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Love Affairs of Pixie

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<h3>Chapter Twenty One.</h3> <h4>A Musical Evening.</h4> Pixie had recovered her spirits by the time that the flat was reached, but the invalid was discovered in a distinctly “grumpy” mood. Like many enforced stay-at-homes, his unselfishness bore him gallantly over the point of speeding the parting guests, and expressing sincere good wishes for their enjoyment. But the long, long hours spent alone, the contrast between their lot and his own, the rebellious longing to be up and doing, all these foes preyed upon the mind, and by the time that the voyagers returned, a cool, martyr-like greeting replaced the kindliness of the farewell, which was sad, and selfish, and unworthy, but let those suspend their judgment who have never been tried! “Really? Oh! Quite well, thank you. Did you really?” ... The cold, clipped sentences fell like ice on the listeners’ ears, and Pixie, going out of the room, turned a swift glance at Stephen Glynn, and wrinkled her nose in an expressive grimace. Somehow or other Stephen felt his spirits racing upward at sight of that grimace. There was a suggestion of intimacy about it, amounting even to confidence: it denoted a camaraderie of spirit which was as flattering as it was delightful. Pat, as usual, recovered his good humour at the sight of food, and thoroughly enjoyed the simple but well-cooked meal, while Pixie and Stephen tactfully avoided the subject of their morning’s excursion. Time enough later on to describe the beauties of that Abbey service! “Moffatt is going out this afternoon. A friend is to call for her and bring her back this evening. It will be a change for the creature,” announced Pixie when the meal was finished, and, meeting Pat’s eye, she added quickly, “I’ll make tea.” “What about supper?” queried Pat sternly. “If there’s a meal in the week which I enjoy better than another it is Sunday night supper. What’s going to happen about it to-night?” “’Deed I don’t know. Don’t fuss! It’s beyond me to think two meals ahead. There’s cold meat. ... I’ll rummage up something when it comes to the time.” Pat turned gloomily to his friend. “You’d better be off, Glynn. I asked you to stay for the day, but in view of unforeseen circumstances. ... Pixie evidently puts Moffatt’s pleasure before our food.” “I do!” cried Pixie sturdily. Stephen smiled, his bright, transforming smile, and said quickly— “I’ll stay! I’d like to, if you will just excuse me one moment while I telephone to my man. You have a telephone, I think, in the basement?” Pixie shuddered. “They have; in an ice-box, where every draught that was ever born whirls around your feet, and if you speak loud enough, every maid in the place will hear what you say. It’s quite diverting to listen!” Stephen went off laughing, and Pixie shook up Pat’s pillows, bathed his hands, and kissed him several times on the tip of his nose, a proceeding which he considered offensive to his dignity, and then went off to change the crushable velvet skirt for a house dress of her favourite rose hue—a quaint little garment made in a picturesque style, which had no connection whatever with the prevailing fashion. When she returned to the sitting-room she seated herself on the floor beside the fire, and Pat, now entirely restored to equanimity and a little ashamed of his previous ill-humour, himself inquired about the morning’s experiences. Like all the O’Shaughnessys he was intensely musical, and during his sojourn in London had taken every opportunity to hear all the good concerts within reach. He now wanted to hear about the music in the Abbey, and especially of the anthem, and at the mention of it Pixie drew a deep sigh of enjoyment. “Oh, Pat, a boy sang ‘Oh, for the wings’! If you could have heard it!