When Esmeralda escorted her sister upstairs to bed she said blightingly, "You were very dull to-night, Pixie. Were you shy, by any chance? Please don't be shy; it's such poor form!" which was not the most soothing night-cap in the world for a young woman who had privately made up her mind to take society by storm. Not since the first night in the dormitory at Holly House had Pixie felt so lone and lorn as she did when the door was shut, and she was left alone in the big, luxurious bedroom. She stood before a swing mirror, gazing at her own reflection, contrasting it with those of Esmeralda and Honor, and reflecting on her sister's parting words.

"This," said she to herself, with melancholy resignation—"this is the sort of discipline that is good for the young! At this rate I'll grow so chastened that they won't recognise me when I go home." For a whole, minute she stood mute and motionless, pondering over the prospect; then the light danced back into her eyes, she shrugged her shoulders, and composedly began her undressing.

The next day broke bright and warm, and after a leisurely breakfast the four visitors strolled about for an hour, looking at the dogs and horses and playing with the two small boys, who were making all the mischief they could on the cedar lawn, while their French nurse looked on with sympathetic enjoyment.

Marie was quite a character in the household, and was admitted to a degree of intimacy rarely accorded to an English domestic. She was that somewhat unusual combination, a Parisian Protestant, but in other respects remained one of the most typically French creatures who was ever born. Meet her in any quarter of the world, in any nation, in any garb, and for no fraction of a moment could the beholder doubt her nationality. She was French in appearance, in expression, in movement, in thought, in character, and in deed; lovable, intelligent, vivacious, easily irritated, but still more easily pleased, sharp of tongue, tender of heart, and full to overflowing with humour. In appearance Marie was small and slight, with a sallow complexion which was the bane of her life, black hair and beautiful white teeth. No one could call her handsome, but she had certainly an attraction of her own.

This morning Pixie arrived upon the scene in time to overhear a typical conversation between the nurse and her two charges. Geoff, the elder of the two brothers, a handsome, imperious youngster, having overheard a chance remark as to his own likeness to his mother, was engaged in a rigorous cross-questioning of Marie, on the subject.

"Marie, am I beautiful?"

"Leetle boys are not beautiful. It is enough when they are good."

"My mother is beautiful. Mr Carr says I am like my mother."

"Ugly people can be like beautiful people. How can a dirty little boy be like a belle grande dame? Regard thy hands! Four times already have they been scrubbed."

"My hands can be clean when I like. I was talking of if I was beautiful."

"Silence, miserable one! The appearance is of no account," pronounced Marie boldly. "To be good is better than beauty."

Geoffrey drew his brows together in a frown. He was displeased, and when he was displeased he made himself felt.

"I should fink, Marie," he said deliberately, "that you must be the goodest person in all the world."

The inference was plain, so plain that sensitive little Jack coloured up to the roots of his hair. Jack was the sweetest and most lovable of children—a flaxen-haired cherub, whose winning face and gentle ways made him universally beloved. Among the children of the second generation he stood out pre-eminently, and every one of his aunts and uncles enshrined him in a special niche of affection. Pixie had known many searchings of heart because of her own partiality, but was fain to console herself by the thought that Jack was even more like the beloved Bridgie than Bridgie's own sturdy, commonplace son.

As for Jack, he loved everybody, Marie among the number, and, feeling her depreciated, rushed stutteringly to the rescue.

"Oh, Geoff!" he cried eagerly. "You souldn't! You souldn't, Geoff! I know somefing that's uglier than Marie—"

Geoff's scowl deepened. He might insinuate, but a barefaced putting into words outraged his feelings. His eyes sent out flashes of lightning at the innocent little blunderer, but Marie's eyes shone; her face was one beam of tender amusement.

"What then, cherie? Tell thy Marie!"

"M-monkeys!" lisped Jack.

The roar of derision which greeted this consolatory statement brought the startled tears into Jack's eyes, but Marie's arms wrapped round him, and her voice cooed in his ear.

"Little pigeon! little cabbage! Weep not, my darling! Marie does not laugh. Marie understands. It is true! The monkeys are more ugly than I."

Pixie turned, to find Esmeralda standing beside her, her brows frowning, while her lips smiled. She put her hand through her sister's arm and drew her away.

"Leave them alone; Marie manages them best. Poor, weeny Jack! He meant so well!" She drew a long sigh. "Those two boys are just a newer edition of their parents. Little Jack is Geoffrey over again—just the same kind, patient, sensitive disposition; and Geoff is me. When he is in one of his moods it's like looking at myself in a mental glass. I'm furious with him for showing me how hateful I can be, and at the same time I understand what he is feeling so well that my heart nearly breaks with sympathy. It's terrible to feel that one is showing a bad example to one's own child, when one cares so much that at any moment one would be willingly flayed alive to do him good!"

"Improve your example, me dear—wouldn't that be simpler!" cried Pixie, with an air of breezy common sense which was in startling contrast to the other's tragic fervour.

There was a time for everything, Pixie reflected, and it did not seem a judicious moment for a hostess to indulge in heroics, what time the members of her house-party were advancing to meet her with faces wreathed in expectancy. They made a goodly picture in the spring sunshine—the little trim girl and the two tall men attired in the easy country kit which is so becoming to the Anglo-Saxon type. The young hostess looked at them and gave a start of recollection.

"Oh, of course! I was forgetting. ... We have been arranging a picnic. Geoff has ordered the big car for eleven. He is to drive us a twenty-mile spin to the beginning of Frame Woods. The chauffeur will go on by train and meet us there, to take the car round by the high-road and meet us a few miles farther on with the hampers. The woods are carpeted with primroses just now, so we shall enjoy the walk, and it will give us an appetite for lunch."

Pixie gave a little prance of jubilation.

"Lovely! Lovely! I adore picnics! We'll gather, sticks to boil a kettle, to make tea, and boil eggs, like we used to do at home when any one had a birthday. And the sticks always fell in, and the water got smoked!"

Honor and the two men had joined the sisters by this time, and stood looking on with amusement.

"Miss O'Shaughnessy seems to appreciate smoked tea," said Stanor, and Pixie sturdily defended her position.

"I don't; it's hateful! But you can have nice tea every day, of your life, and the game is worth the candle! You can always pour it away and drink milk, and you've had all the fun—gathering the wood, and stoking, and looking at the smoke, and the blaze, and hearing the crackle, and smelling the dear, woody smell—"

"And blacking your hands, and spoiling your temper, and waiting for—how many hours does it take for a watched kettle to boil?—and in the end throwing away the result! You're easily pleased, Miss O'Shaughnessy!"

"I am, praise be!" assented Pixie, with a fervour which brought four pairs of eyes upon her with a mingling of interest and admiration.

So far as features were concerned, it was a plain little face on which they gazed; yet no one could have called it plain at that moment, for, it was irradiated by that rarest of all beauties, an expression of radiant contentment. In comparison with that face those of the beholders appeared tired and discouraged, old before their time, by reason of drooping lips, puckered brows, and wrinkled foreheads; and it was evident that they themselves were aware of the fact, and stood, as it were, as amateurs before a master. Robert Carr poked forward his chin, and stared at her between narrowed eyes. Handsome Stanor smiled approval, Honor slipped a little hand through her arm, and Esmeralda sighed and frowned, and said with a shrug—

"Oh, we've lived past that, Pixie! Nowadays we take thermos bottles, and luncheon baskets, and hot-water dishes, and dine just as— uninterestingly as we do at home! English people wouldn't thank you for a scramble. You must wait until you go back to Knock to Jack and Sylvia, and even there the infection is creeping. Jack is developing quite a taste for luxury."

"I like it myself. Dear Mrs Hilliard, please let us have luxuries to-day!" Stanor pleaded; and Joan turned back to the house to superintend arrangements, while the four young people sauntered slowly about the grounds. Honor's hand still rested on Pixie's arm, and her voice had a wistful tone as she said—

"I'd like to fix a picnic your way some time, Pat-ricia! It would be a heap more fun. It must be fine to be a large family and make believe together. It's a problem for an only child to make mischief all by itself. ... Did you have real good times in that old castle with the funny name?"

"We did!" affirmed Pixie eloquently. "There were so many of us, and so little to go round, that we were kept busy contriving and scheming the whole time, and, when that failed, falling back on imagination to fill in the gaps. It's more comfortable to be rich, but it's not half so exciting. When you have very few things, and wait an age for them, it's thrilling beyond words when they do arrive. When Bridgie re-covered the cushions in the drawing-room we all came to call in a string, and sat about on chairs, discussing the weather and studying the colour effects from different angles. Then we turned on the light and pretended to be a party. I suppose Esmeralda never notices a cushion!"

Pixie sighed, and Honor stared, and Robert Carr looked from one to the other, his thin lips twitching in sarcastic fashion.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

A LONG, LONG LETTER.

From Pixie O'Shaughnessy to Bridgie Victor:

"Not a moment have I had to write to you, Honey, since the first wee note, and I've been here a whole three days. It's the most distracting thing in the world when you've nothing to do, and takes up more time than you'd believe. I think of you all in the morning in the dear little house, every one bustling round, and only longing for more hands and legs to get along the quicker, while here we sit, the six of us, dawdling over breakfast, with not a thing to think of but how to waste the time until we can decently begin to eat again! It isn't energetic, and it isn't useful, and it isn't wise, or noble, or improving, or anything of the kind, but I won't disguise from you, my dear, that, by way of a change, it's exceedingly agreeable to the feelings.

"In Esmeralda's language, there is no one here at present, which means that there are three other visitors besides my important self, and, what is more, my dear, there's a full-fledged romance being acted under my very eyes. Here's luck! Aren't things kind to happen so conveniently for me?

