More about Pixie Part 2

Whitey sighed, and leant against the banisters with a dejected air. It is exhausting work being cheerful for two, and no one would have welcomed a laughing stranger more heartily than herself. The question was,--where was she to be found?

"She was lamenting to me the other day that she had no girl-friends.

She went abroad to school, and has had little opportunity of making acquaintances since she came home. Miss Munns is very--conservative.

She does not care to a.s.sociate with her neighbours. There is a charming girl who has come to live opposite. We watch her from the window, and Sylvia has been trying to persuade her aunt to call for the last three weeks; but it is useless. I'm sorry, for she looks just the very person we want."

"Won't call, won't she? We'll see about that. I'm not going to have my patient thrown back, after all the trouble I've had with her, for fifty old ladies and their prejudices. You leave it to me!" cried the jovial doctor, and tramped downstairs into the parlour to give his orders forthwith.

A little diplomacy, a little coaxing, a few words of warning to revive affectionate anxiety, a good big dose of flattery, and the thing was done; and, what was better still, Aunt Margaret was left under the happy delusion that the projected visit was the outcome of her own inspiration. She said nothing to the invalid, but at half-past three that afternoon she put on her woollen crossover, and a black silk m.u.f.fler, and her best silk dolman, and dear Aunt Sarah's sable pelerine, and her Sunday bonnet, and new black kid gloves, two sizes too big, carried her tortoisesh.e.l.l card-case in one hand, and her umbrella in the other, and sailed across the road to call at Number Three.

Sylvia had gone back to bed after lunch by her own request. The hair- cutting ordeal had tired her out, and there was, besides, a deep-seated wearing pain in one foot and ankle which made her long to lie still and rest. She tried to sleep, and after long waiting had just arrived at that happy stage when thoughts grow misty, and a gentle p.r.i.c.kling feeling creeps up from the toes to the brain, when a patriotic barrel- organ began to rattle out the strains of "Rule, Britannia" from the end of the road, and the chance was gone. Then Whitey read aloud for an hour, but the book had come to a dull, uneventful stage, and the chapters dragged heavily.

Sylvia longed for tea as an oasis in this desert of a day, and despatched nurse to bid Mary bring it up half an hour before the usual time. And then came a charming surprise! Back came Whitey all smiles and dimples, the tired lines wiped out of her face as by a miracle. She stood in the doorway, looking at her patient with dancing eyes.

"I've brought you something better than tea!" she cried. "Just look what I have brought you!" As she spoke she moved to the side, as if to make room for another visitor, and--was it a dream, or could it really be true?--there stood the bride of Number Three, the sweet-faced Angelina, in her black dress, her grey eyes soft with welcome.

"Oh!" cried Sylvia shrilly. "Oh--oh!" She sat up in bed and stretched out two thin little hands, all a-tremble with excitement. "It's _you_!

Oh, how did you come? What made you come? How did you know I wanted you so badly?"

"I wanted you too!" said the girl quickly. She had a delightful voice; soft, and deep, and musical in tone, and she was prettier than ever, seen close at hand. Best of all, she was not a bit shy, but as frank and outspoken as if they had been friends of years' standing. "Your aunt called on me this afternoon," she went on, coming nearer the bed, and sitting down on the chair which nurse placed for her. "She invited me to come to see you some day, but I've a dislike to waiting, if there's a good thing in prospect, so I asked if I might come at once, and here I am! I'm so glad you wanted to see me. I have watched you from my window, ever since you first sat up in your pretty red jacket."

"And you looked up and smiled at me! I have watched you too, and wanted to know you so badly. I've been ill for months, it seems like years, and was so surprised to see that your house was taken. You can't think how strange it is to creep back to life, and see how everything has gone on while you have lain still. It's conceited, of course, to expect a revolution of nature, just because you are out of things yourself, but I didn't seem able to help it."

"I'm like that myself!" said the pretty girl pleasantly. There was a soft gurgle in her voice as of laughter barely repressed, and she p.r.o.nounced her i's with a faint broadening of accent, which was altogether quaint and delightful.