—A clear, clear voice, so thrillingly sweet, soaring away up to that wonderful roof. And he sang with such feeling.” ... She began softly humming the air, and Stephen knew then for a certainty whence had come those rich, soft notes which had come to his ears in the Abbey. “Sing it, Pixie, sing it!” cried Pat impatiently. “You promised, and it’s one of my favourites. Go on; I’ll accompany!” Stephen looked round inquiringly. No piano was in the room, no musical instrument of any kind, and Pat lay helpless upon his bed. How, then, could he accompany? The O’Shaughnessy ingenuity had, however, overcome greater difficulties than this, and it was not the first time by many that Pat had hummed an effective and harmonious background to his sister’s songs. As for Pixie, she opened her mouth and began to sing as simply and naturally as a bird. She had a lovely voice, mezzo-soprano in range, and though she now kept it sweetly subdued, the hearer realised that it had also considerable power. She sang as all true singers do—as if the action gave to herself the purest joy, her head tilted slightly on one side, as if to listen more intently to each clear, sweet note as it fell from her lips. ... “Oh, for the wings, for the wings of a dove; far away, far away would I roam.” ... The words blotted out for the hearers the gathering twilight in the prosaic little room; far away, far away soared their thoughts to heights lofty and beautiful. “In the wilderness build me a nest, and remain there for ever at rest.” ... How had so young a thing learnt to put so wonderful a meaning into that last word? Pat’s rolling accompaniment swelled and sank; now and again for a phrase he softly joined in the words, and in the concluding phrase still another voice joined in in a soft tenor note agreeable to hear. Pixie’s eyes met Stephen’s with a glow of triumph. “He sings!” she cried quickly. “Pat, he sings—pure tenor! Oh, what music we can have, what trios! Isn’t it delightful? You can have real concerts now, old man, without leaving the flat!” “It was a very beautiful solo, Miss O’Shaughnessy,” said Stephen gravely. He was still too much under the influence of the strain to think of future events. As long as he lived he would remember to-day’s experience, and see before him the picture of Pixie O’Shaughnessy in her rose frock, with the firelight shining on her face. Her unconsciousness had added largely to the charm of the moment, but now that the tension was relaxed there was a distinct air of complacence in her reply. “’Tis a gift; we all have it. The concerts we had at Knock, and every one playing a separate instrument, with not a thing to help us but our own hands! I was the flute. D’ye remember, Pat, the way I whistled a flute till ye all stopped to listen to me?” “I do not,” said Pat. “I was the ’cello myself, fiddling with a ruler on me own knees, double pedalling with two knees! I had no thought for flutes. Ye made the most noise, I’ll say that for ye!” As usual in any discussion, brother and sister fell back to the brogue of their youth, which time and absence had softened to just an agreeable hint of an Irish accent. Stephen smiled with amusement, and expressed a wish to hear the exhibition on another day. “But do sing us something else now,” he said; “something worthy to come after ‘The Wings.’” And for the next hour, while the light waned till they could no longer see one another across the room, Pixie sang one beautiful strain after another, always in the same soft, restrained voice, which could neither disturb the neighbours above or below, nor be too strong for the size of the little room. It was not show singing—rather was it a series of “tryings over,” prefaced by “Oh, do you know this?” or “Don’t you love that bit?” so that each man felt at liberty to join in as the impulse took him, till at times all three were singing together. The hours sped by with wonderful quickness, and when tea-time arrived Stephen insisted upon his right to help his hostess to clear away the meal, and when they returned to the sitting-room, lo! Pat had fallen asleep, and there was nothing to do for it but to return to the kitchen, now immaculately clean and neat under the rule of the admirable Moffatt. “We might as well begin to think about supper, and forage around,” Pixie suggested, but Stephen echoed her own dislike of thinking of meals too far ahead, and pled for delay. “It’s rather a strain to sit and look at cold meat for a solid hour at a stretch, don’t you think?” he asked persuasively. “It would spoil my appetite. Can’t we just—be quiet?” “You can,” was Pixie’s candid answer; “I’m going to write! I’ve the greediest family for letters; do as I will, there’s never a time when somebody isn’t grumbling! Never mind me, if you want to smoke; I approve of men smoking, it keeps them quiet. Can I get you a book?” Stephen shook his head. Pat’s library did not appeal to his more literary taste, and he announced himself content without further employment. “Oh, well then, talk! It won’t disturb me,” said Pixie easily; “I’ll just listen