THE STORY OF THE PIG
“Now sit down, Bob, and do try to behave yourself; Selina shall sit in
my lap if she will promise to be good, and I will tell you a
story—Doris, leave the poker alone—Dear me, dear me,” said Miss
Lestrange, suddenly assuming a grandmotherly tone, “who’d be worried by
children? Where is my snuff-box and my cane?—Well, then, sit still and
count ten to yourselves all round whilst I think of a story.”
She was seated in the old broken-down nursery rocking-chair with Selina
in her lap; there was no lamp, and the flickering fire-light lit the
interminable man driving his pig to market and the broom-like tail of
the rocking-horse, whose body was lost in shadow.
“Ten!” suddenly yelled Lord Gawdor.
“I’d only got to nine,” said Doris. “Bob counts so quick. No matter,
begin the story.”
“I haven’t thought of one yet,” said Miss Lestrange. “What shall it be?
Selina is the youngest, and she shall choose; what would you like a
story about, Selina?”
“Pigs!” replied Selina after a moment’s deliberation, during which her
eyes had wandered round the walls of the room in search of inspiration.
“I’m afraid I can scarcely rise to pigs,” said Miss Lestrange. “Think
again, Selina; shut your eyes and think hard. How would a story about a
giant do?”
Selina thought for a moment, and then, with the air of a person who had
quite made up her mind:
“I want a ’tory about piggy-wiggies.”
“Try a giant, Selina,” said Doris, in the coaxing voice of a nurse
offering a delicacy to an invalid.
“Don’t _want_ a giant,” replied the pig fancier. “I want piggy-wiggies.”
“Who’s this that wants piggy-wiggies?” came a voice from the door. “Oh,
I beg pardon—thought there was no one here. May I come in?”
“No room, no room,” cried Miss Lestrange; “we are telling stories.”
“There’s plenty of room,” replied Mr Fanshawe, paraphrasing the heroine
of “Alice in Wonderland,” and crossing the floor at the same time. “I
say, how jolly you all look sitting round the fire!”
Selina, seeing the newcomer, looked at him for a moment critically,
forgot pigs completely, and held out her arms to him.
“Selina has never done that to any one before,” said Doris; “she hates
strangers, as a rule, and always cries at them.”
“There, take her,” said Miss Lestrange, handing the white bundle to Mr
Fanshawe, who sat down with it on the chair vacated by Bob; “but take
the responsibility also—you have to tell her a story about a pig.”
“Right,” replied Mr Fanshawe, whilst Selina settled herself to listen;
and Bob and his sister, who didn’t care much for stories of Selina’s
level, amused themselves on the floor with a clock-work motor-car which
Uncle Molyneux had brought them from London.
The whizz and snarl of the motor-car as it made frantic gyrations on the
nursery floor half obscured Mr Fanshawe’s voice.
“There was once a little pig,” began Mr Fanshawe, “and he lived in a
sty—I say, things were pretty dull in the dining-room when you left. Did
you ever hear Boxall on the preferential tariff question?—Boxall with
his muzzle off? Uncle’s bad to beat when he’s on the first Sikh war, but
Boxall—Yes, yes, Selina, where was I?—There was once a little pig and he
lived in a sty and he had bran mash for dinner. He had three little
brothers and three little sisters—now count them to yourself, and I’ll
give you a penny if you tell me how many little brothers and sisters he
had—count them five times over and I’ll give you tuppence—So I just
bolted, and Patsy said you were here—Do you know Patsy, the red-headed
page-boy?—So I thought I’d come up and see. Oh, Violet—It’s all right,
I’m not talking loud enough for them to hear—but I’ve been half cracked
for the last few months. This can’t go on, there’s no use talking. Do
you know why uncle is trying to separate us? It’s just from viciousness.
You don’t know him; he hates me—why? for no reason at all; we don’t get
on, that’s all—ever since I was a boy it has been the same. You see,
uncle is like nothing so much in the world as a vicious old maid who has
been crossed in love and hates to see other people happy. Violet,
darling——
“Oh, bother the pigs—Yes, Selina, there were six little pigs, and one
had a gun—here, play with my watch—Violet, darling, it has come to this,
that both our lives will be wrecked by that old lunatic if we are not
careful—the old Seagrave woman is aiding and abetting him. I have lots
of money for us both, I love you, you care for me—let’s go in for a bold
stroke. Look here, he’s always threatening to put you in Chancery—let’s
outwit him. Once you are married he _can’t_ put you in Chancery, ’cos
you’d be mine then, do you see?—There you are, take the whole watch and
chain and play with it—Let’s give them all the slip. I’ll get a special
licence, we’ll take the train to Dublin; you can stop at my aunt’s in
Merrion Square—she’s a regular sportsman—and before they can stop us
we’ll be married. I know it’s awfully sudden my proposing this, but what
am I to do? Look at us—we can scarcely speak to each other, unless by
strategy. And I know _this_, unless you do as I say, we will never be
married, for you will never have strength to resist uncle; he’ll keep
nagging to you till he breaks your spirit. And that beast of a
Boxall—suppose he _has_ got seven thousand a year, money isn’t happiness
tied to a brute like that. I have three thousand a year myself, and I’ll
give up racing, I’ll give up smoking, I’ll give up everything for you.
Promise me you’ll think of what I say—Bless you, my darling—Violet,
darling, lean your dear head forward—no—well, I won’t—Now what is it,
Selina——”
“She has dropped your watch,” said Miss Lestrange.
“And smashed it, too,” replied Mr Fanshawe; “and cheap at the
price—Bless her, she’s asleep.”
Selina, suddenly overcome, was in the arms of slumber, and at that
moment the door leading to the night nursery opened, and Biddy Mahony
entered in search of her charge.
“She ought to a’ been in bed an hour ago,” said Biddy, as she took
Selina from Mr Fanshawe; “but she gets wild when there’s company in the
house, and there’s no sootherin’ her to slape.”
“Grass-eyes,” muttered Selina, tossing her arms in slumber as Biddy
carried her off.
“She’s thinking of Mr. Boxall’s eye,” said Lord Gawdor. “Mr Fanshawe,
one of Mr Boxall’s eyes is made of glass.”
“Never mind Mr Boxall’s eyes,” cried Dicky in wild spirits; “come on,
and we’ll have a game of Blind-man’s Buff.”
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“I say,” said little Lord Gawdor to Doris when Dicky and Miss Lestrange
had departed, “when Mr Fanshawe had blinded us both I just lifted the
handkerchief a wee peep, and do you know what I saw?”
“I know,” replied Doris, “I _heard_ it; but don’t tell.”
“Think I’m an ass?” said Lord Gawdor.
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