"Heroine. Honor Ward, aged twenty-four. Orphan. Proprietress of Piquant Pickles Factory, Cheeving, Massachusetts, USA. Honor, who is of fair and pleasing exterior, is spending a year in Europe visiting various friends and connections. Honor is sensitive as to her enormous fortune, and suspects:—

"Robert Carr, Hero in Chief, of being attracted thereby. Robert Carr is a barrister engaged in climbing the ladder. He loves Honor, but resents her attitude, and talks assiduously to:—

"Patricia O'Shaughnessy, youngest scion of the house. Patricia is plain, but fascinating, and of noble disposition. She is anxious to reconcile the lovers. The more so as she herself prefers the companionship of:—

"Stanor Vaughan, Secondary Hero, a beauteous youth of fair estate. Stanor being ardently in love with himself, does not return her passion. He treats her with sisterly affection. Patricia hides her chagrin beneath a mask of gaiety.

"How's that for a start, Honey? Pretty thrilling, eh? Don't be anxious about the mask! It's so life-like that it deceives even myself into believing that it's the genuine article, but when dramatic happenings are around, it isn't Pixie O'Shaughnessy who will stand aside and take no part!

"On Wednesday we went for a picnic. It was meant to be a picnic de luxe, but fate was kind to us, and it turned out very alfresco indeed. We started in the big car, Geoffrey driving, and all sorts of good things piled up in hampers, and at an appointed place the chauffeur met us and took possession, while we walked on through the woods. Such woods, Bridgie; all sweet, and dim, and green, the trunks of the great old beeches standing up straight and tall like the pillars of a great cathedral, and sweet, innocent little primroses peeping up through the moss, and last year's leaves crackling under foot. Those primroses went straight to my head; I felt quite fey.

"Strictly, between me and your sisterly ear, I was very amusing indeed, and they all appreciated me very much! And we laughed and talked, and finally began to sing.

"'You have a quite too beautiful voice, Miss O'Shaughnessy. Won't you sing to us in the drawing-room to-night?'

"'How sweet of you! Really, I shall be too charmed!' (This is the orthodox fashionable manner of speaking. Let us be fashionable or die!)

"We sang glees. Esmeralda and I took contralto; there was practically no treble, for Honor's squeak was drowned fathoms deep; Geoffrey and Mr Carr droned bass, and Stanor Vaughan took tenor, rather out of tune it's true, but no man with that profile could be expected to condescend to bass! We sang 'Come and see the daylight dawning, on the meadow far away,' and Mr Carr said he must really make a point of going some day, and we've planned an early walk for next week, if any one can wake up in time. We roared 'All among the barley,' until the primroses looked quite abashed, and turned into 'Good-night, good-night beloved,' to soothe them down again, and we grew so intimate and festive, and they all said, 'What next, Miss O'Shaughnessy, what next?' Really, my dear, I was a succes fou.

"But more is yet to come. It was so lovely and we were enjoying ourselves so much, that we dallied about, and took extra little detours, so that it was nearly two o'clock when we arrived at the appointed spot, and imagine, my dear, our thwarted hunger and thirst, when not a vestige of a car could we behold! It was no use waiting, because if all had gone right it should have been waiting for us for an hour at least. So we held a council of war at the side of the road.

"Esmeralda. 'I shall give Dawson notice At Once! He has made some stupid mistake, and gone to the wrong place. I've no patience with blunderers.' (She hasn't.)

"Geoffrey. 'Something may have gone wrong with the car. Don't blame the poor fellow till you are sure he deserves it.'

"Stanor. 'I don't care one rap about Dawson. I want my lunch! With the luxuries! What price expectation now, Miss O'Shaughnessy?'

"Honor. 'I'm sorry to be disagreeable, but I've a blister on my heel. If it's a case of walking back, I must bid you all a fond adieu and take to a forest life.'

"Robert Carr. 'What can you expect if you start out on a country walk in ball-room slippers?'

"Honor said: 'They aren't, and, anyway, I don't expect sympathy from you,' and I said: 'Isn't there an opening into the road a little nearer the village where the car may be waiting all the time?'

"'Mrs Dick,' quoted Geoffrey,—'your common sense is invaluable!' and off he started in advance while we all trailed in the rear, along the dusty high-road this time, and not by any means in a singing mood. Esmeralda stalked, and Honor limped. She hadn't done it a bit before, so it came on rather suddenly, and Stanor offered her his arm, and she hung upon it, and Mr Carr talked politics to me, and I tried to quote Dick's remarks and appear intelligent, but it didn't come off.

"It was a mile, and more. It seemed like three, and when we arrived at the opening the car was not there. We sat down against the dusty hedgerow and gave way to despair. Here we were stranded five weary miles from our base, i.e. the hampers, and what were we going to do? Every one had a different suggestion, but the object of them all was the same—get something to eat. It's humiliating how greedy people become when they are defrauded of a meal! Dawson and the car were forgotten, everything was forgotten, and when I said that doctors were agreed that we ate too much, and an occasional starve was the most healthy thing that could happen, they looked coldly on me, and Stanor said doctors might keep their theories, but give him foie gras! Finally we agreed to be scouts and go forth on a foraging expedition through the tiny village, seeking what we might devour. Geoffrey was the scout-master, and we were to meet him at the second lamp-post and report.

"There were half a dozen cottages, one shop, and a yard where they sold coal and fresh eggs. So that meant a cottage each, and the stores thrown in. Our orders were to knock on each door and stand close so as to have a good view of the interior when it was opened. If it was a dirty interior we were to dissemble, and ask the way; if it was clean, we were to say, 'Oh, if you please, we are stranded motorists, and do you supply plain teas?' In case of two being clean, the choice was to be left with the scout-master, who would decide between them with tact and discretion.

"Bridgie, it was sport! They were all clean, and they all supplied plain teas, but the astounding part was that no one could supply milk! (Esmeralda says she has never yet raided an English cottage where they could.) And they all offered the same bill of fare—tea with tinned milk, eggs, and spring onions! We chose the biggest and airiest cottage, ordered eggs, looked haughtily at onions, adjourned to the village store and tried to discover some accessories among the rope, firewood, and linoleum. There was tinned salmon, but Esmeralda said she objected to us dying on her hands, and loaf sugar, and treacle, and bull's-eyes in a glass bottle, and gingerbread biscuits (but the snap had departed, and they were so soft that you could have rolled them in balls), and some very strong-looking cheese, and rows of dried herrings packed in a box.

"It was Hobson's choice, so we bought a herring apiece, and insisted on having each one wrapped up in paper, and carrying it across the road in our own separate hands, and I bought a pound of bull's-eyes. They are such encouraging things on a long walk!

"It was a delicious tea. The milk was rather greasy and hard to mix, but if you didn't think about it, it tasted almost as good as real, the eggs were fresh, and the herrings so good that Stanor ran across the road for more, and we made time with bread and butter until they were cooked. And we gave not a thought to the motor; it was only when the sixth plate of bread and butter had been eaten to a crumb that we remembered the miles between us and the nearest station. Five or six it was, nothing to trouble ordinary people, even if they would have preferred a comfortable car, but there was Honor! She had slipped off her shoe under the table, and when she tried to put it on again it hurt so badly that she could hardly hobble across the room, and there was not a vehicle within miles.

"We all fussed and wondered what could be done, except Mr Carr, who strolled calmly out of the house without a word, lighting a cigarette as he went, and after that Honor's foot got so suddenly worse that the tears came to her eyes. Five minutes later when we were still fussing and settling nothing, back he came, and in his hands, what do you think?—you'd never guess—a pair of men's carpet slippers! I remember in a dim, sub-conscious fashion having seen them hanging up in drab and crimson bunches from the ceiling of the shop, but it had never occurred to me that they were to wear!"

"'You can walk in these!' said Mr Carr coolly, and without waiting to hear Honor's reply, he went down on his knees, and began unbuttoning her shoe. She has the daintiest mite of a foot you ever saw—it looked like a doll's in his big, strong hand—but she wasn't a bit grateful. There was a look on her face which sent all the others crowding to the door, but she glared at me to stay, and, being curious, I obeyed.

"'Mr Carr,' says she,—'this is too much! It is usual in my country for a man to ask a girl what she wants, before he takes it upon himself to dictate!'

"He went on unfastening the shoe.

"Occasionally one meets people who don't know what they do want!

"'Well, I reckon I do. And it don't happen to be carpet slippers. I'd look a guy. What are you taking off that shoe for anyway? That foot's all right!'

"'It wouldn't be right long. One flat shoe and one French heel make a poor pair. You are going to wear both.'

"'They're miles too large. They'd fall off on the road.'

"'Oh, no they won't. I'll take care of that,' he said coolly, and took from his pocket two strong black bootlaces which he proceeded to criss-cross over the instep and round the ankles. She sat quite still watching him, her eyes very bright, her hands twisted together on her lap. When he had finished she put out her feet and stared at them—they did look boats!—then she looked down at him. He was still kneeling, and there was not a sound to be heard in that kitchen but the tick of the old clock and the beat, beat, beat of Pixie O'Shaughnessy's heart.

"'Don't you care,' said she softly, 'a mite how—I—look?'

"'Not a mite,' says he coolly. 'I care how you feel!'

"There was a look in his eyes which was not carpet slippers, far from it, and Honor leaped up and swept to the door with what was intended to be a haughty 'sweep,' but the slippers pad-padded at each step in a sort of shuffle, which was the unhaughtiest thing you could possibly imagine. Then Mr Carr gathered up the two tiny brown shoes and dusted them carefully with his handkerchief, and slipped one into each pocket of his Norfolk coat. Honor never bothered about her shoes: I suppose you don't when you own factories, but Mr Carr walked all the way with his hands in his pockets as if he had got something there that he liked to hold.

