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Title: The Mistletoe Bough


Author: Anthony Trollope



Release Date: January 16, 2015  [eBook #3719]
[This file was first posted on August 7, 2001]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8


***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MISTLETOE BOUGH***


Transcribed from the 1864 Chapman and Hall “Tales of All Countries”
edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org





                           THE MISTLETOE BOUGH.


“Let the boys have it if they like it,” said Mrs. Garrow, pleading to her
only daughter on behalf of her two sons.

“Pray don’t, mamma,” said Elizabeth Garrow.  “It only means romping.  To
me all that is detestable, and I am sure it is not the sort of thing that
Miss Holmes would like.”

“We always had it at Christmas when we were young.”

“But, mamma, the world is so changed.”

The point in dispute was one very delicate in its nature, hardly to be
discussed in all its bearings, even in fiction, and the very mention of
which between mother and daughter showed a great amount of close
confidence between them.  It was no less than this.  Should that branch
of mistletoe which Frank Garrow had brought home with him out of the
Lowther woods be hung up on Christmas Eve in the dining-room at Thwaite
Hall, according to his wishes; or should permission for such hanging be
positively refused?  It was clearly a thing not to be done after such a
discussion, and therefore the decision given by Mrs. Garrow was against
it.

I am inclined to think that Miss Garrow was right in saying that the
world is changed as touching mistletoe boughs.  Kissing, I fear, is less
innocent now than it used to be when our grand-mothers were alive, and we
have become more fastidious in our amusements.  Nevertheless, I think
that she made herself fairly open to the raillery with which her brothers
attacked her.

“Honi soit qui mal y pense,” said Frank, who was eighteen.

“Nobody will want to kiss you, my lady Fineairs,” said Harry, who was
just a year younger.

“Because you choose to be a Puritan, there are to be no more cakes and
ale in the house,” said Frank.

“Still waters run deep; we all know that,” said Harry.

The boys had not been present when the matter was decided between Mrs.
Garrow and her daughter, nor had the mother been present when these
little amenities had passed between the brothers and sister.

“Only that mamma has said it, and I wouldn’t seem to go against her,”
said Frank, “I’d ask my father.  He wouldn’t give way to such nonsense, I
know.”

Elizabeth turned away without answering, and left the room.  Her eyes
were full of tears, but she would not let them see that they had vexed
her.  They were only two days home from school, and for the last week
before their coming, all her thoughts had been to prepare for their
Christmas pleasures.  She had arranged their rooms, making everything
warm and pretty.  Out of her own pocket she had bought a shot-belt for
one, and skates for the other.  She had told the old groom that her pony
was to belong exclusively to Master Harry for the holidays, and now Harry
told her that still waters ran deep.  She had been driven to the use of
all her eloquence in inducing her father to purchase that gun for Frank,
and now Frank called her a Puritan.  And why?  She did not choose that a
mistletoe bough should be hung in her father’s hall, when Godfrey Holmes
was coming to visit him.  She could not explain this to Frank, but Frank
might have had the wit to understand it.  But Frank was thinking only of
Patty Coverdale, a blue-eyed little romp of sixteen, who, with her sister
Kate, was coming from Penrith to spend the Christmas at Thwaite Hall.
Elizabeth left the room with her slow, graceful step, hiding her
tears,—hiding all emotion, as latterly she had taught herself that it was
feminine to do.  “There goes my lady Fineairs,” said Harry, sending his
shrill voice after her.

Thwaite Hall was not a place of much pretension.  It was a moderate-sized
house, surrounded by pretty gardens and shrubberies, close down upon the
river Eamont, on the Westmoreland side of the river, looking over to a
lovely wooded bank in Cumberland.  All the world knows that the Eamont
runs out of Ulleswater, dividing the two counties, passing under Penrith
Bridge and by the old ruins of Brougham Castle, below which it joins the
Eden.  Thwaite Hall nestled down close upon the clear rocky stream about
half way between Ulleswater and Penrith, and had been built just at a
bend of the river.  The windows of the dining-parlour and of the
drawing-room stood at right angles to each other, and yet each commanded
a reach of the stream.  Immediately from a side of the house steps were
cut down through the red rock to the water’s edge, and here a small boat
was always moored to a chain.  The chain was stretched across the river,
fixed to the staples driven into the rock on either side, and the boat
was pulled backwards and forwards over the stream without aid from oars
or paddles.  From the opposite side a path led through the woods and
across the fields to Penrith, and this was the route commonly used
between Thwaite Hall and the town.

