NAILING UP THE HOLLY
There is nothing an old-time woman enjoyed so much as having her mind
made up for her—by a man—some women do still.
This faculty varies in proportion to the “strength of mind” of the
woman. It was the fainting, ballad-singing, salt-snuffing girl who, in
the old days, did the desperate things; and the reason why the roads are
not strewn nowadays with post-chaises _en route_ to Gretna Green, is
partly because Gretna Green and post-chaises have vanished, partly
because girls have changed.
They have become stronger-minded; they no longer run away, they advance.
But here and there you will find a girl, a modification of the old
type—a girl who seems to have strayed out of some old rose garden, a
girl who would not look foolish playing a harp, a girl one might
serenade without the fear of covering oneself with ridicule, or being
covered by the contents of a slop-jar.
Violet Lestrange was a girl of this type; sweet without being foolish,
simple-minded, but not an idiot, capable of screaming mechanically at
the sight of a mouse, and of facing a lion in cold blood to protect the
man she loved.
She was the last person in the world to be suspected of making a run
away match with the man of her choice, and the first person in the world
to do it.
It is a much easier matter to draw the pen portrait of a Mr Mahony than
of a Violet Lestrange. Dark, with violet eyes and a beautiful
complexion, she had that lost touch of beauty only to be found, I think,
and that very rarely, amongst the women of Ireland; a faint permanent
blush over the cheek bones, like the reflection on alabaster of a June
rose.
One might have thought that when General Grampound chose a future
husband for all this beauty, he might at least have chosen a man with
two eyes.
Whilst Mr Fanshawe was shooting by the little lake, the unfortunate
Violet was dispensing afternoon tea. She had made up her mind and given
her word that morning when seated under the hedge. Ever since, she had
been rocking upon a sea whose alternate billows seemed compounded of
Bliss and Fright.
When the fright was upon her, the sight of Lady Molyneux calmly munching
her muffins seemed awful; General Grampound stirring his tea was tragic,
as the figure of a man whom she had betrayed and murdered; Uncle
Molyneux and his eye-glass seemed the incarnation of saintly propriety;
and the “Violet, dear, another cup of tea, without quite so much milk,”
of Lady Seagrave, the last word of pathos, and a thing to make one weep.
All these people were about to be betrayed. They all seemed either so
foolish or so old, all so unsuspecting.
That they were, in fact, a company of robbers of the worst description,
banded together with the object of stealing her happiness and ruining
her life, never for a moment occurred to her.
She pitied them.
Then, rocked suddenly on a billow of bliss, pity and fear vanished
utterly; Dicky Fanshawe entered her mind, and she put two lumps of sugar
instead of two tabloids of saccharine in General Grampound’s cup, and
scarcely heard the explosion.
“Miss Lestrange!”
Violet was crossing the hall after the tea ordeal; she looked up. A
pasty little face was looking over the banisters. It was Lord Gawdor’s.
“We’re decorating the nursery for Christmas; come’n help.”
Miss Lestrange came up the stairs, and little Lord Gawdor seized her in
a loving embrace with his arm half round her waist. Like this they
marched along, up another flight of stairs and down the corridor to the
nursery.
“They’re putting two shillings’ worth of thripenny pieces in the
pudding,” said Lord Gawdor. “I’ve had a stir at it—have you had a stir
at it? It’s only eight days to Christmas—I’m to have a watch—a gold
one—with a minute hand, but you’re not to tell, for it’s to be a
surprise. Don’t you hope it’ll snow on Christmas Day?—I expect you’ll
have lots of presents, too. Shall I tell you a secret?”
“Not if you oughtn’t to tell.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter, if you keep it. Granny is going to give you——”
“Don’t!” said Miss Lestrange, feeling as though she could weep at the
thought of the innocent Christmas festivities, and the present being
prepared for her.
“It’s a grebe muff and a prayer-book,” said Lord Gawdor, hurriedly
unlading his secret.
“Oh!” said she, losing all sense of pathos in the shock of this
information.
“But you’re not to tell,” said Lord Gawdor.
“I won’t,” said she. “Listen—who is that?” They had neared the nursery
door, which was a bit open.
“That’s Mr Fanshawe; he’s helping to nail up the holly.”
Violet paused at the door and peeped in.
Mr Fanshawe, in his shirt sleeves, was standing on a step-ladder, hammer
in hand, vigorously at work. Doris and Selina were helping.
“Pass me up the nails,” cried Mr Fanshawe. “Nails, not tin tacks,
addle-head! One, two, three—that’ll keep it fixed. Selina won’t give up
the ball of twine, won’t she? I’ll attend to her in a minute.”
They all seemed so happy and busy that a mist came over Miss Lestrange’s
eyes. All fear of the future suddenly cleared from her mind. Dicky, in
his shirt sleeves, nailing up holly, was pre-eminently the figure of a
man to whom one might trust oneself and one’s future.
“Hullo!” said Mr Fanshawe, turning and beaming upon the newcomers.
“You’re too late—everything is done, and there’s nothing to nail up,
unless we nail up Selina.”
