"I never thought I should live to see _you_ conceited about clothes!"

"Ye _do_ get these shocks in life. It's a sad old world!" answered Pixie, and grimaced at him saucily, as she b.u.t.toned her glove.

And, after all, Stephen Glynn never did notice the feather. For a ten-pound note he could not have described the next day a single article of Pixie's attire. He was aware, however, it was pleasant to walk about with Pixie O'Shaughnessy, and that pa.s.sers-by seemed to envy him his post, and he was relieved that she was disfigured by none of the extremes of an ugly fashion; and, after all, nine men out of ten rarely get beyond this point.

They sallied forth together, bidding Pat sleep all morning so as to be ready to talk all afternoon, and descended the gaunt stone stairs to the hall.

They walked quietly, but with enjoyment in each other's company. The usual crowd blocked the Abbey door, and Stephen and Pixie stood waiting under the statue of the "third great Canning" for some time, before at last they were escorted to seats in the nave. The sermon, unfortunately, they could not hear, but the exquisite service was to both a deep delight. Remembering the conversation of the night before, Stephen dreaded lest Pixie should be one of the mistaken ones who sing persistently through an elaborate choral service, thereby nullifying its effect for those around. He was thankful to find that his fears were unnecessary, but once or twice in an unusually beautiful refrain he imagined that his ear caught the sound of a deep, rich note--a soft echo of the strain itself, evoked by an irresistible impulse. He looked inquiringly at his companion, but her head was bent and the brim of her hat concealed her face. Her stillness, her reverence appealed to his heart, for it was easy to see that she was enjoying the music not as a mere concert, but, above all things, as an accompaniment to the words themselves. One time, when he glanced at her as she rose from her knees, he surprised a glimmer of tears in her _eyes_, and the sight brought a stab to his heart. Why should she cry? What was the reason of the air of repression and strain which from time to time flitted across her face? If it were Stanor's doing. ... Stephen frowned, and resolutely turned his attention to the service.

They came out of the Abbey to the majestic strains of the organ--out of the dim, blurred light shining shaft-like across the glowing mosaic of gold, and marble, and great jewelled windows, into the hard, everyday world. The pavements were crowded with pedestrians hurrying here and there; restaurants had opened their doors, tobacco merchants and newspaper vendors were hard at work, and country-bred Pixie stared around in amazed disapproval. They crossed the crowded thoroughfares and, led by Stephen, found quiet byways in which it was possible to talk in comparative comfort alone.

"It was better even than I expected, and that's saying so much! It does one good to go to a service like that. It's so _big_!"

"The--the Abbey?" queried Stephen vaguely, and Pixie gave a quick denial.

"No. _No_! Not only the building--everything! There's an atmosphere of peace, and dignity, and calm. One gets away from littleness and quarrelling. It's so sad when people quarrel about religion, and one sect disputes with another..."

"It is indeed," replied Stephen, sighing. "The chances of conciliation would be so much greater if they fought with honey, not with gall. ...

The world needs kindness--"

"Oh, it does! There is such sorrow, such pain!" Pixie's voice rang suddenly sharp, and a wave of emotion flitted over her face. She raised her eyes to his, and said suddenly, in a voice of melting pathos: "_Her face_! ... That girl's face! All these years I've never forgotten. ...

It's lain _here_!" She touched her heart with an eloquent finger.

"All these years--every night--I've prayed that they might meet..." She shook her head with a determined gesture, as though shaking off a haunting thought. "I couldn't forget, you see, because--it taught me ... things I had not understood--!"

"Yes," said Stephen dully. For his life he could not have said another word. He waited with dread to hear the next words.

"But it was _worth_ learning!" Pixie said bravely. "I was glad to learn. Love is such a big, big thing. When it is given to you it's a big responsibility. You must not fail; nothing in the world must make you fail!"

Stephen said no word. The questions which had filled his brain for the last five days were answered now. There was no more room for doubt.

Pixie O'Shaughnessy was ready and waiting to marry Stanor Vaughan at any time when it pleased him to come home and claim her promise.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A MUSICAL EVENING.

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 circ.u.mstances. ... Pixie evidently puts Moffatt's pleasure before our food."

"_I do_!" cried Pixie st.u.r.dily.

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 bas.e.m.e.nt?"

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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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 appet.i.te. 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.