Major Garrow was a retired officer of Engineers, who had seen service in
all parts of the world, and who was now spending the evening of his days
on a small property which had come to him from his father.  He held in
his own hands about twenty acres of land, and he was the owner of one
small farm close by, which was let to a tenant.  That, together with his
half-pay, and the interest of his wife’s thousand pounds, sufficed to
educate his children and keep the wolf at a comfortable distance from his
door.  He himself was a spare thin man, with quiet, lazy, literary
habits.  He had done the work of life, but had so done it as to permit of
his enjoying that which was left to him.  His sole remaining care was the
establishment of his children; and, as far as he could see, he had no
ground for anticipating disappointment.  They were clever, good-looking,
well-disposed young people, and upon the whole it may be said that the
sun shone brightly on Thwaite Hall.  Of Mrs. Garrow it may suffice to say
that she always deserved such sunshine.

For years past it had been the practice of the family to have some sort
of gathering at Thwaite Hall during Christmas.  Godfrey Holmes had been
left under the guardianship of Major Garrow, and, as he had always spent
his Christmas holidays with his guardian, this, perhaps, had given rise
to the practice.  Then the Coverdales were cousins of the Garrows, and
they had usually been there as children.  At the Christmas last past the
custom had been broken, for young Holmes had been abroad.  Previous to
that, they had all been children, excepting him.  But now that they were
to meet again, they were no longer children.  Elizabeth, at any rate, was
not so, for she had already counted nineteen winters.  And Isabella
Holmes was coming.  Now Isabella was two years older than Elizabeth, and
had been educated in Brussels; moreover she was comparatively a stranger
at Thwaite Hall, never having been at those early Christmas meetings.

And now I must take permission to begin my story by telling a lady’s
secret.  Elizabeth Garrow had already been in love with Godfrey Holmes,
or perhaps it might be more becoming to say that Godfrey Holmes had
already been in love with her.  They had already been engaged; and, alas!
they had already agreed that that engagement should be broken off!

Young Holmes was now twenty-seven years of age, and was employed in a
bank at Liverpool, not as a clerk, but as assistant-manager, with a large
salary.  He was a man well to do in the world, who had money also of his
own, and who might well afford to marry.  Some two years since, on the
eve of leaving Thwaite Hall, he had with low doubting whisper told
Elizabeth that he loved her, and she had flown trembling to her mother.
“Godfrey, my boy,” the father said to him, as he parted with him the next
morning, “Bessy is only a child, and too young to think of this yet.”  At
the next Christmas Godfrey was in Italy, and the thing was gone by,—so at
least the father and mother said to each other.  But the young people had
met in the summer, and one joyful letter had come from the girl home to
her mother.  “I have accepted him.  Dearest, dearest mamma, I do love
him.  But don’t tell papa yet, for I have not quite accepted him.  I
think I am sure, but I am not quite sure.  I am not quite sure about
him.”

And then, two days after that, there had come a letter that was not at
all joyful.  “Dearest Mamma,—It is not to be.  It is not written in the
book.  We have both agreed that it will not do.  I am so glad that you
have not told dear papa, for I could never make him understand.  You will
understand, for I shall tell you everything, down to his very words.  But
we have agreed that there shall be no quarrel.  It shall be exactly as it
was, and he will come at Christmas all the same.  It would never do that
he and papa should be separated, nor could we now put off Isabella.  It
is better so in every way, for there is and need be no quarrel.  We still
like each other.  I am sure I like him, but I know that I should not make
him happy as his wife.  He says it is my fault.  I, at any rate, have
never told him that I thought it his.”  From all which it will be seen
that the confidence between the mother and daughter was very close.

Elizabeth Garrow was a very good girl, but it might almost be a question
whether she was not too good.  She had learned, or thought that she had
learned, that most girls are vapid, silly, and useless,—given chiefly to
pleasure-seeking and a hankering after lovers; and she had resolved that
she would not be such a one.

Industry, self-denial, and a religious purpose in life, were the tasks
which she set herself; and she went about the performance of them with
much courage.  But such tasks, though they are excellently well adapted
to fit a young lady for the work of living, may also be carried too far,
and thus have the effect of unfitting her for that work.  When Elizabeth
Garrow made up her mind that the finding of a husband was not the only
purpose of life, she did very well.  It is very well that a young lady
should feel herself capable of going through the world happily without
one.  But in teaching herself this she also taught herself to think that
there was a certain merit in refusing herself the natural delight of a
lover, even though the possession of the lover were compatible with all
her duties to herself, her father and mother, and the world at large.  It
was not that she had determined to have no lover.  She made no such
resolve, and when the proper lover came he was admitted to her heart.
But she declared to herself unconsciously that she must put a guard upon
herself, lest she should be betrayed into weakness by her own happiness.
She had resolved that in loving her lord she would not worship him, and
that in giving her heart she would only so give it as it should be given
to a human creature like herself.  She had acted on these high resolves,
and hence it had come to pass,—not unnaturally,—that Mr. Godfrey Holmes
had told her that it was “her fault.”