or not, according as it’s interesting. I’m accustomed to it with Bridgie. If you want to set her tongue going, just sit down and begin to write...” Stephen, however, had no intention of taking advantage of the permission. He was abundantly content to sit in his comfortable chair, enjoy his novel surroundings (how very cheerful and attractive a clean kitchen could be!) smoke his cigarette, and watch Pixie scribbling at fever pace over innumerable pages of notepaper. There were frequent snatches of conversation, but invariably it was Pixie herself who led the way. “D’you illustrate your letters when you write them?” she asked at one time. “I always do! Realistic, you know, and saves time. At this present moment—” she drew back from the table, screwing up one eye, and holding aloft her pen in truly professional fashion—“I’m drawing You!” “May I see?” “You may. ... It’s not quite right about the chair legs, they get so mixed up. Perspective never was my strong point,” said Pixie, holding out a sheet and pointing to the masterpiece in question with the end of her pen. “There!” Stephen looked and beheld a rough drawing of a preternaturally thin man, with preternatural large eyes, holding a cigarette in a hand joined to an arm which had evidently suffered severe dislocation. It was the type of drawing affected by schoolboys and girls, yet it had a distinct cleverness of its own. Despite the cart-wheel eyes and the skeleton frame there was a resemblance—there was more than a resemblance, it was actually like, and Stephen acclaimed the fact by a shout of laughter. “I say! Could I have it? It’s uncommonly good!” Pixie shook her head. “It’s for Bridgie.—Ye notice the mouth? Did you know it twisted when you thought? Aren’t they nice, narrow boots? I’ll do one for you another day. ... Turn over the page! There’s another of Pat, as he will look at the supper to-night.” The second drawing was even rougher than the first, but again the faculty for hitting off a likeness was displayed, for Pat, reclining on a bed sloping at a perilous angle towards the floor, gazed at a fragment of mutton-bone with drooping lids and peaking brows, which represented so precisely his expression when injured, that Stephen shouted once again. “Succès fou!” commented Pixie jauntily, as she settled herself once more to her work. “Quite a gift, haven’t I? Couldn’t do pretties to save my life, but I can caricature! Now, please, do be quiet! I must get on...” Half an hour later a loud rapping on the wall announced the awakening of the invalid, who was once more discovered in a fractious mood. “Asleep! Nonsense! For two minutes, perhaps. How d’you suppose any fellow could sleep, with you two shrieking with laughter every two minutes! If you choose to keep your jokes to yourself, all right, it’s nothing to me; but it’s half-past seven. ... Where’s supper?” Even as he spoke another rap sounded on the front door—a brisk, imperative rap which brooked no delay. Pixie darted forward, imagining a surprise visit from the doctor, and found herself confronted by a man in black, standing sentinel over a hamper. “Mr O’Shaughnessy’s flat, madam? I have instructions from Mr Glynn—” “All right, Saunders, bring it in, bring it in!” cried Stephen quickly. He met Pixie’s eyes, flushed, and stammered— “It’s ... supper!” he said lamely. “I telephoned. It seemed a good plan, and I thought that, Pat.—Do you mind?” “Mind!” repeated Pixie, laughing. “Faith I do! I mind very much; but it’s the right way about; it won’t be cold mutton, after all! I’ll have to draw another picture.” The man carried the hamper into the sitting-room, unpacked it deftly, and laid the contents on the table. Soup, smoking hot from a thermos flask, chicken and salad, a shape of cream, and a fragrant pineapple. Pat’s lips ceased to droop, his eyebrows to peak: his dark eyes lit with enjoyment. “Good old Glynn!” he cried. “What a great idea! Now let’s begin, and eat right through...” As he took part in the happy meal which followed, Stephen Glynn reflected that generosity in giving went also with generosity in receiving. Pat and his sister would cheerfully give away their last penny to a friend in need. It never occurred to them to show less readiness to accept when it came to their own turn. Never was a surprise more happily planned; never was a surprise more heartily enjoyed. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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