"The children of the village followed us as we went, and called out, 'Hi, look at her feet! Hi, Miss, is there room for me in them slippers?' as of course they would, bless them! And I will say for her she took it smiling.

"Two miles along the road the car met us, poor Dawson apoplectic with distress and confusion. The engine had gone wrong, and he had had a terrible time getting it put right, and was distracted because he could find no way of sending on the hampers. We tumbled in and whirled home in peace and safety, but some of us were glad it had not come before.

"Don't you wonder how I've accomplished this mammoth letter? There are so many times a day in this house when one has to dress in something different, to do the next thing on the programme, and experience has proved that I change in about a quarter the time taken by the others, so down I sit and fill up the wait by scribbling a page or two more, and I hope, my dear, the result will amuse you.

"I wear my best clothes all day long, eat indigestible food, go to bed late, get up later, and have Esmeralda's maid to do my hair. You'd think it would need an effort to change into a fine lady all at once, but it doesn't; you just slip in, and feel like a sleek, stroked cat. My dear, I was born to be a Society Belle!

"Pixie."



CHAPTER NINE.

A RIFT.

"Let me break it to you tenderly," said Mrs Hilliard to her guests at breakfast on the morning after the picnic, "that on Thursday there is a bazaar, and that it's no use any of you making plans for that day or the morning before. The real reason why I invited you all just at this particular time is that you might assist, and be bright and pleasant and make my stall a success."

She smiled beguilingly as she spoke, and no one could be more beguiling than Joan when it suited her own purpose. But her blandishments failed to propitiate her hearers, who one and all laid down knives and forks and fell back in their seats in attitudes expressive of dismay.

"A bazaar. Assist? What bazaar? Where? What for? This is too sudden! Why were we not warned?"

Joan twinkled mischievously.

"I was afraid you would run away. People are so surly about bazaars. It's in the village; for a parish nurse. She's new, and needs a cottage and furniture, and clothes and salary, and the money has to be found. I wanted Geoffrey to give it right out, it's so much simpler, but he wouldn't. He thought it was right that other people should help."

Geoffrey Hilliard said nothing. It was true that he thought it a wrong attitude for a whole parish to depend upon the gifts of one rich man, but an even stronger reason had been his desire to induce his wife to take some active interest in her poorer neighbours and to occupy herself on their behalf. When Joan had unwillingly consented to take the principal stall at the bazaar, he had complacently expected a succession of committee meetings and sewing-bees, which would make a wholesome interest in a life spent too entirely in self-gratification; but the weeks had passed by, and the bazaar was at hand, and so far he had observed no symptoms of work on its behalf.

He sat silently, waiting to glean information through the questioning of his guests.

"I've taken part in bazaars before now. I'm an expert at bazaars. Bridgie has had part of a stall several times for things for the regiment; but where is your work?" demanded Pixie sternly. "When you take part in a bazaar it means every room crowded out with cushions and tidies, and mats and pincushions, and sitting up at nights, finishing off and sewing on prices, and days of packing up at the end, to say nothing of circulars and invitations, and your own aprons and caps. I haven't noticed a bit of fuss. How can you be going to have a bazaar without any fuss?"

She looked so accusingly at her sister as she spoke that the others laughed, but there was a hint of uneasiness in the manner in which Joan glanced at her husband before replying.

"There isn't any. Why should there be? Fancy work isn't my forte, and it would bore me to sobs living bazaar for months ahead. I've sent money to order ready-mades, and there are a pile of packing-cases stored away upstairs which will provide more than we want. They ought to do, considering the money I've spent! I expect the things will be all right."

"Haven't you looked?" cried Pixie blankly, while Geoffrey flushed, shrugged his shoulders, and muttered a sarcastic "Charity made easy!" which brought an answering flash into his wife's eyes.

"Is there anything particularly estimable in upsetting a whole house and wasting time in manufacturing fal-lals which nobody needs? I fail to see it," she retorted sharply, and Geoffrey shrugged again, his face grim and displeased.

It was not a pleasant moment for the listeners, and one and all were grateful to Stanor Vaughan for the easy volubility, with which he dashed to the rescue.

"I'll open the cases for you, Mrs Hilliard. I'm a nailer at opening cases; ought to have been a furniture remover by profession. Give me wood and nails, and a litter of straw and sawdust, and I'm in my element. Better take 'em down to the hall and unpack them there, I suppose? Safest plan with breakables. Jolly good crockery you get from abroad! I was at winter sports with my sister, and she fell in love with a green pottery cruse business, half a franc, and as big as your head. I argued with her for an hour, but it was no good, buy it she would, and cuddled it in her arms the whole way home! If you have any green cruses, Mrs Hilliard, I'll buy a dozen!"

Esmeralda thanked him, and proceeded to explain her arrangements in a manner elaborately composed. It appeared that she had displayed considerable ingenuity in the way of saving herself trouble.

"I sent instructions to each place that every article was to be marked in plain figures. We shall just have to translate them into English money and add on a little more. It's unnecessary to re-mark everything afresh. I've engaged a joiner to be at the hall ready to fix up any boards or shelves which we may need, and of course he'll unpack. There's not the slightest reason for any one else to break his nails; there will be enough work for us on the day."

"Are we to be dressed up in fancy character? It's all so sudden that I'd like to know the worst at once," sighed Honor plaintively. "I've been a Swiss maiden, and I've been a Dolly Varden, and I've been the Old Woman that lived in a Shoe, so I guess I can bear another turn of the screw. But I look real sweet in my new blue gown."

"Wear it, then, wear it. It's ridiculous dressing up in daylight in a village hall. Let every one wear what suits them best."

"Wait till you see my waistcoat!" cried Stanor, and they rose from the table laughing, and breakfast was at an end.

Pixie made straight for the nursery. She was jarred and troubled by the scene which had just taken place, all the more so as it was by no means the first occasion during her short visit when Geoffrey and Joan had unmistakably "jarred."

In the old days at Knock Castle Esmeralda's tantrums had been accepted as part of the daily life, but six years spent in the sunshine of Bridgie's home made a difference between husband and wife seem something abnormal and shocking. Imagine Dick sneering at Bridgie! Imagine Bridgie snapping back and relapsing into haughty indifference! The thing was preposterous, unthinkable! Could that be the reason of Esmeralda's unrest, that she and her husband had outgrown their love? Pixie felt it equally impossible at that moment to sit quietly alone, or to talk naturally to her fellow-guests, but experience had proved that the most absolutely certain method of getting out of herself was to court the society of children. So she shut herself in the nursery with the two small boys, who took eery advantage of the unexpected treat without troubling their heads as to how it had come about.

Meantime the three guests started off on the usual morning peregrination of the grounds, and Joan followed her husband to his study, found him staring aimlessly out of the window, and accosted him in cold and biting tones.

"Geoffrey, I wish to speak to you. You are entitled to your own opinions, but the next time that you find them in opposition to mine I should be obliged if you would reserve your remarks until we are alone. If you have no consideration for me, you might at least consider your guests; it cannot be agreeable for them to overhear our differences."

Geoffrey did not move. He stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his head drooping forward on his breast, an air of weariness and depression in every line of his figure. For a minute there was silence, then he spoke, slowly, and with frequent breaks, as though considering each word as it came—

"That is true.—I was to blame.—I should have waited, as you say.—It shall not occur again, Joan. I apologise."

Esmeralda looked at him. The fire died from her eyes, her lips trembled. Quick to anger, she was equally quick to penitence, and a soft word could melt her hardest mood. She made a very lovely picture at that moment, but her husband's back was still turned. He kept his head rigorously turned aside as he crossed to his desk and seated himself on his swivel chair.

"I have ordered the car for eleven, as you wished."

"Thank you."

Joan knew herself to be dismissed, but she had no intention of obeying. For her impetuous nature half-measures did not exist, and a peace that was not peace with honour seemed unworthy the name. She leaned over her husband's desk, facing him with earnest eyes.

"Geoffrey! Why were you so cross? It was unreasonable. I shall do quite well at my stall. People are sick to death of cushions and cosies, but they will snap at my beautiful things from abroad, which they don't often have a chance of buying."

"I am sure of it."

"Then why—why—? What on earth put you into such a bait?"

Geoffrey put down his pen and drew a long sigh. It was easy to see that he dreaded a discussion, and was most unwillingly drawn into its toils.

"Since you ask me, Joan, I was disappointed that you had taken so little personal trouble over the affair. I could have given the money easily enough; when I refused I was thinking more of you than of any one else. I hoped this bazaar might be the means of taking you out of yourself, of bringing you in contact with people whose lives are not altogether given up to self-indulgence. Your one idea seems to have been to avoid such a course."

"You would have liked me to have sewing meetings here as Mrs Ewart has at the vicarage: plain sewing from two to four, and then tea and buns. You would have liked to see me sitting in the evening embroidering wild roses on tray cloths, and binding shaving-cases with blue ribbon?"

"I would," said Geoffrey sturdily. He did not smile, as he had been expected to do, but sat grim and grave, refusing to be cajoled.

Esmeralda's anger mounted once more.

"Then I call it stupid and bigoted, and I absolutely disagree. If I'm to waste my time, I'll waste it in my own way, not in perpetrating atrocities to disfigure another home. And I hate village sewing meetings and the dull, ugly frumps who go to them."

Mr Hilliard took up his pen, squared his elbows, and quietly began to write.

"Geoffrey, can't you answer when I speak to you! I'm not a child to be cowed and snubbed! I—I hate you when you get into this superior mood!"

Geoffrey lifted his face—was it the strong east light which made it suddenly appear so lined and worn? There was no anger in his face, only a very pitiful sadness.

"I am afraid there are many moods in which you 'hate' me, Esmeralda."

The look on his face, the sound of the old pet name were too much for the warm Irish heart. In a moment his wife was on her knees beside him, holding his hands, pressing them to her lips, stroking them with caressing fingers.