She was a pretty, fair girl, with soft dark-brown hair, and soft long
dark eyelashes.  Her grey eyes, though quiet in their tone, were tender
and lustrous.  Her face was oval, and the lines of her cheek and chin
perfect in their symmetry.  She was generally quiet in her demeanour, but
when moved she could rouse herself to great energy, and speak with
feeling and almost with fire.  Her fault was a reverence for martyrdom in
general, and a feeling, of which she was unconscious, that it became a
young woman to be unhappy in secret;—that it became a young woman, I
might rather say, to have a source of unhappiness hidden from the world
in general, and endured without any detriment to her outward
cheerfulness.  We know the story of the Spartan boy who held the fox
under his tunic.  The fox was biting into him,—into the very entrails;
but the young hero spake never a word.  Now Bessy Garrow was inclined to
think that it was a good thing to have a fox always biting, so that the
torment caused no ruffling to her outward smiles.  Now at this moment the
fox within her bosom was biting her sore enough, but she bore it without
flinching.

“If you would rather that he should not come I will have it arranged,”
her mother had said to her.

“Not for worlds,” she had answered.  “I should never think well of myself
again.”

Her mother had changed her own mind more than once as to the conduct in
this matter which might be best for her to follow, thinking solely of her
daughter’s welfare.  “If he comes they will be reconciled, and she will
be happy,” had been her first idea.  But then there was a stern fixedness
of purpose in Bessy’s words when she spoke of Mr. Holmes, which had
expelled this hope, and Mrs. Garrow had for a while thought it better
that the young man should not come.  But Bessy would not permit this.  It
would vex her father, put out of course the arrangements of other people,
and display weakness on her own part.  He should come, and she would
endure without flinching while the fox gnawed at her.

That battle of the mistletoe had been fought on the morning before
Christmas-day, and the Holmeses came on Christmas-eve.  Isabella was
comparatively a stranger, and therefore received at first the greater
share of attention.  She and Elizabeth had once seen each other, and for
the last year or two had corresponded, but personally they had never been
intimate.  Unfortunately for the latter, that story of Godfrey’s offer
and acceptance had been communicated to Isabella, as had of course the
immediately subsequent story of their separation.  But now it would be
almost impossible to avoid the subject in conversation.  “Dearest
Isabella, let it be as though it had never been,” she had said in one of
her letters.  But sometimes it is very difficult to let things be as
though they had never been.

The first evening passed over very well.  The two Coverdale girls were
there, and there had been much talking and merry laughter, rather
juvenile in its nature, but on the whole none the worse for that.
Isabella Holmes was a fine, tall, handsome girl; good-humoured, and well
disposed to be pleased; rather Frenchified in her manners, and quite able
to take care of herself.  But she was not above round games, and did not
turn up her nose at the boys.  Godfrey behaved himself excellently,
talking much to the Major, but by no means avoiding Miss Garrow.  Mrs.
Garrow, though she had known him since he was a boy, had taken an
aversion to him since he had quarrelled with her daughter; but there was
no room on this first night for showing such aversion, and everything
went off well.

“Godfrey is very much improved,” the Major said to his wife that night.

“Do you think so?”

“Indeed I do.  He has filled out and become a fine man.”

“In personal appearance, you mean.  Yes, he is well-looking enough.”

“And in his manner, too.  He is doing uncommonly well in Liverpool, I can
tell you; and if he should think of Bessy—”

“There is nothing of that sort,” said Mrs. Garrow.

“He did speak to me, you know,—two years ago.  Bessy was too young then,
and so indeed was he.  But if she likes him—”

“I don’t think she does.”

“Then there’s an end of it.”  And so they went to bed.

“Frank,” said the sister to her elder brother, knocking at his door when
they had all gone up stairs, “may I come in,—if you are not in bed?”

“In bed,” said he, looking up with some little pride from his Greek book;
“I’ve one hundred and fifty lines to do before I can get to bed.  It’ll
be two, I suppose.  I’ve got to mug uncommon hard these holidays.  I have
only one more half, you know, and then—”

“Don’t overdo it, Frank.”

“No; I won’t overdo it.  I mean to take one day a week, and work eight
hours a day on the other five.  That will be forty hours a week, and will
give me just two hundred hours for the holidays.  I have got it all down
here on a table.  That will be a hundred and five for Greek play, forty
for Algebra—” and so he explained to her the exact destiny of all his
long hours of proposed labour.  He had as yet been home a day and a half,
and had succeeded in drawing out with red lines and blue figures the
table which he showed her.  “If I can do that, it will be pretty well;
won’t it?”

“But, Frank, you have come home for your holidays,—to enjoy yourself?”

“But a fellow must work now-a-days.”

“Don’t overdo it, dear; that’s all.  But, Frank, I could not rest if I
went to bed without speaking to you.  You made me unhappy to-day.”

“Did I, Bessy?”

“You called me a Puritan, and then you quoted that ill-natured French
proverb at me.  Do you really believe your sister thinks evil, Frank?”
and as she spoke she put her arm caressingly round his neck.

“Of course I don’t.”

