"I know it," said Bridgie, and blinked back a tear. "But it's the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, Pixie, that we are the happiest, and the healthiest, and the contentedest little family in the country, and there's no need to worry about us. We were thinking only of you, and you are free in this instance to think only of yourself."

"That's agreeable!" was Pixie's comment. The frown left her brow and she smiled, the wide lips parting to show brilliantly white little teeth, teeth very nearly as pretty and infantile as those belonging to the small Patsie upstairs. Beholding that smile, Bridgie had no doubt as to the verdict which she was about to hear, and suffered an unreasoning pang of disappointment.

"Then I'll confess to you, my dear," continued Pixie affably, "that I find myself just in the mood for excitement. So long as you are well there's nothing on earth I'd love so much at this moment as to go off on a junket. If Esmeralda wants to give me a good time, let the poor thing have her way--_I'll_ not hinder her! I'll go, and I'll love it; but I'll not promise how long I shall stay--all sorts of things may happen."

"Yes," said Bridgie dreamily, "all sorts of things!"

And so Pixie O'Shaughnessy went forth to meet her fate.

CHAPTER FIVE.

IN MARBLE HALLS.

Mrs Geoffrey Hilliard, _nee_ Joan O'Shaughnessy, was the second daughter of the family, and had been christened Esmeralda "for short" by the brothers and sisters of whom she had been alternately the pride and the trial. The fantastic name had an appropriateness so undeniable that even Joan's husband had adopted it in his turn for use in the family circle, reserving the more dignified "Joan" for more ceremonious occasions.

"Esmeralda" had been a beauty from her cradle, and would be a beauty if she lived to be a hundred, for her proud, restless features were perfectly chiselled, and her great grey eyes, with the long black lashes on the upper and lower lid, were as eloquent as they were lovely. When she was angry, they seemed to send out veritable flashes of fire; when she was languid, the white lids drooped and the fringed eyelashes veiled them in a misty calm; when she was loving, when she held her boys in her arms, or spoke a love word in her husband's ear, ah! Then it was a joy indeed to behold the beauty of those limpid eyes! They "melted" indeed, not with tears, but with the very essence of tenderness and love.

"Esmeralda's so nice that you couldn't believe she was so horrid!"

Pixie had declared once in her earlier years, and unfortunately there was still too much truth in the p.r.o.nouncement.

Seven years of matrimony, and the responsibility of two young sons, had failed to discipline the hasty, intolerant nature, although they had certainly deepened the inner longing for improvement. Joan devotedly loved her husband, but accepted as her right his loyal devotion, and felt bitterly aggrieved when his forbearance occasionally gave way.

She adored her two small sons, and her theories on motherhood were so sweet and lofty that Bridgie, listening thereto, had been moved to tears. But in practice the theories were apt to go to the wall. To do Joan justice she would at any time have marched cheerfully to the stake if by so doing she could have saved her children from peril, but she was incapable of being patient during one long rainy afternoon, when confinement in the house had aroused into full play those mischievous instincts characteristic of healthy and spirited youngsters; and if any one imagines that the two statements contradict each other, he has yet to learn that heroic heights of effort are easier of accomplishment than a steady jog-trot along a dull high-road.

Joan Hilliard's reflections on the coming of her younger sister were significant of her mental att.i.tude. "Pixie's no trouble. She's such an easy soul. She fits into corners and fills in the gaps. She'll amuse the boys. It will keep them in good humour to have her to invent new games. She'll keep Geoff company at breakfast when I'm tired. I'll get some of the duty visits over while she's here. She'll talk to the bores, and be so pleased at the sound of her own voice that she'll never notice they don't answer. And she'll cheer me up when _I'm_ bored.

And, of course, I'll take her about--"

Pixie's amus.e.m.e.nt, it will be noticed, was but a secondary consideration to Joan's own ease and comfort; for though it may be a very enjoyable experience to be a society beauty and exchange poverty for riches, no one will be brave enough to maintain that such an experience is conducive to the growth of spiritual qualities. Sweet-hearted Bridgie might possibly have come unscathed through the ordeal, but Esmeralda was made of a different clay.

Pixie started alone on the three hours' journey, for the Victor household possessed no maid who could be spared, and husband and wife were both tied by home duties; moreover, being a modern young woman, she felt perfectly competent to look after herself, and looked forward to the experience with pleasure rather than dread. Bridgie was inclined to be tearful at parting, and Pixie's artistic sense prompted a similar display, but she found herself simply incapable of forcing a tear.

"It's worse for you than for me," she confessed candidly, "for you've nothing to do, poor creature! But go home to cold mutton and darning, while I'm off to novelty and adventure. That's why the guests sometimes cry at a wedding, out of pity for themselves, because they can't go off on a honeymoon with a trousseau and an adoring groom. They pretend it's sympathetic emotion, but it isn't; it's nothing in the world but selfish regret. ... Don't cry, darling; it makes me feel so mean. Think of the lovely _tete-a-tete_ this will mean for d.i.c.k and you!"

"Yes--in the evenings. I'll love that!" confessed Bridgie, with the candour of her race. "But oh, Pixie, the long, dull days, and no one to laugh with me at the jokes the English can't see, or to make pretend!--"

"Ah!" mourned Pixie deeply, "I'll miss that, too! The times we've had, imagining a fortune arriving by the afternoon post, and spending it all before dinner! All the fun, and none of the trouble. But it's dull, imagining all by oneself! And d.i.c.k's no good. He calls it waste of time! I shall marry an Irishman, Bridgie, when my time comes!"