"Geoff, Geoff, it isn't true; you know it isn't. I always love you, I always did. You know it is true. I was ready to marry you when I thought you hadn't a penny. I wanted nothing but yourself."

"I never forget it," said Geoffrey deeply; "I never can. Sometimes— sometimes I wish it had been true, it might have been better for us both. 'All that riches can buy' has not made a happy woman of you, Esmeralda." He stroked back the hair from her broad, low brow, looking with troubled eyes at the fine lines which already marked its surface. "I can give my wife many treasures, but apparently not the thing she needs most of all—the happiness which Dick Victor manages to provide for Bridgie on a few hundreds a year!"

"Bridgie is Bridgie, and I'm myself; we were born different. It's not fair to compare us, and the advantages are not all on one side. If she has not had my opportunities, she has escaped the temptations; she might have grown selfish too. Sometimes I hate money, Geoffrey; it's a millstone round one's neck."

"No!" Geoffrey squared his shoulders. "It's a lever. I am glad to be rich; my father worked hard for his money—it was honourably gained, and I'm proud to inherit it. It is a responsibility, a heavy one, if you like, but one is bound to have responsibilities in life, and it's a fine thing to have one which holds such possibilities. I mean to bring up the boys to take that view. But—" he paused heavily—"I'd give it up to-morrow if it could purchase peace and tranquillity, a rest from this everlasting strain!"

Something tightened over Joan's heart; a chill as of fear passed through her blood. Geoffrey spoke quietly, so sanely, with an unmistakable air of knowing his own mind. And his manner was so cool, so detached, not one lover-like word or action had he vouchsafed in answer to her own. A chill passed through Joan's veins, the chill of dismay which presages disaster. At that moment she divined the certainty of what she had never before even dimly imagined—the waning of her husband's love. Like too many beautiful young wives, she had taken for granted that her place in her husband's heart was established for life, independent of any effort to retain it. She had not realised that love is a treasure which must needs be guarded with jealous care, that the delicate cord may be strained so thin that a moment may come when it reaches breaking-point. That moment had not come yet; surely, surely, it could not have come, but she felt the shadow.

"Don't you love me any more, Geoffrey?" she asked faintly. "In spite of all my faults, do you love me still like you did?"

It was the inevitable ending to a dissension, the inevitable question which he had answered a hundred times, and if to-day there was a new tone in the voice which spoke it, Geoffrey was not sensitive enough to notice. Few men would mark such differences in a moment of tension.

"I love you, Joan," he answered wearily. "You are my wife; but you've rubbed off the bloom!"

————————————————————————————————————

Joan got up quietly from her knees and crossed to the door. The voice within declared that Geoffrey would call her back, that he would leap after her and clasp her in his arms, as he had done a score of times in like circumstances, that he would implore forgiveness for his cruel words. She walked slowly, pausing as she went to put a chair against the wall, to alter the position of a vase of flowers. She reached the door and cast a swift glance behind. Geoffrey had gone back to his writing; his pen travelled swiftly across the page; he did not raise his head.



CHAPTER TEN.

PIXIE GIVES JOAN A TONIC.

A romp with the children restored Pixie's elastic spirits, and brought a revived wish for her friends' society. She leaned out of the window and beheld a game of tennis on in obvious need of a fourth player, waved gaily in response to a general beckoning, and tripped downstairs singing a glad refrain. And then, in the corridor outside her boudoir, behold a pale and tragic Esmeralda summoning her with a dramatic hand. Pixie flounced, and a quiver of indignation stiffened her small body. A whole hour of a lovely spring morning had already been spent in struggling to overcome the depression caused by the scene at breakfast, and here was Joan obviously preparing a second edition. Pixie was no niggard in sympathy, but for the moment she had other views. Two charming young men were waiting without in the sunshine, and any ordinary human girl prefers the sunshine and masculine society, to a room indoors and an hysterical sister. Therefore, being excessively human, Pixie flounced, and looked bored and impatient. She entered the room and shut the door behind her.

"What's the matter now?"

The answer was sufficiently unexpected.

"Pixie, if I die will you promise me faithfully to live here and take charge of my orphan boys?"

"I will not!" snapped Pixie sharply. It was just what might have been expected for Esmeralda to picture her own tragic death as the result of a passing squall. Quite possibly she had been sitting for the last hour picturing the stages of her own decline and the grief of the survivors. Strong common sense was the best remedy she could have. "I hope to have my own home to look after. And they are too spoiled. I wouldn't undertake the charge."

"Somebody," croaked Esmeralda deeply, "somebody must look after my boys!"

"Don't you worry about that. Geoffrey'll marry again. They always do when the children are young."

This was deliberate cruelty, but the strain was severe. Stanor was standing, racket in hand, gazing up at the window. The sunshine lit up his handsome face, his expectant smile. Pixie gave another flounce and turned impatiently to meet the next lament; but Esmeralda was silent, her hands were clasped on her knee, and tears—real tears—shone in her eyes. It was a rare thing for Joan to cry; the easy tears which rose to her sisters' eyes in response to any emotion, pleasurable or the reverse, these were not for her. Looking back over the history of their lives, Pixie could count the number of times when she had seen Joan cry. The outside world vanished from her memory in response to that appeal.

"Esmeralda! Darling! You are not ill? You are not really suffering?"

Joan shook her head.

"Quite strong," she murmured miserably; "too strong. Only it seems impossible to live on in such misery. It's gone—the mainspring, everything! I can't drag along! Thank God, Pixie, you are here! I never could bottle up my feelings. It's Geoffrey—he doesn't love me any more. I'm not imagining it—it's true! He told me himself."

"What did he say?" demanded Pixie practically. She displayed no dismay at the announcement, being used to her sister's exaggerations, and feeling abundantly convinced in her own mind that this was but another example. Geoffrey was cross this morning, but five days' residence under his roof had abundantly demonstrated that his love was not dead. "Now, what exactly did he say?" she repeated, and Joan faltered out the dread words.

There was silence in the room for a long minute. Then Pixie drew in her breath with a sharp intake. "The bloom!" she repeated softly. "The bloom!" The beautiful significance of the term seemed to occupy her mind to the exclusion of the personal application. She had a vision of love as the apotheosis of human affection, a wondrous combination of kindliness, sympathy, courtesy, patience, unselfishness—all these, and something more—that mysterious, intangible quality which Geoffrey Hilliard had so aptly described. Given "the bloom," affection became idealised, patience a joy, and selfishness ceased to exist, since the well-being of another was preferred before one's own; courtesy and sympathy followed automatically, as attendant spirits who could not be separated. Affection might exist, did often exist, in churlish, unlovely form, giving little happiness either to the giver or the recipient Love, the highest, was something infinitely precious, a treasure to be guarded with infinite care, lest in the stress of life its bloom should be destroyed.

Joan, looking with anxious inquiry in her sister's face, read there an earnestness even exceeding her own.

"Oh, no!" cried Pixie strongly. "Not that, not that, Esmeralda. Not the bloom. It mustn't go; it's too precious. It means everything. You mustn't let it go!"

"But I told you it had gone. It's too late."

"No!" Pixie shook her head. "I know better. There's time yet, if you'll be warned. Last night, when you were comforting Jack after his tumble, Geoffrey sat watching you as Dick watches Bridgie. It can't be all gone, when he looks like that. He has loved you, been proud of you, been patient with you for—how long is it you have been married? Seven years, and you need a lot of patience, Esmeralda! I suppose it's come to this—that you've used up all the patience he has."

It said volumes for Joan's penitence that she allowed such a statement to pass unchallenged, and even assented to it with meekness.

"I suppose that's it. For the first few years it was all right. When I got angry he only laughed; then he began to get impatient himself, and this last year things have been going from bad to worse. When he spoke straight out it was easier; there was a row royal, and a grand 'make up' at the end, but now he's so cold and calm." Esmeralda's lip trembled at the remembrance of the scene downstairs of the averted figure writing stolidly at the desk. She stared before her in silence for a dismal moment, then added sharply: "And what in the world set him off at a tangent this morning, of all others? There have been dozens of times when I should have expected him to be furious, and he's been as mild as a lamb; and then of a sudden, when I was all innocent and unsuspicious, to flare up like that! There's no sense in it!"

"It's always the way with men. You can't reckon on them," announced Pixie, with the seasoned air of one who has endured three husbands at least. "Dick's the same—an angel of patience till just the moment when you've made sure of him, and then in a moment he snaps off your head—my head, I mean, never Bridgie's. There's too much—bloom." She put her little head on one side and pursed her lips in thought, with the characteristic Pixie air which carried Joan back to the days of childhood. "Now, isn't it odd, Esmeralda, how people cultivate almost every good quality, and leave love to chance? They practise patience and unselfishness, but seem to think love is beyond control. It comes, or—it goes. Tant mieux! Tant pis! My dear, if I married a husband who loved me as Geoffrey loved you, it would be the big work of my life to keep him at it, and I'd expect it to be work! You get nothing worth having without trouble, so why should you expect an exception for the very best thing? And the poor man deserves some encouragement. I'd give it to him!"

Joan's lips twisted into a sad smile.

"You understand a great deal, Pixie—more than I do, it seems, even after seven years! I never looked at things in that light. I just expected Geoffrey to keep on adoring, whatever I did. What made you think such things?"

"Nature!" said Pixie promptly. "And, my dear, I'm clever at loving—I always was. It's my only gift, and I have studied it just as other people study drawing and music. What you have to do, Esmeralda, is to forget everything and every one else for a while, and comfort Geoffrey. Don't make a scene and worry the poor man. Don't make a grand programme of reformation, for that will put him off at the start. Just begin to-night and be sweet to him for a change. If you feel temper coming on, have it out on me! I'm used to you from a child, and if I get too much of it I can always run away and leave you; Geoffrey can't. It's mean to take advantage of a man that's bound."