“Then why say so?  Harry is so much younger and so thoughtless that I can
bear what he says without so much suffering.  But if you and I are not
friends I shall be very wretched.  If you knew how I have looked forward
to your coming home!”

“I did not mean to vex you, and I won’t say such things again.”

“That’s my own Frank.  What I said to mamma, I said because I thought it
right; but you must not say that I am a Puritan.  I would do anything in
my power to make your holidays bright and pleasant.  I know that boys
require so much more to amuse them than girls do.  Good night, dearest;
pray don’t overdo yourself with work, and do take care of your eyes.”

So saying she kissed him and went her way.  In twenty minutes after that,
he had gone to sleep over his book; and when he woke up to find the
candle guttering down, he resolved that he would not begin his measured
hours till Christmas-day was fairly over.

The morning of Christmas-day passed very quietly.  They all went to
church, and then sat round the fire chatting until the four o’clock
dinner was ready.  The Coverdale girls thought it was rather more dull
than former Thwaite Hall festivities, and Frank was seen to yawn.  But
then everybody knows that the real fun of Christmas never begins till the
day itself be passed.  The beef and pudding are ponderous, and unless
there be absolute children in the party, there is a difficulty in
grafting any special afternoon amusements on the Sunday pursuits of the
morning.  In the evening they were to have a dance; that had been
distinctly promised to Patty Coverdale; but the dance would not commence
till eight.  The beef and pudding were ponderous, but with due efforts
they were overcome and disappeared.  The glass of port was sipped, the
almonds and raisins were nibbled, and then the ladies left the room.  Ten
minutes after that Elizabeth found herself seated with Isabella Holmes
over the fire in her father’s little book-room.  It was not by her that
this meeting was arranged, for she dreaded such a constrained confidence;
but of course it could not be avoided, and perhaps it might be as well
now as hereafter.

“Bessy,” said the elder girl, “I am dying to be alone with you for a
moment.”

“Well, you shall not die; that is, if being alone with me will save you.”

“I have so much to say to you.  And if you have any true friendship in
you, you also will have so much to say to me.”

Miss Garrow perhaps had no true friendship in her at that moment, for she
would gladly have avoided saying anything, had that been possible.  But
in order to prove that she was not deficient in friendship, she gave her
friend her hand.

“And now tell me everything about Godfrey,” said Isabella.

“Dear Bella, I have nothing to tell;—literally nothing.”

“That is nonsense.  Stop a moment, dear, and understand that I do not
mean to offend you.  It cannot be that you have nothing to tell, if you
choose to tell it.  You are not the girl to have accepted Godfrey without
loving him, nor is he the man to have asked you without loving you.  When
you write me word that you have changed your mind, as you might about a
dress, of course I know you have not told me all.  Now I insist upon
knowing it,—that is, if we are to be friends.  I would not speak a word
to Godfrey till I had seen you, in order that I might hear your story
first.”

“Indeed, Bella, there is no story to tell.”

“Then I must ask him.”

“If you wish to play the part of a true friend to me, you will let the
matter pass by and say nothing.  You must understand that, circumstanced
as we are, your brother’s visit here,—what I mean is, that it is very
difficult for me to act and speak exactly as I should do, and a few
unfortunate words spoken may make my position unendurable.”

“Will you answer me one question?”

“I cannot tell.  I think I will.”

“Do you love him?”  For a moment or two Bessy remained silent, striving
to arrange her words so that they should contain no falsehood, and yet
betray no truth.  “Ah, I see you do,” continued Miss Holmes.  “But of
course you do.  Why else did you accept him?”

“I fancied that I did, as young ladies do sometimes fancy.”

“And will you say that you do not, now?”  Again Bessy was silent, and
then her friend rose from her seat.  “I see it all,” she said.  “What a
pity it was that you both had not some friend like me by you at the time!
But perhaps it may not be too late.”

I need not repeat at length all the protestations which upon this were
poured forth with hot energy by poor Bessy.  She endeavoured to explain
how great had been the difficulty of her position.  This Christmas visit
had been arranged before that unhappy affair at Liverpool had occurred.
Isabella’s visit had been partly one of business, it being necessary that
certain money affairs should be arranged between her, her brother, and
the Major.  “I determined,” said Bessy, “not to let my feelings stand in
the way; and hoped that things might settle down to their former friendly
footing.  I already fear that I have been wrong, but it will be
ungenerous in you to punish me.”  Then she went on to say that if anybody
attempted to interfere with her, she should at once go away to her
mother’s sister, who lived at Hexham, in Northumberland.

Then came the dance, and the hearts of Kate and Patty Coverdale were at
last happy.  But here again poor Bessy was made to understand how
terribly difficult was this experiment of entertaining on a footing of
friendship a lover with whom she had quarrelled only a month or two
before.  That she must as a necessity become the partner of Godfrey
Holmes she had already calculated, and so much she was prepared to
endure.  Her brothers would of course dance with the Coverdale girls, and
her father would of course stand up with Isabella.  There was no other
possible arrangement, at any rate as a beginning.