"Get into the train and don't talk nonsense!" said Bridgie firmly. She felt it prophetic that on this eve of departure Pixie's remarks should again touch on husbands and weddings, but not for the world would she have hinted as much. She glanced at the other occupant of the carriage--a stout, middle-aged woman, and was on the point of inviting her chaperonage when a warning gleam in Pixie's eyes silenced the words on her lips. So presently the train puffed out of the station, and Bridgie Victor turned sadly homewards even as Pixie seated herself with a bounce, and smiled complacently into s.p.a.ce.

"That's over!" she said to herself with a sigh of relief, glad as ever, to be done with painful things and able to look forward to the good to come. "She thinks she's miserable, the darling, but she'll be as happy as a grig the moment she gets back to d.i.c.k and the children. That's the worst of living with married sisters! They can manage so well without you. I'd prefer some one who was frantic if I turned my back--"

She smiled at the thought, and met an ingratiating smile upon the face of her travelling companion. The companion was stout and elderly, handsomely dressed, and evidently of a sociable disposition. It was the height of her ambition on a railway journey to meet another woman to whom she could shout confidences for hours upon end, but it was rarely that her sentiments were returned. Fate had been kind to her to-day in placing Pixie O'Shaughnessy in the same carriage.

"The young lady seemed quite distressed to leave you. Is she your sister?"

"She is. Do you think we are alike?"

"I--I wouldn't go so far as to say _alike_!" the large lady said blandly; "but there's a _look_! As I always say, there's no knowing where you are with a family likeness. My eldest girl--May--takes after her father; Felicia, the youngest, is the image of myself; yet they've been mistaken for each other times and again. It's a turn of the chin.--Is she married?"

"Who? Bridgie--my sister? Oh yes--very much. Six years."

"Dear me! She looks so young! My May is twenty-seven. She has had her chances, of course. Any children?"

"Wh--" Pixie's mind again struggled after the connection. "Oh, two--a boy and a girl. They are called," she added, with a benevolent consciousness of sparing further effort, "Patrick and Patricia."

"Irish, evidently," the large lady decided shrewdly. "Rather awkward, isn't it, about pet names, and laundry marks, and so forth? However.

... And so you've been paying her a visit, I suppose, and are returning to your home?"

"One of my homes," corrected Pixie happily. "I have three. Two sisters and one brother. And they all like to have me. My parents are dead."

Her tone showed that the loss referred to was of many years' standing; nevertheless, the stout lady hurriedly changed the conversation, as though fearful of painful reminiscences.

"I have been having a morning's shopping. We live _quite_ in the country, and I come to town every time I need a new gown. I have been arranging for one this morning, for a wedding. So difficult, when one has no ideas! I chose purple."

Pixie c.o.c.ked her head on one side and thoughtfully pursed her lips.

"Very nice! Yes, purple's so--_portly_!" She surprised a puckering of the large lady's face, and hastened to supplement the description.

"Portly, and--er--regal, and _d.u.c.h.essy_, don't you think? I met a d.u.c.h.ess once--she was rather like you--and _she_ wore purple!"

The large lady expanded in a genial warmth. Her lips opened in a breathless question--

"How was the bodice made?"

Pixie reflected deeply.

"I can't exactly _say_! But it was years ago. It would be quite _demode_. For a wedding, of course, you must be up to date. Weddings make a fuss for months, and are so _soon_ over--I mean for the guests.

They are not _much_ fun."

"Where did you meet the d.u.c.h.ess?"

"Oh, at my sister's--the one I am going to now. In her town house, at a reception one afternoon. She had a purple dress with lace, and a Queen Victoria sort of bonnet with strings, and little white feathers sticking up in the front; and she had a--" Pixie smiled into s.p.a.ce with reminiscent enjoyment--"_beautiful_ sense of humour!"

The large lady looked deeply impressed, and, beginning at the topmost ribbon on Pixie's hat, stared steadily downward to the tip of the little patent-leather shoe, evidently expecting to find points of unusual interest in the costume of a girl whose sister entertained a d.u.c.h.ess in her town house. The train had rattled through a small hamlet and come out again into the open before she spoke again.

"Do you see many of them?"

"Which? What? Bonnets? Feathers? I don't think I quite--"

"d.u.c.h.esses!" said the large lady deeply. And Pixie, who still preserved her childish love of cutting a dash, fought with, and overcame an unworthy temptation to invent several such t.i.tles on the spot.

"Not--many," she confessed humbly, "But, you see, I'm so young--I'm hardly 'out.' The sister with whom I've been living has not been able to entertain. Where I'm going it is different. I expect to be very gay."

The large lady nodded brightly.

"Quite right! Quite right! Only young once. Laugh while you may. I like to see young things enjoying themselves. ... And then you'll be getting engaged, and marrying."

"Oh, of course," a.s.sented Pixie, with an alacrity in such sharp contrast with the protests with which the modern girl sees fit to meet such prophecies, that the hearer was smitten not only with surprise but anxiety. An expression of real motherly kindliness shone in her eyes as she fixed them upon the girl's small, radiant face.