Sylvia mentally repeated the phrase as it sounded in her ears, "Oi'm like that meself!" and came to an instant conclusion. "Iris.h.!.+ She's Irish. I'm glad of that. I like Irish people." She smiled for pure pleasure, and the visitor stretched out a hand impulsively, and grasped the thin fingers lying on the counterpane.

"You poor creature, I'm grieved for you! Tell me, is your name Beatrice? I'm dying to know, for we had a discussion about it at home, and I said I was sure it was Beatrice. I always imagine a Beatrice dark like you, with brown eyes and arched eyebrows."

"I don't! The only Beatrice I know is quite fair and fluffy. No, I am not Beatrice!"

"But you are not Helen! I do hope you are not Helen. The boys guessed that, and they would be so triumphant if they were right."

"No, I'm not Helen either. I'm Sylvia Trevor."

"'Deed, you are, then! It's an elegant name. I never knew anyone living by it before, and it suits you, too. I like it immensely. Did you,"--the grey eyes twinkled merrily--"did you find a nickname for me?"

Sylvia glanced at Whitey and smiled demurely.

"We called you Angelina. Oh, we didn't think that was really your name, but we called you by it because you looked so happy and er--er affectionate, and pleased with everything. And we called your husband Edwin, to match. Those are the proper names for newly-married couples, you know."

The girl stared back with wide grey eyes, her chin dropped, and she sat suddenly bolt upright in her chair.

"My _what_?" she gasped. "My h--" She put her hands against her cheeks, which had grown quite pink, and gurgled into the merriest, most infectious laughter. "But I'm not married at all! It's my brother. He is not Edwin, he is Jack, and I'm Bridgie--Bridget O'Shaughnessy, just a bit of a girl like yourself, and not even engaged."

Sylvia sank back in the bed with a great sigh of thanksgiving.

"What a relief! I was so jealous of that husband, for I wanted you for myself, and if you had been married you would have been too settled-down and domestic to care for me. I do hope we shall be friends. I'm an only child, and my father is abroad, and I pine to know someone of my own age."

"I know; your aunt told me. We talked about you all the time, for I had been so interested and sorry about your illness, that I had no end of questions to ask. What a dear old lady she is! I envy you having her to live with. I always think one misses so much if there is no old person in the house to help with advice and example!"

The invalid moved restlessly on her pillows, and cast a curious glance at her companion. The grey eyes were clear and honest, the sweet lips showed not the shadow of a smile; it was transparently apparent that she was in earnest.

Sylvia felt a pang of apprehension lest her new friend was about to turn out "proper," that acme of undesirable qualities to the girlish mind.

If that were so, the future would be robbed of much of its charm; but the discussion of Aunt Margaret and her qualities must be deferred until a greater degree of intimacy had shown Bridgie the difficulties, as well as the advantages, of the situation. In the meantime she was longing to hear a little family history, and judiciously led the conversation in the desired direction.

"You are four young people living alone, then? for I suppose the two younger boys are brothers also. How fond they seem of you!"

"Why, of course. They dote upon me," said Miss O'Shaughnessy, with an air of calm taking-for-granted which spoke volumes for the character of the family. Then she began to smile, and the corners of her lips twisted with humorous enjoyment. "I wouldn't be saying that we don't have a breeze now and again, just to vary the monotony; but we admire one another the more for the spirit in us. And it's pleasant having an even number, for we can fight two against two, and no unfairness. Maybe they are a bit more attentive than usual just now, for they have been without me most of the winter, poor creatures! We have had a troublous time of it these last two years. My dear father died the spring before last, and we had to leave our home in Ireland. Then one sister was married, and another went to Paris for her education, so there were two _trousseaux_ to prepare, and when all the fuss and excitement was over I was worn-out, and the doctor said I must do nothing but rest for some months to come. The boys went into lodgings, while I junketed about visiting friends, and they are so pleased to get into a place of their own again, that they don't know how to knock about the furniture enough, or make the most upset!"