"If he wanted to go," began Joan haughtily, then subsided into tears and helplessness. "Pixie! Pixie! It's so difficult! What can I do?"

"D'you need me to tell you? Isn't it the easiest thing in the world to make love to your own husband, in your own house? Talk of propinquity! Always ready, always handy, if you can't manage that! My dear girl, the game's in your own hands."

"Can a leopard change its spots?"

"We're not talking of leopards; we're talking of women—and they can bridle their tongues!"

Again Joan was silent. Could she? A great martyrdom, or heroic effort, these she would have faced gladly, counting them a small price to pay for her husband's love; but then how to subdue hasty impulses, to keep a watch over her tongue—this seemed beyond her strength. And yet the treasure which was threatened was of such inestimable value. It was impossible to contemplate life without it. Human life is uncertain, and though she would not allow herself to dwell upon such a possibility, Joan had realised in her heart that a day might dawn when she would have to part from husband or son. Death might come, she might have to say farewell to the dear human presence, but never, never had she imagined for a moment that she might be compelled to live on, having bidden farewell to love! Geoffrey her lover, Geoffrey her husband, Geoffrey the father of her boys, was it a fact or a dreadful nightmare that he had sat, untouched by her appeal, and confessed that ... that...

Joan winced, unable to bear the repetition, and locked her hands more closely on her knee. Pixie glanced furtively through the window. Stanor had turned back to the tennis-ground and the three-handed game had been resumed. She stifled a pang of disappointment and sat quietly waiting for further confidences, but presently Joan said quietly—

"Thank you, Pixie. Now—will you go? I want to think. You've been very sweet."

"More bracing than sweet, my dear; but it was what you needed!" Pixie rose with an alacrity which the other was, fortunately, too preoccupied to notice, dropped a kiss on the lovely bent neck, and walked quickly from the room. Joan had had the relief which her nature demanded of giving expression to her feelings; now it was best that she should be alone. Pixie had done her best to help, and now sunshine and Stanor were waiting! In another five minutes she was playing tennis as whole-heartedly as though it were her only business in life.

Meanwhile Joan sat alone in her upstairs room, struggling with all the force of her ardent, undisciplined nature to brace herself for the struggle which lay before her. Prayer had become of late a mechanical, stereotype repetition of phrases; to-day there were no phrases—hardly, indeed, any definite words. In the extreme need of life she took refuge in that voiceless cry for help, that child-like opening of the heart which is the truest relationship between the soul and God. She sat with closed eyes and lifted face, penitent, receptive, waiting to be blessed. For the time being doubts were forgotten, everything seemed straight and plain. Then, being Esmeralda, the wayward, the undisciplined, the mood of exultation faded, and depression held her once more. The heavenly help and guidance seemed far-off and unreal. She was seized with impetuous necessity to act at once, to act for herself. Pixie's proposals failed to satisfy her ardent desires. To wait weeks or months for the reward she craved was beyond endurance. She must contrive something big, something soon, something that would demonstrate to Geoffrey her anxiety to please him. She racked her brain to find a way.

Poor, impatient, undisciplined Esmeralda! How little she dreamed of the tragic consequences of that hour!



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

PIXIE TALKS ON LOVE.

The immediate cause of Geoffrey's displeasure having been in connection with the bazaar, it appeared to Joan that it was in that connection also that she must make an amend. He had complained that she had failed in interest and personal energy: by a supreme effort, then, she must demonstrate how his words had taken root.

It was the eleventh hour; any one but an impulsive Irish woman would have realised the futility of organising any fresh feature, and would have contented herself with doing well what was already planned, but such tame methods were not for the woman who had been Esmeralda O'Shaughnessy. She was accustomed to acting in haste; at home, at Knock, the most extensive entertainments had been organised at a few hours' notice, and how much easier it would be now with a staff of trained servants at her command and a purse full of money to buy the necessary accessories, instead of being obliged to manufacture all that was required out of ordinary household goods. Joan heaved a sigh of regret for the memory of those gay old days when a sheet and a pillow-case had provided a fancy costume which had captivated Geoffrey at a glance, then knitted her brows afresh in the effort to think out some scheme appropriate to the occasion.

The vicar's wife had lamented a lack of music which would afford variation from the prosaic business of buying and selling. At the time Joan had suspected a hint, and had resolutely turned a deaf ear. She hated singing to strangers, she hated singing in a building notably deficient in acoustic properties, she had not the faintest intention of victimising herself for the sake of a village throng. But now, with the new impetus driving her on, nothing seemed too hard or distasteful. The vicar's wife should have her music—music with such accessories as it had never entered her modest head to imagine, music which should be the feature par excellence of the bazaar. Joan's was a quick, inventive brain; within half an hour she had mentally arranged her programme, made a list of the necessary accessories, and planned how they should be procured.

When the little party were again assembled for luncheon she was able to state her plans with an air of complete assurance which left them breathless with astonishment. She had decided to provide two short concerts, one in the afternoon, one in the evening. She would sing two songs; Pixie should do the same. They would all join in appropriate part songs. By way of a climax the last number on the programme should be illustrated by a tableau vivant. She proposed to write special words to a well-known air which, together with the tableau, should illustrate the benefits which the bazaar was destined to provide for the villagers. The tableau should represent a scene in a cottage interior in which were grouped four figures—a child suffering from an accident, a distraught mother, a helpless father, and in the background, bending beneficently over the patient, the parish nurse.

Esmeralda looked around for approval, and met the stare of blank and doubtful faces.

"Er—a bit lugubrious, isn't it, Mrs Hilliard?" ventured Stanor at last, voicing the general impression so strongly that Esmeralda's imagination instantly took another leap.

"Certainly not, for I should have a second tableau to follow to show the happy convalescence—child sitting up in bed, pale but smiling, nurse bringing in bunch of flowers, father and mother, with outstretched hands, pouring out thanks."

"That's better! That's more like it!"

The murmur of approval passed down the table. Pixie laid her head on one side in smiling consideration. Yes, it would go; arranged with Esmeralda's skill and taste the scenes would be pretty and touching, especially when seen to the accompaniment of her beautiful voice. The shortness of the time allowed for preparation troubled Pixie no more than her sister. She smiled at Esmeralda and nodded a cheery encouragement.

"I'll be the distracted mother, and weep into my apron. Honor will look a duck in a cap. Who's to be the little victim?"

"Jack, of course. He'll look too sweet," said Jack's proud mother. "Can't you imagine him, sitting up in bed with his curls peeping out beneath his bandages—he must have bandages—smiling like a little angel! He'd bring down the house. The people would love to see him."

Then for the first time Geoffrey spoke. So far he had listened to the conversation in a silence which both his wife and sister-in-law felt to be disappointingly unsympathetic. Now his objections were put into words—

"Isn't Jack rather young and—er—sensitive for such a public role? I should have thought that your concert would be complete without troubling about a tableau. In any case, there are plenty of village children."

"Not with Jack's face. He is sensitive, of course, but he's not shy; he'd enjoy the excitement. And we should be there; he could come to no harm."

"And the evening performance? Would you propose that he sat up for that also?"

Joan pressed her lips together in the struggle for patience. Really Geoffrey was too bad! What did he mean? What did he want? The whole scheme had been planned to give him pleasure, and here he was, silent, disapproving, throwing cold water. The effort at restraint made her voice sound unnatural even in her own ears.

"If we had the tableau in the afternoon, it would hardly do to leave it out in the evening—the only time when the villagers themselves will be able to be present."

Before Geoffrey could reply the heel of Pixie's shoe pressed firmly on his foot beneath the table, and a warning glance silenced his words. A moment later, when the discussion of pros and cons waxed loud at the far end of the table, she whispered an explanation—

"Don't object, don't argue. It's to please you! You said she had taken no trouble."

Geoffrey Hilliard's glance of comprehension had in it more of weariness than elation. Pixie noting the fact, felt a rising of irritation, and mentally dubbed him ungracious and unreasonable, as Esmeralda had done before her. Both failed to appreciate the fact that sudden spasms of energy were by no means an innovation in the family history, and what the tired man was really longing for was that ordered peace and tranquillity which form the English idea of home. He made no further objections, however, and Joan threw herself whole-heartedly into her preparations, determined on a success which must win approval as by a tour de force.

The three days following were far from peaceful, but if the master of the house kept aloof from the stir and bustle, his guests threw themselves into it with every appearance of enjoyment. Strains of music sounded from the drawing-room and mingled with the tap-tapping of hammers from an upper room where realistic scenery was being manufactured under Joan's able supervision. The new system of thoroughness demanded, moreover, that the stored-up cases should be opened, and the contents unpacked, dusted, and re-priced, a work in itself of many hours.

The four guests started thereon with equal vigour, but Honor took an early opportunity of slipping away. She was tired, she had a headache, she must finish a book, there were half a dozen stock excuses, each one of which seemed to demand an instant adjournment to the garden. She made the announcement in a high, clear drawl and sailed out of the room without leaving time for protest. Whereupon Robert Carr attacked the work on hand with feverish zeal, worked like a nigger for five or ten minutes by the clock, and finally bolted out of the door, without, in his case, going through the form of an excuse. Then the two workers who were left looked out of the window and beheld the truants seated at extreme ends of a garden seat, hardly speaking to each other, looking on the most stiff and formal of terms.

Stanor laughed at the sight, but Pixie's practical mind could not reconcile itself to such contradictory behaviour.

"Where's the sense of it?" she asked. "Where's the fun? To play truant to sit on a bench and sulk! Wouldn't it be far more fun, now, to work up here with nice cheerful people like yourself and—me?"

But Stanor knew better.

