The Love Affairs of Pixie | Page 9

coming and going all the time, and I'll be thankful to
have her. I wouldn't say so for the world, Bridgie, but you have been
selfish about Pixie! Never a bit of her have I had to myself; she has
come for the regular Christmas visits, of course, and sometimes in
summer, but it's always been with you and Dick and the children; it's
only the leavings of attention she's had to spare for any one else. Now
my boys will have a chance! Perhaps she can keep them in order--I
can't! They are the pride and the shame, and the joy and the grief, and
the sunshine and 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