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<h3>Chapter Twenty One.</h3> <h4>An “At Home.”</h4> Fortunately or unfortunately as the case may be, there is no hall mark of sincerity to distinguish one invitation from another, and the printed cards which were in due time received by Sylvia Trevor differed in no respect from those sent to the most favoured of Esmeralda’s guests. Fortunately also the remarks with which invitations are received are not overheard by the prospective hostess, else might she often feel her trouble wasted, and repent when it was too late. Mrs Hilliard’s fashionable acquaintances yawned when they received her cards, and exclaimed, “Another engagement for Thursday! We shall have to accept, I suppose, but it’s a dreadful nuisance! We can just look in for a quarter of an hour on our way to Lady Joan’s dance;” and unfashionable Sylvia pursed up her lips and remarked to herself, “Humph! I suppose she wants to dazzle me with the sight of her splendours. Much ‘pleasure’ my company will give her! I shall go, of course. I don’t think I could stay quietly at home and play cribbage, and know that Bridgie and the boys were driving away, and that I might have been with them. Yes, I’ll go, and I will get a new dress for the occasion—a beauty! Dad said I might be extravagant once in a way, without emptying the exchequer; and he would like me to look nice. Perhaps Bridgie will go to town with me and help me to choose. It is nice to have some excitement to look forward to. What with typhoid and—Jack,—this has been the dullest winter I ever knew.” The advent of the Hilliards did indeed make a great difference to the two quiet households in Rutland Road. Esmeralda was too much occupied with her guests to pay many visits in person, but she appeared at intervals, leaning back against the cushions of the carriage, and looking like some wonderful princess out of a fairy-tale, and as far removed as possible from the good ladies of the neighbourhood. The coachman would draw up before the door of Number Three, the footman would throw open the door, and Mistress Esmeralda would saunter up the little garden, dragging yards of chiffon and lace in her train, and acutely, delightfully conscious of the heads peering from behind the curtains on either side of the road. Acknowledged beauty as she was, her advent caused a greater sensation in this suburban district than among her own associates, and though she affected to despise its demonstrations, they were yet very dear to her vain little heart. Sometimes the two sisters were spirited away to lunch or a drive in the Park, and on their return would adjourn into Number Six, and entertain Miss Munns and her niece with the story of their adventures. There was a party every single day at Park Lane—titled creatures, and “men who did things,” as Pixie eloquently explained, and Miss Munns recognised every name as it was repeated, and inquired anxiously concerning clothes, if the celebrity were of the female sex, concerning manner and choice of eatables, if he were a man. Once, too, before the date of the formal invitation, Sylvia herself was invited to accompany her friend to an afternoon reception, when she beheld the fabled glories with her own eyes. Never before had she entered such a house, or met so distinguished a company, but not for worlds would she have allowed her surprise to be visible to Esmeralda’s eyes. The fashionable expression, she noticed, was one of bored superiority, so she looked bored and superior too, refused offers of refreshments which she was really longing to accept, and lounged from one room to another with an abstracted air, as if unconscious of her surroundings. All the same she felt very lonely and out of her depth, for Bridgie was helping her sister to receive her guests, and Pixie as usual roaming about in search of adventure. It is very difficult to sit alone in a crowd and keep up an appearance of dignity, and Sylvia was grateful when a girl of her own age took possession of the chair by her side, and began to talk without waiting for the formality of an introduction. She was a pleasant-looking, much-freckled damsel, with a wholesome, out-of-door atmosphere, which distinguished her from the other ladies present, and she seemed for some reason quite interested in Sylvia Trevor. All the time that they talked the honest blue eyes—studied the little clear-cut face of her companion, and though Sylvia was puzzled to account for the scrutiny, she was quite conscious of its presence, and anxious that the decision should be in her favour. She dropped her artificial airs and graces, and talked simply and naturally, asking questions about the different people present, and listening to the biographical sketches which were given in return, with much greater interest than was vouchsafed to her aunt’s more humble reminiscences. It was so interesting to meet a celebrated author in flesh and blood, and find that she talked about the weather like any ordinary stupid person; a statesman in whose hands lay the destiny of a nation, yet could discuss with seriousness whether he should choose pink cakes or white. So extraordinary to discover that this gorgeously-attired lady was plain Mrs Somebody, while the funny, shabby-looking old woman in black was a