"Not a bit of it," he returned. "They'd rather quarrel by themselves all day long than be happy with outsiders, even such fascinating people as ourselves. It's a symptom of the disease. Of course, you have grasped the fact that they are suffering from a disease?"

"I have. I can use my eyes. But why?" cried Pixie, rounding on him with sudden energy, "why, will you tell me, can't they be happy and comfortable and get engaged and be done with it? What's the sense of pretending one thing when you mean another, and sulking and quarrelling when you might—"

"Quite so," assented Stanor, laughing. "Odd, isn't it; but they will, you know. Never any knowing what they will do when it takes them like that. Besides, in this case there are complications. Miss Ward has pots of money, and poor old Carr has nothing but what he makes. He'll get on all right—a fellow with that chin is bound to get on—but it takes time, and meantime it's a bit of an impasse. A fellow doesn't mind his wife having some money—it's a good thing for her as well as for himself—but when it comes to a pile like that—well, if he has any self-respect, he simply can't do it!"

"If I had a pile, I'd expect my lover to accept it from me as gladly as I'd take it from him. If he didn't, I should feel he didn't love me enough."

"You'd be wrong there. He might love you enough to wish to save you from a jolly uncomfortable position. It's not right that a man should be dependent upon his wife. Puts him in a false position."

"Not if he really loved her. How could it? He'd realise then that in a life together there would be no 'yours' or 'mine.' It would all be 'ours.'"

Stanor lifted his head to look at her, and Pixie's clear eyes met his in a full frank gaze which held no shadow of embarrassment. Here was something quite new—a girl who could speak about love to a young man without a trace of self-consciousness or flirtation, yet with an earnestness which demonstrated a keen personal interest. Stanor had many girl friends with whom he had often discussed the subject, but invariably a certain amount of self-consciousness had crept in, which had shown itself alternately in cynicism or sentimentality.

Now, to his own amazement, he realised that he was the one to feel embarrassment, while Pixie confided her sentiments as placidly as if he had been a maiden aunt. He stared at her as she stood before him, a trim, quaint little figure enveloped in a print overall, beneath which her feet appeared absurdly small and doll-like, and as he looked his heart gave a curious, unexpected leap. He had felt that leap before, and the meaning of it was no mystery to him, though in this particular instance it was sufficiently astonishing.

Handsome, accomplished, the presumptive heir to a fortune, Stanor Vaughan had been a pet of society for the last half-dozen years, and being by nature susceptible to girlish charm had more than once imagined himself seriously in love. There had been, for example, that beautiful blonde whose society had turned a summer holiday into a veritable idyll. He had been on the verge of proposing to her when his uncle had suddenly summoned him home, and—well, somehow the restless misery of the first few days had disappeared with surprising rapidity, the vision had grown dim, and finally faded from sight.

Again it had been a charming brunette, and this time he had been sure of himself, perfectly sure. He was awaiting an opportunity to speak when again a summons had arrived, a pleasant one this time, since it took the form of an invitation to accompany his uncle on a prolonged continental tour. There had been no time to think. He had barely time to pack his bag and be off. And at the end of a month, well! He had begun to hesitate and doubt, and the episode ended like the first.

Curious, when he came to think about it, how the Runkle had in both cases played the part of deus ex machina. It was coincidence, of course, pure coincidence, for the old fellow had not known the girls even by name, but it was odd! As for his own part in the proceeding, both girls had been unusually charming specimens of the modern society girl, it was natural enough that he should have been impressed, but if it was really the fact that he was falling in love with this Irish Pixie, that was another, and a very different matter.

With a darting thought Stanor recalled his impressions on first meeting the girl a week before, and his own outspoken surprise at the insignificance of the sister of his beautiful hostess. A plain, odd little creature, that had been the involuntary verdict, but almost immediately it had been amended. Plain, but charming; distinctly the little thing had charm! Now, at the expiration of six days it had come to this, that his eyes no longer noted the faulty outline, but found a continual joy in watching the play of expression, the vivid life and interest of the sparkling little face. This was the real thing at last, Stanor told himself: it must be the real thing! Mingled with all his excitement and perturbation, he was conscious of a thrill of self-appreciation. It was not every man of his age who would put beauty of character before that of feature. He threw a deliberate empressement into his gaze, and said meaningly—

"Your husband, Miss Pixie, will be a lucky man!"

"He will so," agreed Pixie warmly. She gave a soft, musical laugh as if the thought were a pleasant one to dwell on, but Stanor was sensitive enough to realise that his own image played no part in her dreams. She took up her pen and returned to the scribbling of prices on small paper labels. "Russian lace, five shillings a yard. Russian lacquer collar-box. Don't you hate that shiny red? Of course, when I talked of fortunes I was only putting myself in her place. I've nothing. None of us have. When My lover comes, there'll be only—Me!" The words sounded modest enough, but there was a complacence in the tilt of the head which told another story. Pixie O'Shaughnessy had no pity to waste on the man who should win herself.

Stanor's lip twisted in a self-conscious smile. The other girls had been rich. He pondered for a moment, and then said suddenly—

"I wonder, Miss Pixie, with your temperament, and—er—under the circumstances that you have not been fired with the modern craze to do something before now. Girls nowadays don't seem happy unless they have some work—"

"But I have, I have! Did you think I was idle?" She looked at him with reproachful eyes. "This is a holiday. I'm sampling luxury for a change, and I won't deny it's agreeable, but at home all the year I'm at work from morning to night. I don't know how to get through my work."

So she had a profession then, after all! Stanor felt an amused conviction that whatever the post might be the little thing would fill it uncommonly well. Small and child-like as she appeared, she yet carried with her that air of assurance which is the heritage of the capable. It interested him to consider for a moment what particular role she had adopted, and more than one possibility had passed through his head before he put the question into words—

"And what exactly do you do, Miss Pixie?"

She stared at him blankly.

"Now, if you'd asked me to say what I do not do, it would have been easier. Have you any sort of idea what it means to keep a home going with big ideas and little means, and a cook-general to thwart your efforts? If you have, you can imagine the list. Dusting, sewing, mending, turning, making, un-making, helping Bridgie, amusing the children, soothing the servants, humouring Dick, making dresses, trimming hats, covering cushions, teaching the alphabet, practising songs, arranging flowers, watering plants, going to shops, making up parcels, writing notes, making—"

Stanor held up his hands in protest.

"Stop! Have pity on me! What an appalling list! Isn't it nearly done? My ears are deafened! I am overcome with the thought of such activity!" Nevertheless the smile with which he regarded her was distinctly approving, for, like most men, he preferred domestic women who did not despise home work. "I'll tell you what it is," he added warmly, "Mrs Victor is like the other fellow—jolly lucky to have you! There are precious few girls who would give up their whole lives to a sister."

"Bridgie is more than a sister. She's meant father and mother and home to me for over ten years. My parents died when I was so young."

"Like mine. That's a point of union between us. My uncle has played the part of your Bridgie."

"He has; I know it. He's lame," answered Pixie swiftly, and was amazed at the heat with which the young fellow replied—

"Lame? Who said so? Who told you? What does it matter if he is lame?"

"Not one bit. I was only—sorry. I didn't mean to be unkind or to repeat anything I shouldn't. Why are you vexed?"

He shrugged his shoulders, and snapped the scissors over a coil of string.

"Oh, nothing. Gets on one's nerves a bit that's all. He's such a fine fellow, he would have been such a brick, but that wretched lameness has spoiled it all. Till he was eighteen he was as strong as a horse—a fine, upstanding young giant he must have been. Then came the accident—pitched from his horse against a stone wall—and for twelve solid years he lay on his back. That made him only thirty, but you would never have believed it to see him. He was a lot more like a man of fifty."

Pixie laid her pen on the table, and rested her chin in the clasped hands. Her eyes looked very large and wistful.

"Twelve years on one's back would be pretty long. One would live so fast inside all the while one's body was idle. 'Twould age you. If it had happened when he was fifty, 'twould have been easier, but at eighteen one feels so lively and awake. Anything, anything would seem better than to do just nothing! To wake each morning and know there was nothing before one all the long hours, but to lie still! Other people would get accustomed to it for you—that would be one of the bits which would hurt the most—for you'd never be accustomed yourself. And which would be worst, do you think—the days when it was dull and the room was dark, or the days when the sun blazed, begging him to come out?"

Stanor shook himself with an involuntary shiver.

"Don't!" he cried sharply. "Don't talk like that! What an imagination you have! I've been enough cut up about it, goodness knows, but I never realised all that it meant. ... Well! He is better now, so we needn't grouse about it any more. It's only that's it's left a mark! He was turned in a moment from a boy into an old man—his youth was killed, and he can't get it back! That's one reason why he's so jolly anxious about me. Like most fellows he sets an exaggerated value on the things he has missed himself, and it's a craze with him to—as he calls it—'safeguard my youth.' He is trying to live his own lost days again through me, poor fellow, and it's a poor game. Outsiders take for granted that I'm his heir, but that's bosh. Fellows of thirty-five don't worry about heirs. He has never mentioned the subject; all he has done is to give me every chance in the way of education, and to promise me a good 'start off.' I'd have been ready to tackle serious work at once, but he is against a fellow having real responsibility until he's had time to feel his feet. I've had to work, of course—he's keen on that; but he's keen on recreation, too, and freedom from responsibility. He believes, poor chap, that if a fellow has freedom between twenty and thirty, he is better fitted to take up responsi—" Stanor stopped short suddenly, and the blood rushed to his cheeks. "I wonder!" he repeated blankly; "I wonder!"

For the first time revelation had come home to him with a flash that his uncle's interference in those two incipient love affairs had not been coincidence, but a deeply matured plan. He recalled occasions when chance words had betrayed a surprising acquaintance with his own doings, the houses at which he visited, and the feminine members of those households. Unsuspecting himself, he had doubtless betrayed more than he knew. In more ways than one his uncle had determined to safeguard his freedom during these early years!