Selina protested vigorously, and Miss Lestrange, taking her in her lap,
sat down in the rocking-chair by the fire.
“There’s the bunch of mistletoe,” said Lord Gawdor.
“So there is,” said Mr Fanshawe. “Hand it up here and I’ll nail it out
of mischief.”
“I saw Uncle Molyneux kissing Kate under the mistletoe last Christmas,”
said Lord Gawdor. “It was in the dining-room, and there was no one
there; she squealed and ran round the table, and he ran after her and
caught her round the waist, and gave her a kiss on the cheek that
sounded like a cracker.”
“Who was Kate?” asked Miss Lestrange.
“The housemaid,” replied Lord Gawdor.
“She had a face just like an apple,” said Doris. “Another nail, Mr
Fanshawe?”
“All shiny, you know,” said Lord Gawdor. “Like an apple when you spit on
it and polish it.”
These momentous disclosures were scarcely heard by Mr Fanshawe and Miss
Lestrange, who were engaged in their own thoughts and a veiled attempt
at communication.
“I’ve fixed it all up,” said Dicky, nailing away at the mistletoe.
“Wrote three letters—one to Aunt Domville.”
“I’d love to meet her!”
“You will soon—one to the manager of the railway——”
“Any more nails, Mr Fanshawe?”
“Yes, give me the whole box—that’s right—and one to the Archbishop.”
“_Prenez garde_,” said Miss Lestrange.
“One to the Archbishop asking how his aunt was; she’s had influenza.
Then I went out to shoot rabbits with Patsy.”
“Did you get any?” asked Lord Gawdor.
“No. I saw two ducks—that is to say, a duck and a drake; they were
running away together—flying away, I mean—they were being pursued by
their uncle.”
“Ducks haven’t uncles,” said Lord Gawdor.
“He was a hawk,” said Mr Fanshawe. “With Patsy’s help I shot the hawk,
and the ducks flew away, and were happy ever after.”
“How interesting!” said Miss Lestrange.
“Funny thing, the same thing happened one morning before Christmas. It
was a Friday morning—what’s to-day—Tuesday—well, it was a Friday
morning. It might have been next Friday morning, as the old women say, I
saw two ducks flying away pursued by a hawk.”
“Did they escape?” asked Doris.
“They did.”
“How did you see them, Mr Fanshawe?” asked Lord Gawdor.
“With my eyes,” replied Mr Fanshawe.
“But it’s black dark at four.”
“There was a moon.”
“There’s the dressing gong,” said Violet, rising, and putting Selina
down on the hearthrug, as the roar of the gong came from below.
“And I’ve finished the decorations,” said Mr Fanshawe, coming down the
ladder.
“Mr Fanshawe,” said Doris, “you’ve used nearly the whole box of nails,
nailing up that piece of mistletoe.”
“We can’t play the nursery game any longer,” said Mr Fanshawe, as they
came down the passage together, “or people will suspect; not that I
expected to meet you there just now. I just went to help the kids with
the holly; Bob came and asked me. But I don’t know how we’re to see each
other again to-night, unless in the drawing-room, and that’s worse than
nothing. I’ve got to bottle this beastly burglar at ten—at least fix up
the contraption to catch him in. He’s coming at twelve.”
“Oh, Dicky, I’d forgot——”
“What?”
“That burglar—how wicked of me! I’ve been so happy and so frightened
that I’ve been able to think of nothing. Will it be dangerous?”
“Not a bit. I’ve got the stable-man and Patsy to help.”
“I shan’t sleep till it’s all over.”
“I’ll give two knocks at your door when it’s all fixed. You understand
what I meant about the ducks—everything is arranged for Friday morning.
Isn’t it frightful that we can only speak to one another by strategy
like this? No matter, it won’t be long now——”
“There’s a meet of the hounds to-morrow morning,” said Violet. “We may
be able to talk then without being observed.”
“Yes; O’Farrell’s hounds are going to meet on the lawn here at ten.”
“Hi you, sir—why don’t you bring me my hot water?” came General
Grampound’s voice from below.
“That’s the hawk,” whispered Dicky.
Violet shivered.
“Suppose——” she said.
“Yes?”
“Suppose you hadn’t shot that—other hawk!” she murmured.
“It would have been all up with the ducks,” he said, “or one of them.”
--------------
“Bob!” said Doris.
“What!” asked Bob.
“Do you know what I believe?”
“No.”
“I believe Miss Lestrange is going to marry Mr Fanshawe without any one
knowing.”
“What’s the matter if she does?”
“I heard him say something last night, when he had Selina on his lap and
we were playing with the motor-car, about an Archbishop and a marriage
licence, and that nobody need know; and, just now, when he said he’d
written to the Archbishop, did you hear what she said?”
“No.”
“She said _prenez garde_, just as granny does if she’s speaking about
anything she doesn’t want us to know. Then he said he’d written to the
Archbishop’s aunt, or some nonsense.”
“Yes, I heard him say that,” said Bob.
“I believe they’re going to get married,” went on Doris, “but don’t tell
any one.”
“Who’s going to—it’s only girls tell things—I’m not going to tell. Come
on, and let’s look at ’em going into dinner.”
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