Becky was the old mare who drew the turnip cart. Mary condescended to share with Mike the delicious intimacy of a secret that, left to herself, Becky would go as far as the Flying Fox, but there would stop, trained by Mike's predecessor to unbreakable habit. Such jokes gain point by frequent repetition.
"She goes well enough till she has to stop for her 'usual,'" laughed Mike. "Oh, Mrs. Robson, we're wishing it was married you were every day after the foine dinner we had yesterday."
"I'm very glad I'm not, Michael. You've no idea what a lot of work it makes, or how much washing up there is afterwards. And people about the house to get cleared away—and—oh, lots of things."
"Indade, it's lucky they are to have the chance of staying."
"It's not lucky for me. Here am I only just going up to decorate the Christmas Tree and late as it is because of everything. Still, there's fifteen years before our silver wedding...."
She smiled a gracious dismissal and passed on.
It was good to be alive, she thought, and good to be queen of so fair a kingdom, and to have worshipping subjects like Mike O'Flynn who paid her homage in the street. In no place sooner than in a village does philanthropy bring its own reward and Mary, pleased because her subjects' gratitude was swift, forgot it might be also transitory.
Everything had gone very well. Perhaps she had been a little too prompt in speeding her parting guests. Uncle Dickie had looked almost hurt when she bustled him into his carriage. But then such a busy person as Mary would never have time for anything if she always stopped to consider other people's feelings. There were so many really important things to be done. The Christmas Tree was important. She had superintended its decoration ever since she was fifteen. There was literally no one else who could do it properly.
Then it was a singularly pleasant thing to do. All the way up the Church Hill Mary was repicturing former trees and former decorations. She always felt a little awed by the tall, tapering tree, standing darkly green against the whitewashed walls of the schoolroom. Still untouched by frivolous hands its regal austerity retained something of the frosty stillness of pinewoods on a starlit night. For a moment—this silent dignity; then with the arrival of noisy helpers the scene became one of riotous carnival. For they carried boxes of coloured balls, bales of scarlet and yellow bunting, baskets laden with glittering tinsel, trumpets painted silver and vermilion, dolls in vivid muslin dresses, stars and medallions, tops and skipping ropes, and tumbled them in festive profusion over baskets and chairs. They tied the oranges on first and the tree was rich with the gold of alien fruit, then the stars and balls and spangled disks, and finally the gaily tinted candles in fragile metal stands, till the tree stood in many-coloured splendour ripe for its fantastic harvest.
She entered the school.