Stanor set his lips. The discovery was no more pleasant to him than it would be to any other young man of his age. A certain amount of "management" a fellow must be ready to accept from one who had been so generous a friend, but this was going too far. The Runkle must be shown that in purely personal matters his nephew would allow no one to interfere!

The frown continued for several minutes, but finally gave place to a smile, for a consideration of the present position had led him to a comfortable conclusion. The Runkle would be on a wrong tack this time! If he scented any attraction among the members of Mrs Hilliard's house-party, it would of a certainty be attributed to the pretty American heiress, Honor Ward. No one would suspect for a moment that the fastidious Stanor Vaughan had been laid captive by a plain and penniless Irish Pixie!



CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE BAZAAR.

The morning of the bazaar was radiantly fine, so that one fear at least was banished from the hearts of the anxious stall-holders. No excuse now for patrons living at a distance! No room for written regrets, enclosing minute postal-orders. Any one who wanted to come, could come, and woe betide the contents of their purse!

Mrs Hilliard's stall was placed in the centre of the hall, and in accordance with her own directions had been made in the shape of a great round table, within the hollowed centre of which she and her girl helpers could be protected from the crowd, while without attendant sprites in the persons of the two young men hovered about ready to do their bidding.

Not a single article of needlework appeared upon the stall; not a solitary pincushion, nor handkerchief sachet, nor nightdress bag, not even so much as an inoffensive tray cloth. There was pottery from Portugal, and pottery from France, pottery from Switzerland in the shape of jam and marmalade jars, originally purchased for twopence apiece, and offered for sale at an alarming sacrifice for a shilling. There were beads from Venice, and tiles from Holland, and fans from Spain, and a display of Venetian glass especially provided for the entrapment of county families. There was dainty English china (on sale or return), and flagons of Eau de Cologne, and white and blue Della Noblia plaques from Florence, and a dozen other dainty and perishable treasures.

"Everything!" exclaimed Pixie proudly, as she stood with arms akimbo to view the completed stall, "everything can break! Not one single thing that you couldn't smash in a twinkling, and no bother about it. It's what I call a most considerate stall, the most considerate I've ever seen!"

Esmeralda laughed with complacent understanding, but the two men stared aghast.

"Is it the object of purchasers to get rid of their purchases as soon as they are made? Then why do they bother to—"

"It is, and they have to. It's expected of them, and they can't escape, but you need to be soft-hearted and live in a poor neighbourhood to understand the horror of the bazaar habit. I'll tell you a story to the point." Pixie's eyes danced, she preened herself for prospective enjoyment.

"There was once a rich old lady, and she sent a pink satin cushion as a contribution to my sister Bridgie's stall at a military bazaar three years ago. 'Twas a violent pink, with sprays of dog roses and a frill of yellow lace, and not a soul would look at it if they had been paid for the trouble. 'Twas tossed about the stall for two whole days, and on the third, just at the closing, the Colonel's wife came in with five pounds in her pocket which had arrived by post for the cause. She wandered about like a lost sheep from one stall to another, looking for anything that would be of any use to anybody in the world, and it was an ageing process to get rid of four pounds five. Then she stuck. In the whole room there was not one thing she'd have been paid to buy.

"And then 'twas Bridgie's chance, and she beguiled her with the cushion for fifteen shillings, saying the down itself was worth it. So she bought it to make weight, and sent it to the Major's wife, with her dear love, for Christmas. The Major's wife wore it on the sofa for a whole afternoon when the Colonel's wife came to tea, and then packed it away in the spare room wardrobe till a young curate brought back a bride, and then she shook it up and ironed the lace and sent it, with all best wishes, for a wedding present. The curate's wife wore it for one afternoon, just in the same way, and then she packed it away, and when Christmas came round she said to her husband that the Colonel's wife had been so kind and helpful, and wouldn't it be nice to make a slight return if it were within their means, and what about the cushion? So on the very next Christmas the Colonel's wife got a nice fat parcel, and when it was opened, there, before her eyes—"

"Ha, ha ha!"

"Ho, ho, ho!"

The two young men anticipated the point with roars of laughter, and Pixie whisked round to the other side of the stall to cock her head at a pyramid of green pottery, and move the principal pieces an inch to the right, a thought to the left, with intent to improve the coup d'oeil. To the masculine eye it did not seem possible that such infinitesimal touches could have the slightest effect, but then bazaars are intended primarily for the entrapment of women, and Pixie knew very well that with them first impressions were all important. Every shopkeeper realises as much, which is the reason why he labels his goods just a farthing beneath the ultimate shilling. The feminine conscience might possibly shy at paying a whole three shillings for a bauble which could be done without, but, let the eye catch sight of an impressive Two, and the small eleven three-farthings is swallowed at a gulp!

At two o'clock the bazaar was formally opened in a ceremony which took exactly ten minutes, and was so dull that it appeared to have lasted a long half-hour.

Geoffrey Hilliard, as squire of the village, gave an elaborate explanation of the pressing need of a parish nurse, which his hearers already understood far better than he did himself; the wife of a neighbouring squire said that she had found a parish nurse a great acquisition in her own village, and she had very much pleasure in declaring the bazaar open, and the vicar returned thanks to the neighbouring squire's wife for her kindness in "being present among us to-day," and then every one clapped feebly, and the bazaar had begun.

The few county people who were present sauntered round Esmeralda's stall, bought trophies of china and glass, and promptly whirled away in their motors, feeling that they had nobly discharged a duty. There was no denying the fact that it was a dull occasion, and an arduous one into the bargain for sales-women who wanted to get rid of their wares.

The hall was sparsely filled, and the good ladies who were present had come with a certain amount of money in their purses, and a fixed idea of the manner in which they intended to spend it. They would pay for admission, they would pay for tea, they would pay for the concert— conceivably they might even indulge in a second tea—they would purchase buttonholes of hot-house flowers, patronise side shows, and possibly expend a few shillings at the grocery stall ("Should have to buy them in any case, my dear!") but there the list of their expenditure came to an end. Even when Honor and Pixie were driven out of their fastness, and walked boldly to and fro, hawking tempting selections from the stall, they met with but little success, for if there is no money left in the purse, the best will in the world cannot produce it.

"Wouldn't you like to buy this lovely little plaque of Della Robbia, from Florence?" inquired Pixie genially of a group of portly matrons. "Reduced to seven and six. Ten shillings at the beginning of the afternoon. Less than cost price!"

"Very pretty!" murmured the ladies, and the portliest of them went a step further and added: "And cheap!" but no one showed the faintest disposition to buy.

"It would look so well in the dark corner of the drawing-room!" suggested Pixie, drawing a bow at a venture, and the three faces instantly became thoughtful and intent.

"That's true. It might do that. Does it hang?"

"It is made to hang," Pixie exhibited the holes pierced in the china, "but I should prefer it on a bracket! A bracket nailed across a corner at just the right height, and the plaque put across it, so that you could see it from all parts of the room.—Is your drawing-room blue?"

"Pale blue."

"How charming! It would just set off this darker shade."

"Mine is not blue. It is pink."

"But think of the contrast! Blue and pink! What could be sweeter? It would look perfect against your walls! Shall I make it up safely in a box? We have a special parcels department."

"Not to-day, thank you," said the owner of the blue drawing-room. "I'll think of it," said the owner of the pink. The silent third asked tentatively: "Could you make it five?"

The next group were more hopeless still. They didn't like Della Robbia. Common, they called it, that bright yellow and blue. Pixie was informed that if she offered the plaque for nothing it would be declined. She carried it dejectedly back to the stall, piled a tray with marmalade jars, gave it to Stanor to carry, and started off on another promenade.

"Marmalade jars! Fine marmalade jars! Who will buy my marmalade jars?" chanted the young man loudly, and the audience giggled, and listened with indulgent looks, even went so far as to finger the jars themselves, admire the design, and marvel how they could have been made for the price, but not a single one of the number had a vacancy for such an article in the home. Even when Stanor suggested that the jars were not dedicated to marmalade alone, but might be used for jam, for honey, for syrup, the supply seemed ridiculously out of proportion to the demand, and half an hour's exercise of his own pleading, seconded by Pixie's beguilements, brought in a total result of three shillings, which, to say the least of it, seemed inadequate.

"At this rate," said Esmeralda, "we shall have a van-load to take home!" Honor, seated dejectedly on an inverted packing-chest, discoursed in a thin, monotonous tone on the glories of charity sales in the States. They were always crowded, it appeared; policemen stood at the doors to prevent a crush; the buying was in the nature of a competition. Young girls offering wares for sale found themselves surrounded by throngs of millionaires, bidding against each other for the privilege of obtaining any article which she was pleased to offer. Having accomplished a purchase, it became the overwhelming desire of the purchaser to present the article in question as a votive offering to the fair sales-woman herself. ... Such a recital was hardly calculative to enliven the occasion. Esmeralda frowned, and Pixie sighed, and for the first time in her existence doubted the entire superiority of being born a Briton. She remembered her rebuffs with the Della Robbia plaque and thought wistfully of those millionaires!

The concert, however, was a success: the room was filled, the audience was appreciative, and lovely little Jack in the character of an invalid evoked storms of applause. The spirits of the performers were improved by their success, but as the audience now cleared off rapidly on dinner intent, there seemed no reason why Geoffrey, Stanor, and Robert Carr should not follow their example. The suggestion was made, Esmeralda vouchsafed a gracious permission, and went off herself to parley with another stall-holder. The three men made for the door, with relief written on every line of their figures, and the two girls remained on duty seated on packing-cases.

