The Love Affairs of Pixie | Page 9

the--thunder and lightning and earthquake of my life. Bridgie, did you ever think it would feel like that to be a mother? I thought it would be all pure joy, but there's a big ache mixed in--
"Geoff was so naughty this morning, so disobedient and rude, and I prayed, Bridgie--I shut myself in my room and prayed for patience, and then went down and spoke to him so sweetly. You'd have loved to hear me. I said: `If you want to grow up a good, wise man like father, you must learn to be gentle and polite. Did you ever hear father speak rudely to me?'--`Oh, no,' says he, quite simply, `but I've often heard you speak rudely to him!' Now, what was a poor misguided mother to say to that? Especially when it was True! You are never cross, so your youngsters can never corner you like that; but I am--often! Which proves that I need Pixie more than you do, and she'd better hurry along."
Pixie came lightly into the dining-room, just as Bridgie was reading the last words of the letter. She was almost invariably late for breakfast, a fact which was annoying to Captain Victor's soldierly sense of punctuality. He looked markedly at the clock, and Pixie said genially, "I apologise, me dear. The young need sleep!" Then she fell to work at her porridge with healthy enjoyment. She wore a blue serge skirt and a bright, red silk shirt, neatly belted by a strip of patent-leather. The once straggly locks were parted in the middle, and swathed round a little head which held itself jauntily aloft; her eyes danced, her lips curved. It was a bare eight o'clock in the morning, a period when most people are languid and half-awake. But there was no languor about Pixie; she looked intensely, brilliantly alive. A stream of vitality seemed to emanate from her little form and fill the whole room. The dog stirred on the rug and rose to his feet; the canary hopped to a higher perch and began to sing; Dick Victor felt an access of appetite, and helped himself to a second egg and more bacon.
"This is Wednesday," announced Pixie genially, "and it's fine. I love fine Wednesdays! It's a habit from the old school-time, when they were half-holidays, and meant so, much. ... I wonder what nice thing will happen to-day."
Husband and wife exchanged a glance. They knew and loved this habit of expecting happiness, and looking forward to the joys rather than the sorrows of the future, which had all her life, been characteristic of Pixie O'Shaughnessy. They realised that it was to this quality of mind, rather than to external happenings, that she owed her cheerful serenity, but this morning it was impossible not to wonder how she would view the proposed change of abode.
"I've had a letter from Esmeralda," announced Bridgie baldly from behind the urn, and, quick as thought, Pixie's sharp eyes searched her face.
"But that's not nice. It's given you a wrinkle. Take no notice, and she'll write to-morrow to say she's sorry. She's got to worry or die, but there's no reason why you should die too. Roll it up into spills, and forget all about it."
"I can't--it's important. And she's not worrying. It's very--" Bridgie paused for a moment, just one moment, to swallow that accusation of selfishness--"kind! Pixie darling, it's about You."
"Me!" cried Pixie, and dropped her spoon with a clang. Bridgie had already pushed back her chair from the table; Pixie pushed hers to follow suit. Such a prosaic affair as breakfast had plainly vanished from their thoughts, but Captain Victor had by no means forgotten, nor did it suit him to face emotional scenes to an accompaniment of bacon and eggs.
"After breakfast, please!" he cried, in what his wife described as his "barracks" voice, and which had the effect in this instance of making her turn on the tap of the urn so hurriedly that she had not had time to place her cup underneath. She blushed and frowned. Pixie deftly moved the toast-rack so as to conceal the damage, and proceeded to eat a hearty breakfast with undiminished appetite.
It was not until Captain Victor had left the room to pay his morning visit to the nursery, that Bridgie again referred to her sister's letter, and then her first words were of reproach.
"How you could sit there, Pixie, eating your breakfast, as calm as you please, when you knew there was news--news that concerned yourself!"
"I was hungry," said Pixie calmly. "And I love excitement; it's the breath of my nostrils. All the while I was making up stories, with myself as heroine. I'm afraid it will be only disappointment I'll feel when you tell me. Truth is so tame, compared to imagination. Besides, there