She had schooled herself, too, as to the way in which she would speak to
him on the occasion, and how she would remain mistress of herself and of
her thoughts.  But when the time came the difficulty was almost too much
for her.

“You do not care much for dancing, if I remember?” said he.

“Oh yes, I do.  Not as Patty Coverdale does.  It’s a passion with her.
But then I am older than Patty Coverdale.”  After that he was silent for
a minute or two.

“It seems so odd to me to be here again,” he said.  It was odd;—she felt
that it was odd.  But he ought not to have said so.

“Two years make a great difference.  The boys have grown so much.”

“Yes, and there are other things,” said he.

“Bella was never here before; at least not with you.”

“No.  But I did not exactly mean that.  All that would not make the place
so strange.  But your mother seems altered to me.  She used to be almost
like my own mother.”

“I suppose she finds that you are a more formidable person as you grow
older.  It was all very well scolding you when you were a clerk in the
bank, but it does not do to scold the manager.  These are the penalties
men pay for becoming great.”

“It is not my greatness that stands in my way, but—”

“Then I’m sure I cannot say what it is.  But Patty will scold you if you
do not mind the figure, though you were the whole Board of Directors
packed into one.  She won’t respect you if you neglect your present
work.”

When Bessy went to bed that night she began to feel that she had
attempted too much.  “Mamma,” she said, “could I not make some excuse and
go away to Aunt Mary?”

“What now?”

“Yes, mamma; now; to-morrow.  I need not say that it will make me very
unhappy to be away at such a time, but I begin to think that it will be
better.”

“What will papa say?”

“You must tell him all.”

“And Aunt Mary must be told also.  You would not like that.  Has he said
anything?”

“No, nothing;—very little, that is.  But Bella has spoken to me.  Oh,
mamma, I think we have been very wrong in this.  That is, I have been
wrong.  I feel as though I should disgrace myself, and turn the whole
party here into a misfortune.”

It would be dreadful, that telling of the story to her father and to her
aunt, and such a necessity must, if possible, be avoided.  Should such a
necessity actually come, the former task would, no doubt, be done by her
mother, but that would not lighten the load materially.  After a
fortnight she would again meet her father, and would be forced to discuss
it.  “I will remain if it be possible,” she said; “but, mamma, if I wish
to go, you will not stop me?”  Her mother promised that she would not
stop her, but strongly advised her to stand her ground.

On the following morning, when she came down stairs before breakfast, she
found Frank standing in the hall with his gun, of which he was trying the
lock.  “It is not loaded, is it, Frank?” said she.

“Oh dear, no; no one thinks of loading now-a-days till he has got out of
the house.  Directly after breakfast I am going across with Godfrey to
the back of Greystock, to see after some moor-fowl.  He asked me to go,
and I couldn’t well refuse.”

“Of course not.  Why should you?”

“It will be deuced hard work to make up the time.  I was to have been up
at four this morning, but that alarum went off and never woke me.
However, I shall be able to do something to-night.”

“Don’t make a slavery of your holidays, Frank.  What’s the good of having
a new gun if you’re not to use it?”

“It’s not the new gun.  I’m not such a child as that comes to.  But, you
see, Godfrey is here, and one ought to be civil to him.  I’ll tell you
what I want you girls to do, Bessy.  You must come and meet us on our way
home.  Come over in the boat and along the path to the Patterdale road.
We’ll be there under the hill about five.”

“And if you are not, we are to wait in the snow?”

“Don’t make difficulties, Bessy.  I tell you we will be there.  We are to
go in the cart, and so shall have plenty of time.”

“And how do you know the other girls will go?”

“Why, to tell you the truth, Patty Coverdale has promised.  As for Miss
Holmes, if she won’t, why you must leave her at home with mamma.  But
Kate and Patty can’t come without you.”

“Your discretion has found that out, has it?”

“They say so.  But you will come; won’t you, Bessy?  As for waiting, it’s
all nonsense.  Of course you can walk on.  But we’ll be at the stile by
five.  I’ve got my watch, you know.”  And then Bessy promised him.  What
would she not have done for him that was in her power to do?

“Go!  Of course I’ll go,” said Miss Holmes.  “I’m up to anything.  I’d
have gone with them this morning, and have taken a gun if they’d asked
me.  But, by-the-bye, I’d better not.”

“Why not?” said Patty, who was hardly yet without fear lest something
should mar the expedition.

“What will three gentlemen do with four ladies?”

“Oh, I forgot,” said Patty innocently.

“I’m sure I don’t care,” said Kate; “you may have Harry if you like.”

“Thank you for nothing,” said Miss Holmes.  “I want one for myself.  It’s
all very well for you to make the offer, but what should I do if Harry
wouldn’t have me?  There are two sides, you know, to every bargain.”