"At home in the States," remarked Honor severely, "the men would not be paid to run off home to dine in comfort, leaving the girls alone to work."

"On sandwiches!" supplemented Pixie sadly, "and stewed tea!" She was hungry herself, and could have appreciated a well-cooked meal. "I'd like to know some American men," she opined. "You must be longing to get back to them, as they are so much more appreciative and polite than our men over here!"

Honor blushed, and regarded the points of her neat little shoes.

"There are a great many things, Pat-ricia," she said slowly, "that a girl ought to do if she were logical, and consistent, and acted up to what she preached. But she isn't, and she don't. I'm not in a mite of a hurry to get back..."

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The hall was packed to overflowing for the evening concert, additional chairs were placed down the aisles, and even after they were filled, a number of people had to be content with standing places at the back. The performers peeping round the corner of the stage felt a mingling of nervousness and excitement, and vociferously instructed every one else to pull his or her self together, and do his or her best.

It soon became apparent, however, that the audience was indulgent to the point of boredom, applauding with consistency each item, good or bad, and demanding thereto an encore. Esmeralda's entrance brought down the house, Pixie's Irish ditties evoked shouts of applause, and the part songs but narrowly escaped being turned into choruses. It was, indeed, a village audience of the old-fashioned kind, assembled together in pleasant, friendly spirit, with the object of being amused, and determined that that object should be fulfilled.

The squire was a favourite, as he well deserved to be, and his beautiful wife was regarded with a fervent admiration, which her very aloofness had served to heighten. Other ladies might call round at cottage doors, and talk intimately concerning book clubs, and Dorcas societies, but no one expected such condescension from Mrs Geoffrey Hilliard. She whizzed along in her great green car, or cantered past on her tall brown horse, followed by a groom in livery, vouchsafing a gracious smile in return for bows and curtseys. On Sundays she sat ensconced in the great square pew, a vision of stately beauty. ... The good dames of the village felt it the great privilege of this evening to see the squire's lady without her hat, with diamonds flashing at her throat, smiling, laughing, singing—a goddess descended from her pedestal to make merry on their behalf.

And so at last in the midst of this simple happiness came the time for the last item on the programme—that double tableau which every person in the hall was fated to remember, to the last day of his life!



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE ACCIDENT.

The curtain drew up on the first tableau. Joan sang appropriate words in the sweetest tones of her rich contralto voice, her eyes, like those of the audience, riveted on the face of the little invalid as he lay on his truckle bed. White-cheeked, bandaged, reclining, the transformation in the child's appearance was astounding. Considered as a piece of stage-craft, Joan had every reason to congratulate herself on the result, but the mother's heart felt a pang of dismay. The representation was too life-like! Just so would the darling look if the illness were real, not imaginary. In the afternoon he had not looked so ghastly. Was the double excitement too much for his strength? Joan's eyes turned from the stage to the first row of seats, where her husband had his place. Geoffrey looked worried; his brows contracted as he watched his son. Unconsciously Joan quickened the pace of the last verse of her song. She was anxious to get to the second tableau, to see Jack sitting up, smiling, his eyes alert.

The curtain fell. A low murmur from the audience swelled into somewhat forced applause. The villagers also, Joan realised, had felt the scene to be almost too realistic. Behind the scenes Honor as nurse and Pixie as mother propped the child's back with cushions, and showered kisses on his white cheeks.

"Smile, Jackey, smile!" they cried. "Now you are a getting-well boy, and all the people will see you, and be so pleased! Just once more, darling, and then away we go, driving off home to supper in the car. Now a big smile!"

The curtain rose. Jack smiled his sweet, baby smile, and the audience burst into cheers of hearty relief. Every one was smiling—not only the invalid, but also the mother, the father, the neat, complacent nurse. Esmeralda's voice swelled in glad content. That last scene had been horrible; never, never again would she attempt to simulate so dreadful a reality! What a comfort to see the darling once more bonnie and smiling. Half an hour more and he would be safe in bed.

The curtain fell, was lifted again in response to a storm of applause, the piano strummed out the first bars of "God Save the King," and the audience, stumbling to their feet, began to join in the strain.

Suddenly, startlingly, a shriek rent the air, rising shrill above the heavy chorus of voices—the piercing, treble shrieks of a young child, followed by loud cries for help and a stampede of feet behind the curtain.

The music ceased. Geoffrey Hilliard and his wife rushed with one accord up the steps leading to the platform, the village doctor edged his way hurriedly through the crowded hall, the real parish nurse, wearing for the first time her new uniform, followed in his wake. And still the treble shrieks continued—the terrible, childish shrieks. The women in the audience shivered and turned pale. Master Jack! And only a moment before he had been playing at sickness. It was ill-work trifling with serious things. The pretty lamb! What could have happened?

Behind the curtain all was horror and confusion, a ghastly nightmare exaggeration of the scene just depicted. There on the same bed lay Jack, writhing in torture, the bandages charred and blackened, a terrible smell of burning in the air. Bending over him in torment stood the real father and mother; coming forward with calm, capable help came the veritable nurse.

How had it happened? How? By what terrible lapse of care had the precious child been allowed to fall into danger?

The mother's glance was fierce in its wrath and despair, but the explanation when it came was but too simple. Jack had been bidden to sit still in bed until his clothes should be brought; from the adjoining dressing-room. But for a moment Pixie had left his side, but in that moment a child-like impatience and restlessness had asserted itself with fatal consequences. Jack had leapt up, rushed to the table, clutched at a glass of milk placed ready for his own refreshment, and in so doing had brought his bandaged head across the flame of an open candle, one of the small "properties" of the cottage scene. In an instant he was in flames; he threw up his little arm and the sleeve of the nightshirt caught the blaze; he ran shrieking to and fro, dodging pursuit, fighting, struggling, refusing to be held. For a moment the beholders had been too aghast for action; then Pixie leapt for the blankets, while Stanor overtook the child, tripped him up, wrapped and pressed and wrapped again; unfolded with trembling hands—

It was no one's fault. No one could be blamed. Jack was old enough to understand and obey, was proverbially docile and obedient. Under the same circumstances at home he would have been left without a qualm. The unusual circumstances had created an unusual restlessness not to be anticipated. Even at that bitter moment Joan realised that if it was a question of blame, she herself was at fault in having allowed the child to take part in the tableau against her husband's better judgment. A smaller nature might have found relief in scattering blame wholesale, but there was a generosity in Irish Esmeralda's nature which lifted her above the temptation. In the midst of her anguish she spared a moment to comfort Pixie by a breathless "Not your fault!" before she became unconscious of everything but the moaning figure on the bed.

The treatment of Jack's burns was completed with praiseworthy expedition. The local chemist flew on winged feet to his shop in the village street, whence he brought back all that was required. Nurse and doctor sent away the relatives, and worked with swift, tender fingers; and presently a swathed, motionless figure was carried out to an impromptu ambulance, fitted up inside the great car, while the late audience stood massed together in the street, looking on silent and motionless—silent as to speech, but from every heart in that crowd went up a cry to God, and every mother in the village knelt that night beside her bed and prayed with tears for the life of little Jack Hilliard, and for the support and comfort of his father and mother.

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Jack lay motionless in the darkened room, a tiny form outlined beneath the bedclothes; on the pillow was a swathe of bandages, with barely an inch between to show the small, scarred face. The night before, with tossing curls, flushed cheeks, and curving coral lips, he had lain a picture of childish beauty, at sight of which his parents' hearts had glowed with tenderness and pride as they paid their good-night visit.

"He looks flushed. All this rehearsing is exciting. I shall be glad when the tableaux are over," Geoffrey had said, and Joan had whispered back ardently—

"But so lovely! If he looks like that to-morrow!"

And this was to-morrow; and there on the bed lay Jack, shorn, blinded, tortured—a marble image that moaned, and moaned...

Through the night telephone and telegraph had been busy summoning the most skilful aid. Here at least was one blessing of wealth—that the question of expense need never be considered. This man for eyes, that man for skin, a third for shock to the nerves; the cleverest nurses, the newest appliances—the wonderful wires summoned them each in turn. Throughout the night motor-cars whirled up the drive, tall men in top coats, nurses in cloaks and bonnets, dismantled and passed into the house, mysterious cases were hurried up back stairways. Joan and her husband were banished from the sickroom, and sat in her boudoir awaiting the verdict. It was the first time they had been alone together since the accident, and when the door closed behind them Joan glanced at her husband with a quivering fear. His face was white and drawn. He looked old, and bowed, and broken, but there was no anger in his face.

"Geoffrey! Will you ever forgive me?"

For all answer he held out his arms. The old look of love was in his eyes, the old beautiful softness; there was no bitterness in his look, no anger, not the faintest shadow of blame.

"Dearest, don't! We both suffer. We must keep strong. We must help each other."

"Geoff, you warned me. You said it would be bad. It was against your wish ... It's my fault!"

"Darling, darling, don't make it worse!" He pressed her head against his shoulder with tender, soothing touches. "No one could have foreseen. I feared for excitement only; there was no thought of danger. We have enough to bear, sweetheart. Don't torture yourself needlessly."

"It's my doing, it's my punishment; I brought it about. I've been cold, and selfish, and ungrateful. I had so much I ought to have been so thankful, but I was discontented—I made you wretched. God gave me a chance—" she pushed him away with frenzied hands and paced wildly, up and down the room—"a chance of salvation by happiness, and I was too mean, too poor to take it. Geoff, do you remember that poem of Stevenson's, 'The Celestial Surgeon'? They have been rinking in my head all night, those last lines, those dreadful lines. I was 'obdurate.' All the blessings which had been showered upon me left me dead; it needed this 'darting pain' to 'stab my dead heart wide awake!'" She repeated the words with an emphasis, a wildness which brought an additional furrow into Geoffrey's brow.