The Love Affairs of Pixie | Page 5

seat, and busied herself with the
arrangement of the curtains. They were heavy velvet curtains, which at
night-time drew round the whole of the large bay window which
formed the end of the pretty, cosy room. Bridgie took especial pleasure
in the effect of a great brass vase which, on its oaken pedestal, stood
sharply outlined against the rich, dark folds. She moved its position
now, moved it back into its original place, and touched the leaves of the
chrysanthemum which stood therein with a caressing hand. Six years'
residence in a town had not sufficed to teach the one-time mistress of
Knock Castle to be economical when purchasing flowers. "I can't live
without them. It's not my fault if they are dear!" she would protest to
her own conscience at the sight of the florist's bill.
And in truth, who could expect a girl to be content with a few scant
blossoms when she had lived all her early age in the midst of prodigal
plenty! In spring the fields had been white with snowdrops. Sylvia sent
over small packing-cases every February, filled with hundreds and
hundreds of little tight bunches of the spotless white flowers, and
almost every woman of Bridgie's acquaintance rejoiced with her on
their arrival. After the snowdrops came on the wild daffodils and
bluebells and primroses. They arrived in cases also, fragrant with the
scent which was really no scent at all, but just the incarnation of
everything fresh, and pure, and rural. Then came the blossoming of
trees. Bridgie sighed whenever she thought of blossom, for that was

one thing which would not pack; and the want of greenery too, that was
another cross to the city dweller. She longed to break off great branches
of trees, and place them in corners of the room; she longed to wander
into the fields and pick handfuls of grasses, and honeysuckle, and
prickly briar sprays. Who could blame her for taking advantage of what
compensation lay within reach?
This afternoon, however, the contemplation of the tawny
chrysanthemums displayed in the brass vase failed to inspire the usual
joy. Bridgie's eyes were bright indeed as she turned back into the room,
but it was the sort of brightness which betokens tears repressed. She
laid her hand on the little sister's shoulders, and spoke in the deepest
tone of her tender Irish voice--
"What has been happening to you, my Pixie, all this time when I've
been treating you as a child? Have you been growing up quietly into a
little woman?"
Pixie smiled up into her face--a bright, unclouded smile.
"Faith," she said, radiantly, "I believe. I have!"
CHAPTER THREE.
NEARLY TWENTY-ONE!
Bridgie rang the bell to have the tea-things removed and a message sent
to the nursery that the children might descend without further delay. It
was still a few minutes before the orthodox hour, but the conversation
had reached a point when a distraction would be welcome, and Jack
and Patsie were invariably prancing with impatience from the moment
when the smell of hot potato cakes ascended from below.
They came with a rush, pattering down the staircase with a speed which
made Bridgie gasp and groan, and bursting open the door entered the
room at the double. Jack was five, and wore a blue tunic with an
exceedingly long-waisted belt, beneath which could be discerned the
hems of abbreviated knickers. Patricia was three, and wore a limp white

frock reaching to the tips of little red shoes. She had long brown locks,
and eyes of the true O'Shaughnessy grey, and was proudly supposed to
resemble her beautiful aunt Joan. Jack was fair, with linty locks and a
jolly brown face. His mouth might have been smaller and still attained
a fair average in size, but for the time being his pretty baby teeth filled
the cavern so satisfactorily, that no one could complain.
Both children made straight for their mother, smothered her with
"Bunnie" hugs, and then from the shelter of her arms cast quick,
questioning glances across the fireplace. There was in their glance a
keenness, a curiosity, almost amounting to awe, which would at once
have arrested the attention of an onlooker. It was not in the least the
smiling glance of recognition which is accorded to a member of the
household on meeting again after one of the short separations of the
day; it resembled far more the half-nervous, half-pleasurable shrinking
from an introduction to a stranger, about whom was wrapped a cloak of
deepest mystery. As for Pixie herself she sat bolt upright in her seat,
staring fixedly into space, and apparently unconscious of the children's
presence.
Presently Jack took a tentative step forward, and Patsie followed in his
wake. Half a yard from Pixie's chair they stopped short with eager,