celebrated Duchess, whose name was a household word. Sylvia understood now why Esmeralda had been so anxious to place this guest in the most comfortable chair, and had waited on her with such assiduous care; she understood, too, why the Duchess herself wore an expression of patient resignation, and cast surreptitious glances at the clock. Poor creature, these so-called amusements were the business of her life, and one was so much like another that it was impossible to get up any feeling of interest, much less amusement. She yawned behind her glove, and vouchsafed the briefest of answers to her companions; it was abundantly evident, in short, that the Duchess was bored, and as this was the first time that she had honoured his house by a visit, Geoffrey was naturally anxious that this state of things should not continue. Esmeralda had done her utmost, but her airs and graces had failed to make any impression on one who had been acquainted with the beauties of the last fifty years, and there seemed no one present who possessed the requisite qualities to help him out of his difficulty. The Duchess was already acquainted with every visitor of note, and would not care to be introduced to insignificant nonentities. Stay, though! What of the most insignificant of his guests? What of Pixie O’Shaughnessy, of the ready tongue, and the audacious self-confidence, which would flourish unchecked in the presence of kings and emperors? “Pixie for ever! Pixie to the rescue!” cried Geoffrey to himself, and promptly stole across to the room set apart for refreshments, where his small sister-in-law sat eating her fourth ice, waited upon with assiduous care by her friend Montgomery. “Pixie,” he said, “there’s an old lady in black sitting under the big palm in the yellow drawing-room and looking dreadfully bored! Just go and talk to her like a good girl, and see if you can amuse her a little bit before she goes.” “I will so!” responded Pixie heartily. “It’s a very dull party when there’s nothing to do but be pleasant. I was bored myself, before I began to eat. I’ll leave the ice now, but maybe I’ll venture on another by and by.—In black, you said, under the palm?” She flicked a lapful of crumbs on to the floor, and pranced away with her light, dancing step. Geoffrey watched her from the doorway, saw her squeeze herself into the corner of the lounge on which the Duchess was seated, and gaze into her face with the broadest of broad beaming smiles, while the great lady, in her turn, put up a lorgnon and stared back in amazed curiosity. “Well, little girl,” said the Duchess, smiling, “and what have you got to say?” “Plenty, thank you! I always have. Me difficulty is to find someone to listen!” replied Miss Pixie, with a confidential nod. The old lady looked extraordinarily thin; the lines on her face crossed and re-crossed like the most intricate puzzle, her lips were sunken, and the tips of nose and chin were at perilously close quarters, but her eyes were young still, such sharp, bright little eyes, and they twinkled just as Pat’s did when he was pleased. “Talk to me, then. I’ll stop you when I’m bored!” she said, and at that Pixie nodded once again. “Of course. We always do. Jack stamps on me foot, and Pat snores, the same as if he were asleep. He says he is strong enough to hear a tale six times over, but he won’t listen to it a seventh, to please man nor woman. Bridgie says jokes are one of the trials of family life, because by the time you’ve improved the points so that no one would recognise them for the same, your relations won’t give you a hearing. It’s a curious thing, when you think of it, that you get so exhausted with other people’s stories, while you go on laughing at your own. Bridgie says you’ll find fifty people to cry with you, for one who will sympathise about jokes. Have you found it that way in your experience?” “Upon my word,” cried the Duchess with unction, “this Bridgie appears to be a remarkably sensible young woman! My experience has been that I rarely meet a joke that is not my own exclusive property, to judge by the faces of my companions. Do you happen to possess a name, my youthful <ANTIMG src="images/mapix224.jpg" alt=""> philosopher? I should like to know to whom I am talking.” “I’m Pixie O’Shaughnessy, and Geoffrey married my sister Esmeralda. He came over to Ireland and fell in love with her in spite of me telling him about her bad temper, thinking of course that he was a perfect stranger. I apologised to him after it was settled and said there was nothing really wrong with her, for she’d always rather be pleasant than not, only at times it’s easier to be nasty, and she’s been lazy from her youth. The night they met they mistook each other for ghosts, and Esmeralda clung to his arm and screeched for help. “There was never a thing that girl was frightened at, all her life, until now, and, would you believe it?—it’s her own servants! Of course in Ireland they were like friends, as free and easy as we were ourselves, and entering into the conversation at table; but Geoffrey’s Englishmen are so solemn and proper that she lives in terror of shocking their feelings. One day the butler found her kissing Geoffrey, believing they were alone, and she waited for him to say, ‘Allow me, madam!’ as he always does if she ventures to do a hand’s turn for herself. She’s says it’s dispiriting to think you can’t even quarrel in peace for fear of interruption, and it takes a good deal to interrupt Esmeralda when once she’s started.” The Duchess screwed up her bright little eyes, and her shoulders shook beneath her black lace cape. Sylvia and her companion, watching the strangely assorted pair from across the room, saw Pixie move nearer and nearer, and whisper a long dramatic history; saw the Duchess nod her head in appreciation of the various points, and heard the burst of laughter which greeted the dénouement. Everyone stopped talking and stared with inquiring eyes. Esmeralda turned towards the lounge, anxiety thinly disguised by smiles, and, seeing her, the Duchess rose from her seat with a sigh of regret. “Your sister is a born story-teller, Mrs Hilliard. I wish I had more time to listen. Please ask me to meet her again! It is a long time since I have been so amused.” Here was praise indeed! Esmeralda beamed with satisfaction, and seized Pixie’s hand with an unusual outburst of affection. “How noble of you, dear! She was looking as bored as bored, and I was at my wits’ end. What did you tell her that made her laugh like that?” “Oh, nothing much. Just things about ourselves, and the adventures at home. ’Twas the beeswax pudding that pleased her most,” said Pixie easily, and wondered at Esmeralda’s sudden extinction of interest. “Now what disclosures has that child been making next!” cried the freckled girl, looking on at this little scene with curious eyes. “I doubt whether Esmeralda appreciates them as much as the Duchess. We used to say at home that if there was one thing which should not be revealed, Pixie was bound to choose it as the subject of conversation on the first possible occasion! And she was so sweet and innocent about it, too, that it was impossible to be angry. I expect you have found out that for yourself?” “Yes—No!” said Sylvia absently, for she was thinking less of what she was saying than of certain phrases which her companion had just uttered. “We used to say at home.” Who was this, then, who had known Pixie O’Shaughnessy in bygone days—could it by any chance be the dreaded rival towards whom she was prepared to cherish so ardent a dislike? She stared at the honest, kindly face, and felt that it would be difficult to harbour a prejudice against its owner, even if—if— “Are you Miss Burrell?” she asked, and Mollie smiled assent. “I am that, and you are Sylvia Trevor. I’ve heard about you from—” “Bridgie—yes! We have been great friends all winter.” “Not Bridgie—no! We had so much to discuss about the old place and its people, that I’m afraid we have never mentioned your name. It was not Bridgie.” “Oh!” said Sylvia, and stared across the room. It might, of course, have been Esmeralda herself who had enlightened Miss Burrell’s ignorance, but there was a mysterious something in the girl’s manner which gave a different impression. She was too proud to ask questions, and Miss Burrell volunteered no information, but smiled to herself as at an interesting reminiscence. It seemed as though what she had heard had been of a distinctly pleasant character! Sylvia returned home feeling mysteriously happy and elated, and the sight of a letter addressed to herself in her father’s handwriting put the finishing touch on her satisfaction. She took it upstairs to her own room, and sat herself down on the one comfortable chair which she possessed, to read its contents with undisturbed enjoyment. She was in no hurry to break the seal, however, for it was so pleasant just to hold the letter in her hand, and lean back comfortably against the cushions, and dream. The dreams, it is true, were mostly concerned with the events of the afternoon, and Mollie Burrell’s intent and kindly scrutiny; but it was like the old times when she had thought her own thoughts with her hand clasped in that of the dear old dad, and the touch of the sheet on which his fingers had rested brought back the old feeling of strength and security. She had told him much about her new friends, and he seemed always to wish to hear more, asking carefully veiled questions, the meaning of which were perfectly understood by his shrewd little daughter. Dad was anxious about this friendship with a family which included a handsome grown-up son among its members; a trifle afraid lest she should be spirited away to another home before he had enjoyed his own innings. “Poor old darling!” murmured Sylvia remorsefully, for at the bottom of her heart she knew well which home she would choose if the choice were given, and it did seem hard—horribly hard—that a parent should love and guard and work for his child from the hour of her birth, and that when she had grown old and sensible enough to be a companion instead of a care, she should immediately desert him for another! “But I could never love dad any less, never, never! I’d give anything in the world to see him again!” Sylvia cried mentally as she opened the envelope and straightened the thin, foreign sheets. It was a long letter, and took a long time to read, and in the process Sylvia’s expression changed once and again, and finally settled into one of incredulous dismay. It was not that the news was bad; on the contrary, it was