The succeeding hours were filled with a nightmare-like struggle against odds which palpably increased with every hour. Stephen came in and out, turned himself into a messenger to obtain everything that was needed, sent round a hamper of cooked dainties which would provide the small household for days to come, drove to the station to meet Bridgie and bring her to the flat, and oh! the joy, the relief, the blessed consciousness of help, which came to nurse and patient alike at the sight of that sweet, fair face! In one minute Bridgie had shed her hat and coat, in the second moment she was scorching herself by the fire, to remove all trace of chill before she approached the bedside, in the third she was sitting beside it--calm, sweet, capable, with the air of having been there since the beginning of time, and intending to stay until the end.

For the next few days Pat had a sharp struggle for his life. Pneumonia clutched him in its grip, and the sound of his painful breathing was heard all over the little flat. There was a dreadful night when hope was well-nigh extinguished, when Stephen Glynn and the two sisters seemed to wrestle with the very angel of death, and Pat himself to face the end. "Shall I--die?" he gasped, and Bridgie's answering smile seemed to hold an angelic sweetness.

"I hope not, dear lad. There's so much work for you to do down here, but if you do--it's going home! Mother's there, and the Major! They'll welcome you!"

But Pat was young, and the love of life was strong within him. He had loved his parents, but still more at that moment he loved the thought of his work. He fought for his life, and the fight was hard.

Into most lives there comes at times such a night as this; a night of dark, illimitable hours, a night when the world and all its concerns withdraws itself to unmeasurable distance, and the division between life and the eternal grows thin and faint. _Would Pat live to see the morning_? That was the question which to his sisters overwhelmed every other thought. Afterwards, looking back, Pixie could recall certain incidents registered by the sub-conscious self. Being gently forced into a chair; being fed with cups of something hot and nourishing, placed suddenly in her hands by Stephen Glynn, always by Stephen, who seemed by his actions to regard her as a secondary invalid, to be tended with tenderest care. Once, becoming suddenly conscious of his presence, as she stood in the kitchen preparing some necessary for the sick man, a growing fear burst into words, and she asked him pitifully--_how_ pitifully she herself could never know--

"Was it _my fault_? Was there _anything_ I could have done?"

"No, dear," he said simply. "It is not your fault."

Pixie was certain that he had said "dear." The rhythm of it remained in her ears, that, and the deep gentleness of his tone. He had been sorry for her, _so_ sorry! And he was so much older, and he was Stanor's uncle. Why should he not say "dear?"

Short and sharp was the attack, but by G.o.d's mercy the crisis pa.s.sed, and brought relief. Weak as a child, but peaceful and quiet, Pat slept, and took his first steps back towards life.

At last the danger was over, and Pat's natural vigour of const.i.tution made the convalescence unusually quick, but even when he was comparatively well again, Bridgie refused in an altogether amazing and unprecedented manner to return to her beloved home. She suggested not once, but many times in succession, that Pixie should return in her place to take the head of the household, but here Pat grew obstinate in his turn.

No! Pixie had had all the dull work of nursing; he was not going to allow her to return until she had had some fun. And when he began to go out for walks, pray, who was going to accompany him, if Pixie went away?

"You'd be off after her, the moment you saw me on my feet. Don't deny it, for I know better!" Pat declared, and Bridgie blushed, and did not deny it. Already she was pining for d.i.c.k and the children; already counting the hours to her return, _but_...

Movement was evidently in the air; perhaps it was caused by the bright, spring days which had replaced the former gloom. Pat on his bed discussed a possible holiday before returning to work. "It might hurry things," he said. "What do you say, Pixie, seaside or country? Must go somewhere where there's something to _do_! Winter garden, concerts, bands, people to look at. I want to be amused. We'll have a week somewhere, and blow expense. You might come too, Glynn, and bring the car."

Glynn was sitting in his usual place beside the fire; Bridgie was by the bed; Pixie p.r.o.ne on the hearthrug. During the last few days the invalid had been sufficiently strong to enjoy the society of his fellows, had even called upon Pixie to sing, and had apparently greatly enjoyed the hearing, though Bridgie seemed for once unappreciative, and had discouraged further efforts. Now his mind had turned on to holidays, and he had made this direct appeal to Stephen, which seemed to find scant favour from two out of the three hearers.

Bridgie frowned, and stared at the carpet; Stephen's pale face showed a discomfited flush.

"You shall have the car with pleasure. It shall take you wherever you decide to go, and be at your service for as long as you please, but for myself, I must get home. I--I am not usually in town for so long at a time. There are several things waiting attention which should not be delayed. I must get back..."

There was a dead silence, while each one of the three hearers realised the futility of the excuse. Stephen's estate was in the hands of a capable agent: an extra week's absence could make little difference; moreover, previous statements had made it plain that he had originally intended to stay for some considerable time in town. Plain, therefore, as print, and impossible to misunderstand was the fact that he did not _want_ to accompany his friends on their holiday; that in addition he did not for the moment desire more of their company in town.

Bridgie raised her head: she was smiling, a bright, unaffected, _relieved-looking_ smile.