“I’m sure he isn’t anything to me,” said Kate.  “Why, he’s not quite
seventeen years old yet!”

“Poor boy!  What a shame to dispose of him so soon.  We’ll let him off
for a year or two; won’t we, Miss Coverdale?  But as there seems by
acknowledgment to be one beau with unappropriated services—”

“I’m sure I have appropriated nobody,” said Patty, “and didn’t intend.”

“Godfrey, then, is the only knight whose services are claimed,” said Miss
Holmes, looking at Bessy.  Bessy made no immediate answer with either her
eyes or tongue; but when the Coverdales were gone, she took her new
friend to task.

“How can you fill those young girls’ heads with such nonsense?”

“Nature has done that, my dear.”

“But nature should be trained; should it not?  You will make them think
that those foolish boys are in love with them.”

“The foolish boys, as you call them, will look after that themselves.  It
seems to me that the foolish boys know what they are about better than
some of their elders.”  And then, after a moment’s pause, she added, “As
for my brother, I have no patience with him.”

“Pray do not discuss your brother,” said Bessy.  “And, Bella, unless you
wish to drive me away, pray do not speak of him and me together as you
did just now.”

“Are you so bad as that,—that the slightest commonplace joke upsets you?
Would not his services be due to you as a matter of course?  If you are
so sore about it, you will betray your own secret.”

“I have no secret,—none at least from you, or from mamma; and, indeed,
none from him.  We were both very foolish, thinking that we knew each
other and our own hearts, when we knew neither.”

“I hate to hear people talk of knowing their hearts.  My idea is, that if
you like a young man, and he asks you to marry him, you ought to have
him.  That is, if there is enough to live on.  I don’t know what more is
wanted.  But girls are getting to talk and think as though they were to
send their hearts through some fiery furnace of trial before they may
give them up to a husband’s keeping.  I am not at all sure that the
French fashion is not the best, and that these things shouldn’t be
managed by the fathers and mothers, or perhaps by the family lawyers.
Girls who are so intent upon knowing their own hearts generally end by
knowing nobody’s heart but their own; and then they die old maids.”

“Better that than give themselves to the keeping of those they don’t know
and cannot esteem.”

“That’s a matter of taste.  I mean to take the first that comes, so long
as he looks like a gentleman, and has not less than eight hundred a year.
Now Godfrey does look like a gentleman, and has double that.  If I had
such a chance I shouldn’t think twice about it.”

“But I have no such chance.”

“That’s the way the wind blows; is it?”

“No, no.  Oh, Bella, pray, pray leave me alone.  Pray do not interfere.
There is no wind blowing in any way.  All that I want is your silence and
your sympathy.”

“Very well.  I will be silent and sympathetic as the grave.  Only don’t
imagine that I am cold as the grave also.  I don’t exactly appreciate
your ideas; but if I can do no good, I will at any rate endeavour to do
no harm.”

After lunch, at about three, they started on their walk, and managed to
ferry themselves over the river.  “Oh, do let me, Bessy,” said Kate
Coverdale.  “I understand all about it.  Look here, Miss Holmes.  You
pull the chain through your hands—”

“And inevitably tear your gloves to pieces,” said Miss Holmes.  Kate
certainly had done so, and did not seem to be particularly well pleased
with the accident.  “There’s a nasty nail in the chain,” she said.  “I
wonder those stupid boys did not tell us.”

Of course they reached the trysting-place much too soon, and were very
tired of walking up and down to keep their feet warm, before the
sportsmen came up.  But this was their own fault, seeing that they had
reached the stile half an hour before the time fixed.

“I never will go anywhere to meet gentlemen again,” said Miss Holmes.
“It is most preposterous that ladies should be left in the snow for an
hour.  Well, young men, what sport have you had?”

“I shot the big black cock,” said Harry.

“Did you indeed?” said Kate Coverdale.

“And here are the feathers out of his tail for you.  He dropped them in
the water, and I had to go in after them up to my middle.  But I told you
that I would, so I was determined to get them.”

“Oh, you silly, silly boy,” said Kate.  “But I’ll keep them for ever.  I
will indeed.”  This was said a little apart, for Harry had managed to
draw the young lady aside before he presented the feathers.

Frank had also his trophies for Patty, and the tale to tell of his own
prowess.  In that he was a year older than his brother, he was by a
year’s growth less ready to tender his present to his lady-love, openly
in the presence of them all.  But he found his opportunity, and then he
and Patty went on a little in advance.  Kate also was deep in her
consolations to Harry for his ducking; and therefore the four disposed of
themselves in the manner previously suggested by Miss Holmes.  Miss
Holmes, therefore, and her brother, and Bessy Garrow, were left together
in the path, and discussed the performances of the day in a manner that
elicited no very ecstatic interest.  So they walked for a mile, and by
degrees the conversation between them dwindled down almost to nothing.