It seemed to Sylvia an extraordinary manner of appreciating the delights of housekeeping, and she attempted to condole with the young mistress, only to be interrupted with laughing complacency.

"'Deed, I don't mind. Let them enjoy themselves, poor dears. It's depressing to boy creatures to have to think about carpets and cus.h.i.+ons, and have no ease at their writing for fear of a spot of ink. I care far more about seeing them happy, than having the furniture spick and span.

What was it made for, if it wasn't to be used?"

Sylvia groaned heavily.

"Wait until you have been in our drawing-room!" she said. "The chairs were originally covered in cherry-coloured repp,--over that is a cover of flowered chintz,--over that is a cover of brown holland,--over that is a capacious antimaca.s.sar,--over that, each night of the week, is carefully draped a linen dust sheet. The carpet is covered with a drugget, the ornaments are covered with gla.s.s shades, the fire-screen is covered with crackly oilskin. Even the footstools have little hoods to draw on over the beadwork. I have lived here for two years, and on one occasion we got down as far as the chintz stratum, when Cousin Mary Robinson and dear Mrs MacDugal from Aberdeen came to stay for the night, but my eyes have never yet been dazzled by the glory of the cherry-coloured repp."

Bridgie lengthened her chin, and shook her head from side to side, with a comical air of humiliation.

"Ah, well, tidiness is a gift. It runs in the family like wooden legs.

Some have got it, and others haven't, so they must just be resigned to their fate. I'm going to see these repp covers, though! I'll wheedle and wheedle until one cover comes off after another, and never feel that I have done credit to Old Ireland until I get down to the foundation."

She rose from her chair, and held out a hand in farewell. "Nurse said I was to stay only a few minutes, as you were tired already, but I may come to tea another day if you would like to have me."

"Oh, do, please! Come often! You can't think how I should love it.

Will you come for a drive with me some day, when it is bright and sunny?"

"I will. We could have a nice chat as we went along. I have not told you about my sisters yet. I have the dearest sisters in the world!"

said Bridgie O'Shaughnessy.

CHAPTER THREE.

FAMILY PORTRAITS.

Bright and sunny days are not common in November, but the invalid managed to go out driving in such fine blinks as came along, and in each instance "Angelina" was seated by her side. The friends.h.i.+p was progressing with giant strides, and doctor and nurse looked upon Bridgie O'Shaughnessy as their greatest a.s.sistant in a period of great anxiety.

Sylvia was now able to sit up and work and read; head and eyes had come back to their normal condition, but the treacherous disease had left its poison in foot and ankle, and the pain on movement became more and more acute. It required all the cheer that the new friend could give to hearten the invalid when once more she was sent back to counterpane land, with a big cage over the affected part to protect it from the bedclothes, and all manner of painful and exhausting dressings to be undergone.

Sylvia fumed, and grumbled, and whined; she grew sulky and refused to speak; she waxed angry and snapped at the nurse. Worst of all, she lost hope, and shed slow, bitter tears, which scalded the thin cheeks.

"I shall never get better, Whitey," she sobbed miserably. "I shan't try; it's too much trouble. You might as well leave me alone to die in peace."

"It's not a question of dying, my dear. It's a question of healing your foot. If I leave you in peace, you may be lame for life. How would you like that?" said Whitey bluntly. She knew her patient by this time, and understood that while the idea of fading away in her youth might appear sufficiently romantic, Miss Sylvia would find nothing attractive in the prospect of limping ungracefully through life. The dressings and bandagings were endured meekly enough after that, but the girl's heart was full of dread, and the long dark days were hard to bear.

It became a rule that, instead of taking the meal alone, Bridgie O'Shaughnessy should come across the road to tea, and sit an hour in the sick-room while Whitey wrote letters or went out for a const.i.tutional.

She came with hands full of photographs and letters and family trophies, to give point to her conversation, and make her dear ones live in Sylvia's imagination.