good—very good indeed—the thing above all others which she would have wished to hear, but it threatened a complete uprooting of her life just as it was growing most interesting, and full of possibilities. Dad was coming home, was even now on his way, and had desired her to meet him on his arrival at Marseilles. It was incredible, quite incredible in its startling unexpectedness. She turned again to the wonderful paragraph, and read it over once more slowly and carefully. <blockquote> “And now, my darling, I have a piece of news, which I hope and believe will be welcome to you. Certain business changes have taken place of late, which you would not understand even if I tried to explain them, but such as they are they set me free to return home at my own convenience. I have been impatiently waiting this settlement of affairs for some time back, as I have been most anxious to see you after your long illness, and to satisfy myself that the best means are being used to restore the full use of your foot. “I have made inquiries here, and believe that a course of baths of the German Spa B— would probably put the final touch to what has already been done. I propose, therefore, that you engage in good time a trustworthy lady courier from an office in London, and travel in her company to Marseilles, where I will meet you in the first week of June, having previously spent a week or ten days in Italy with my old friends the Nisbets, who return in the same boat. “Come prepared for a summer abroad, and we can fit you up with any extras that are needed before we start on our travels. After you have finished your course of treatment and are, I trust, thoroughly convalescent, we will have a tour through Switzerland, and settle down at some mountain hotel, where the air will brace us up after our sufferings, climatic and otherwise. “For the future, I have as yet no definite plans, except that, of course, you will not return to your present quarters. Perhaps we may eventually find a house that suits us in the south of England, but I can’t face English winters after my long residence in this sunny land, and you must make up your mind to humour a restless old Anglo-Indian for the next few years to come. Perhaps by that time I may have regained my old strength and nerve, which have sadly failed of late. I will wire from Brindisi as to definite arrangements.” </blockquote> Sylvia let the letter drop on her lap, and stared before her with blank eyes. Through the curtains could be seen a glimpse of the house opposite, the blind at Bridgie’s window drawn up at its usual rakish angle. In three weeks, in less than three weeks, she would say good-bye for ever to Rutland Road and its inhabitants; good-bye to England itself, it appeared, for at least a year to come, and at two-and-twenty a year is as long as a lifetime, if it divides us from those we love. She would drift away out of sight, and the last six months would become but an episode in her own life and those of her friends. “D’ye remember Sylvia,—the girl with the bark on the road?” In imagination she could hear Pixie putting the question in the years to come, and Bridgie would remember quite well, because she had not the faculty of forgetting, but other people—other people were reputedly fickle, and tempted to forget old friends in favour of new! Other people would probably be in love with a fair-haired beauty by that time, and have forgotten all about Sylvia Trevor! The pain which shot through the girl’s heart at these reflections was so sharp that it startled her into a realisation of her own position. Dad was coming home, she was going to live with him once more, and instead of being happy and elated she was miserable—miserable! She was going to leave her aunt’s home, with the restrictions and lack of sympathy which had made it so trying, and was once more to live with the fondest and most indulgent of parents, and instead of filling her with delight the news seemed like a sentence of banishment from all that made life worth living! To do Sylvia justice she was shocked at her own thoughts, and made a valiant effort to look at the prospect in a more dutiful spirit. At least, she determined, no one should suspect a want of loyalty to that best and kindest of men! Aunt Margaret would take for granted that she felt nothing but delight, and she would postpone breaking the news to Bridgie until she had grown accustomed to the idea of separation, and could discuss it with composure. It would be easier than usual to keep this resolve, for since Esmeralda’s arrival the neighbours necessarily saw less of each other than in the long winter days when there had been no rival claims on their time and attention. Aunt Margaret would be pleased to find that she was chosen as counsellor and adviser-in-chief, and during the short time which was left she must do her utmost to gratify the old lady, who had been on the whole very kind and forbearing during the two years which they had spent together. “I wish I had been nicer to her!” sighed Sylvia regretfully. “I was always meaning to be, but now it’s too late. That’s the worst of putting off things in this world; the chance may never come again!” <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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