“There is nothing I dislike so much as coming out with people younger
than myself,” said Miss Holmes.  “One always feels so old and dull.
Listen to those children there; they make me feel as though I were an old
maiden aunt, brought out with them to do propriety.”

“Patty won’t at all approve if she hears you call her a child.”

“Nor shall I approve, if she treats me like an old woman,” and then she
stepped on and joined the children.  “I wouldn’t spoil even their sport
if I could help it,” she said to herself.  “But with them I shall only be
a temporary nuisance; if I remain behind I shall become a permanent
evil.”  And thus Bessy and her old lover were left by themselves.

“I hope you will get on well with Bella,” said Godfrey, when they had
remained silent for a minute or two.

“Oh, yes.  She is so good-natured and light-spirited that everybody must
like her.  She has been used to so much amusement and active life, that I
know she must find it very dull here.”

“She is never dull anywhere,—even at Liverpool, which, for a young lady,
I sometimes think the dullest place on earth.  I know it is for a man.”

“A man who has work to do can never be dull; can he?”

“Indeed he can; as dull as death.  I am so often enough.  I have never
been very bright there, Bessy, since you left us.”

There was nothing in his calling her Bessy, for it had become a habit
with him since they were children; and they had formerly agreed that
everything between them should be as it had been before that foolish
whisper of love had been spoken and received.  Indeed, provision had been
made by them specially on this point, so that there need be no
awkwardness in this mode of addressing each other.  Such provision had
seemed to be very prudent, but it hardly had the desired effect on the
present occasion.

“I hardly know what you mean by brightness,” she said, after a pause.
“Perhaps it is not intended that people’s lives should be what you call
bright.”

“Life ought to be as bright as we can make it.”

“It all depends on the meaning of the word.  I suppose we are not very
bright here at Thwaite Hall, but yet we think ourselves very happy.”

“I am sure you are,” said Godfrey.  “I very often think of you here.”

“We always think of places where we have been when we were young,” said
Bessy; and then again they walked on for some way in silence, and Bessy
began to increase her pace with the view of catching the children.  The
present walk to her was anything but bright, and she bethought herself
with dismay that there were still two miles before she reached the Ferry.

“Bessy,” Godfrey said at last.  And then he stopped as though he were
doubtful how to proceed.  She, however, did not say a word, but walked on
quickly, as though her only hope was in catching the party before her.
But they also were walking quickly, for Bella was determined that she
would not be caught.

“Bessy, I must speak to you once of what passed between us at Liverpool.”

“Must you?” said she.

“Unless you positively forbid it.”

“Stop, Godfrey,” she said.  And they did stop in the path, for now she no
longer thought of putting an end to her embarrassment by overtaking her
companions.  “If any such words are necessary for your comfort, it would
hardly become me to forbid them.  Were I to speak so harshly you would
accuse me afterwards in your own heart.  It must be for you to judge
whether it is well to reopen a wound that is nearly healed.”

“But with me it is not nearly healed.  The wound is open always.”

“There are some hurts,” she said, “which do not admit of an absolute and
perfect cure, unless after long years.”  As she said so, she could not
but think how much better was his chance of such perfect cure than her
own.  With her,—so she said to herself,—such curing was all but
impossible; whereas with him, it was as impossible that the injury should
last.

“Bessy,” he said, and he again stopped her on the narrow path, standing
immediately before her on the way, “you remember all the circumstances
that made us part?”

“Yes; I think I remember them.”

“And you still think that we were right to part?”

She paused for a moment before she answered him; but it was only for a
moment, and then she spoke quite firmly.  “Yes, Godfrey, I do; I have
thought about it much since then.  I have thought, I fear, to no good
purpose about aught else.  But I have never thought that we had been
unwise in that.”

“And yet I think you loved me.”

“I am bound to confess I did so, as otherwise I must confess myself a
liar.  I told you at the time that I loved you, and I told you so truly.
But it is better, ten times better, that those who love should part, even
though they still should love, than that two should be joined together
who are incapable of making each other happy.  Remember what you told
me.”

“I do remember.”

“You found yourself unhappy in your engagement, and you said it was my
fault.”

“Bessy, there is my hand.  If you have ceased to love me, there is an end
of it.  But if you love me still, let all that be forgotten.”

“Forgotten, Godfrey!  How can it be forgotten?  You were unhappy, and it
was my fault.  My fault, as it would be if I tried to solace a sick child
with arithmetic, or feed a dog with grass.  I had no right to love you,
knowing you as I did; and knowing also that my ways would not be your
ways.  My punishment I understand, and it is not more than I can bear;
but I had hoped that your punishment would have been soon over.”

“You are too proud, Bessy.”

“That is very likely.  Frank says that I am a Puritan, and pride was the
worst of their sins.”

“Too proud and unbending.  In marriage should not the man and woman adapt
themselves to each other?”