"There's no end to the work on a big estate. The Major--my father--used to say that every man was his own best bailiff, though he made a fine muddle of it himself, poor darling! But my brother Jack agrees with him. He's educated Miles to look after the Irish property, and so does Geoffrey Hilliard. ... It's true he is away half his time--"

At the best of times Bridgie was scarcely a special pleader, and to-day she seemed no sooner to make a statement than she contradicted it straight away. She mumbled vaguely, and relapsed into silence.

"Of course we won't take your car. You will need it for your business excursions!" Pat said icily. "We are very much indebted to you for letting us have the use of it here. It's been of great service, hasn't it, Pixie?"

"It has! I don't know what we'd have done without it. We _are_ grateful," agreed Pixie warmly. Her voice out of all the four was the only one which rang true; her eyes smiled across the room with unembarra.s.sed friendliness. Nevertheless Bridgie, looking on, felt a cramp of pain. How much older Pixie had grown in appearance! The lines of strain and repression over which she had sighed more than once before now had surely deepened during the last weeks! Anxiety, no doubt, the strain of nursing--Bridgie comforted herself as best she might, but no explanation could take away the pang which the mother heart feels at the sight of pain on a young face!

"Come, Pixie," she said, rising, "we'll make tea! I promised Pat potato cakes as soon as the doctor allowed them, and that's to-day. We'll have a feast!--"

"Leave them to themselves," she said confidingly to Pixie when the kitchen was reached. "They'll shake down better without us. Pat's fractious; he always was from a child when he was crossed, but the potato cakes will soothe him. I'm sorry for Mr Glynn. Really, you know, dear, Pat's _exacting_!"

"'Deed he is. It's no wonder he is tired of it." Bridgie needed no explanation as to the significance of that second he. "He's been fussing about us for weeks, and now he'll go home and rest. It's a good thing! Will I mash the potatoes for you, Bridgie?"

"Thank you, darling," said Bridgie humbly, but her face remained troubled. Once more, and with all her heart, she wished that Pixie were safe at home.

The rumble of men's voices could be heard from the kitchen--an amicable rumble it appeared to be, though with mysterious breaks from time to time. Bridgie bustled in, tea-tray in hand, in the middle of one of these breaks, and surprised a look of sadness on each face. She decided that Stephen was to depart forthwith, but such was not the case, since over tea he alluded to an old promise to take Pixie to the Temple, and included Bridgie in an invitation for the following Sunday.

"And then I must be off--on Monday--or--or perhaps on Tuesday," he said vaguely. "One day next week."

"I leave on Monday too," said Bridgie, and ate her potato cake with recovered zest.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

HE LOVES YOU.

That evening Pat showed early signs of fatigue, and requested Bridgie to settle him for the night, bidding the while so marked a farewell to Pixie that she had no alternative but to retire forthwith to her own room. Truth to tell she was not sorry, for sleep had been an uncertain quant.i.ty of late, and the prospect of a long undisturbed night was agreeable. She dallied over her undressing, and when Bridgie joined her half an hour later, sat perched upon the bed, dressing-gowned, her hands clasped round her knees, watching with admiring eyes the picture of her sweet-faced sister seated before the dressing-table engaged in brushing out her long fair hair.

"You've a fine head of hair, me dear! It's wearing well. ... D'you remember the day you and Esmeralda had the trick played on you about going to bed, and sat up half the night brushing and combing to tire out the other?"

"I do so," answered Bridgie, but it was but a faint smile which she gave to the memory of that youthful joke. She parted her hair with a sweep of the brush, and gazing at her sister between the long gold strands said suddenly, and earnestly, "Pixie!"

"Me dear?"

"There's something I want to say. ... To-morrow Mr Glynn will be here.

Pat's asked him to come back after church. He is going away on Monday, so it will be the last time. Be _careful_, darling! Think what you're about. You don't want to be unkind--"

Pixie stared--a stunned, incredulous stare.

"Unkind! To _him_! Are you raving? What am I to be careful about?"

"Oh--oh--_everything_!" Bridgie's breath came in a gasp of helplessness. It had been difficult to speak, but a sense of duty had driven her on, and now it was too late to stop. "Don't--don't talk to him so much. Don't look at him." (Did Pixie realise how instinctively her eyes sought Stephen's for sympathy and appreciation?) "Don't sit by the fire and sing."

A flush spread over Pixie's cheek; her eyes widened.

"_Why_? Doesn't he like it? Isn't it _nice_?"

"Oh-oh, _Pixie_!" cried Bridgie helplessly. A vision rose before her of a little figure in a rose-coloured gown, of the firelight playing on the upturned face. She heard again, the deep crooning notes which filled the room with sweetness. To herself, a sister, the picture was full of charm--what must it be to a lonely man, in love for the first time in thirty-five years? She rose from her chair and came across to the bed: face to face, within the stretch of an arm, the sisters waited in silence, while the clock on the mantelpiece ticked out a long minute.

"Pixie," whispered Bridgie breathlessly, "_don't you know_?"

"What?"

"Don't you know, Pixie, that he loves you?"

"Who loves me?"

"Stephen Glynn. Oh, Pixie, didn't you see?"

The colour faded from Pixie's face; she threw out her hand as if to ward off a threatened danger. There was a note almost of anger in her reply--

"It's not true; it's not! It couldn't be true. ... He care for me!

For Me! You're mad, Bridgie! You're dreaming! There's nothing..."