged backwards, saw the hat, and became filled with doubt. “No, it can’t be! It’s much too smart!” Finally Pixie turned round to apostrophise Miss Viva, who was in the act of striding the back of her chair, and immediately a flash of recognition leapt from eye to eye. The French hat nodded until the feathers fairly quivered with the strain, and the face beneath became a beam of delight, in which eyes disappeared and the parted lips stretched back to a surprising distance. The fair-haired young lady had more respect to appearance in her recognition, but all the same she grew quite pink with pleasure, and cried eagerly— “It’s my dearest friend! We were at school together, but she has been in Paris finishing her education, and I have not heard from her since her return. I must speak to her in the interval—I really must! You can’t think what a fascinating little creature she is when you get to know her.” “Ah, really! She looks distinctly—er—out of the common,” drawled the supercilious man lazily. “Rather interesting-looking woman, the children’s mother. Some relation of your friend, I suppose?” “Oh, I suppose so! The O’Shaughnessys are a very good family. Very well connected. Beautiful old place in Ireland,” drawled the young lady in her turn, and in the intervals of the performance she proceeded to expatiate on the grandeur of the O’Shaughnessy family, the beauty of Esmeralda, and the riches of her husband, until her companion looked forward with increased interest to the coming introduction. At the first interval Pixie came forward in response to eager beckonings, and stood leaning against the side of the box talking to her friend, with superb disregard of the more extended audience. “Fancy, now, the two of us meeting without knowing that we were here! You look quite old, Lottie, with your hair done up. Turn your head and let me see the back! D’you still curl it with slate-pencils, like you did at school? I came home at Christmas, and I’ve thought of writing ever since, but I’ve been too busy. I suppose you’re busy too, now you are grown-up and living at home. Have you come out, and gone to dances in low necks? We had an old servant at Knock, and one day a friend came to lunch and she says to Bridgie, ‘That’s a fine, handsome young lady!’ ‘She is,’ says Bridgie. ‘She’s just come out!’ ‘Out of w’ere?’ says Molly, staring.” Pixie darted a quick glance round the box to enjoy the general appreciation of her joke, then gave a low chuckle of satisfaction. “Ye’ll never guess what I’m doing!” “No,” said Lottie Vane complacently. She too had noticed the smiles of the audience, and was anxious to encourage her friend in her reminiscences. In society people were always grateful for being amused, and if in her recital Pixie let fall further references to the standing and importance of her family, why, so much the better for all concerned. “What mischief are you up to now, you funny little thing?” “I’m in service!” said Pixie proudly. The shocked amaze of Lottie’s expression, the involuntary rustle of surprise which went round the box, were as so many tributes to the thrilling nature of the intelligence, and she waited a moment to enjoy it before pointing unabashed in the direction of the two children, and condescending to further explanations. “Me pupils! I’ve been with them now for over a month.” “What do you mean? How absurd you are, Pixie!” cried Lottie irritably. “In service—you! I never heard such nonsense. As if you were a servant! I don’t know what you are talking about!” “I get wages, anyhow, and that’s all I care about. They are my pupils, I tell you, and I’ve brought them here with their mother for a little diversion. I’ve the training of them every morning for a couple of hours, and thirty pounds a year paid every month. Jack and I make enough between us to support the family.” “You don’t really mean it?” gasped Lottie, horrified. Her cheeks were scarlet, and it was evident that she was profoundly uncomfortable, but as she met the triumphant eyes her face softened, and she made a valiant effort to retain composure. “You mean to say you have turned into a governess at sixteen—you who were always at the bottom of the class, and couldn’t get a sum right to save your life! Poor little girls, I pity their education! How did you ever persuade the mother to take you?” Mamzelle Paddy tossed her head with complacent pride. “’Deed, me dear, the room was packed with them, and natives at that, and she chose me before the whole bunch. I’m not supposed to teach them anything but French, and I don’t teach that except by playing games. But I keep them from crying and quarrelling, and ye don’t need to be head of your class for that! ’Twasn’t cleverness she took me for, as she told me plainly the first day I went; ’twas m’influence!” A smothered laugh went round the box at the sound of this curious compound word, uttered in tones of complacent pride; but Lottie Vane did not laugh, and her hand stretched out involuntarily and clasped the little fingers which lay on the side of the box. Her face lost its supercilious expression, and grew sweet and womanly. “Dear little Pixie,” she said softly, “I don’t pity the pupils after all. I think they are very well off. May I come over and be introduced to them and their mother? She must be a very wise woman.” The two girls walked forward together towards the spot where Mrs Wallace was sitting, and the supercilious man looked after them with thoughtful eyes. He had always admired Miss Lottie Vane, though he had privately sneered at her snobbish tendencies, but it occurred to him to-day that he had been over-hasty in judgment. How sweet she had looked as she answered her little friend, how kindly had been the tones of her voice! He felt his heart thrill with the beginning of a new and deeper interest. <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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