“When they are married, yes.  And every girl who thinks of marrying
should know that in very much she must adapt herself to her husband.  But
I do not think that a woman should be the ivy, to take the direction of
every branch of the tree to which she clings.  If she does so, what can
be her own character?  But we must go on, or we shall be too late.”

“And you will give me no other answer?”

“None other, Godfrey.  Have you not just now, at this very moment, told
me that I was too proud?  Can it be possible that you should wish to tie
yourself for life to female pride?  And if you tell me that now, at such
a moment as this, what would you tell me in the close intimacy of married
life, when the trifles of every day would have worn away the courtesies
of guest and lover?”

There was a sharpness of rebuke in this which Godfrey Holmes could not at
the moment overcome.  Nevertheless he knew the girl, and understood the
workings of her heart and mind.  Now, in her present state, she could be
unbending, proud, and almost rough.  In that she had much to lose in
declining the renewed offer which he made her, she would, as it were,
continually prompt herself to be harsh and inflexible.  Had he been poor,
had she not loved him, had not all good things seemed to have attended
the promise of such a marriage, she would have been less suspicious of
herself in receiving the offer, and more gracious in replying to it.  Had
he lost all his money before he came back to her, she would have taken
him at once; or had he been deprived of an eye, or become crippled in his
legs, she would have done so.  But, circumstanced as he was, she had no
motive to tenderness.  There was an organic defect in her character,
which no doubt was plainly marked by its own bump in her cranium,—the
bump of philomartyrdom, it might properly be called.  She had shipwrecked
her own happiness in rejecting Godfrey Holmes; but it seemed to her to be
the proper thing that a well-behaved young lady should shipwreck her own
happiness.  For the last month or two she had been tossed about by the
waters and was nearly drowned.  Now there was beautiful land again close
to her, and a strong pleasant hand stretched out to save her.  But though
she had suffered terribly among the waves, she still thought it wrong to
be saved.  It would be so pleasant to take that hand, so sweet, so
joyous, that it surely must be wrong.  That was her doctrine; and Godfrey
Holmes, though he hardly analysed the matter, partly understood that it
was so.  And yet, if once she were landed on that green island, she would
be so happy.  She spoke with scorn of a woman clinging to a tree like
ivy; and yet, were she once married, no woman would cling to her husband
with sweeter feminine tenacity than Bessy Garrow.  He spoke no further
word to her as he walked home, but in handing her down to the ferry-boat
he pressed her hand.  For a second it seemed as though she had returned
this pressure.  If so, the action was involuntary, and her hand instantly
resumed its stiffness to his touch.

It was late that night when Major Garrow went to his bedroom, but his
wife was still up, waiting for him.  “Well,” said she, “what has he said
to you?  He has been with you above an hour.”

“Such stories are not very quickly told; and in this case it was
necessary to understand him very accurately.  At length I think I do
understand him.”

It is not necessary to repeat at length all that was said on that night
between Major and Mrs. Garrow, as to the offer which had now for a third
time been made to their daughter.  On that evening, after the ladies had
gone, and when the two boys had taken themselves off, Godfrey Holmes told
his tale to his host, and had honestly explained to him what he believed
to be the state of his daughter’s feelings.  “Now you know all,” said he.
“I do believe that she loves me, and if she does, perhaps she may still
listen to you.”  Major Garrow did not feel sure that he “knew it all.”
But when he had fully discussed the matter that night with his wife, then
he thought that perhaps he had arrived at that knowledge.

On the following morning Bessy learned from the maid, at an early hour,
that Godfrey Holmes had left Thwaite Hall and gone back to Liverpool.  To
the girl she said nothing on the subject, but she felt obliged to say a
word or two to Bella.  “It is his coming that I regret,” she said;—“that
he should have had the trouble and annoyance for nothing.  I acknowledge
that it was my fault, and I am very sorry.”

“It cannot be helped,” said Miss Holmes, somewhat gravely.  “As to his
misfortunes, I presume that his journeys between here and Liverpool are
not the worst of them.”

After breakfast on that day Bessy was summoned into her father’s
book-room, and found him there, and her mother also.  “Bessy,” said he,
“sit down, my dear.  You know why Godfrey has left us this morning?”

Bessy walked round the room, so that in sitting she might be close to her
mother and take her mother’s hand in her own.  “I suppose I do, papa,”
she said.

“He was with me late last night, Bessy; and when he told me what had
passed between you I agreed with him that he had better go.”

“It was better that he should go, papa.”

“But he has left a message for you.”

“A message, papa?”

“Yes, Bessy.  And your mother agrees with me that it had better be given
to you.  It is this,—that if you will send him word to come again, he
will be here by Twelfth-night.  He came before on my invitation, but if
he returns it must be on yours.”

“Oh, papa, I cannot.”

“I do not say that you can, but think of it calmly before you altogether
refuse.  You shall give me your answer on New Year’s morning.”

“Mamma knows that it would be impossible,” said Bessy.

“Not impossible, dearest.”

“In such a matter you should do what you believe to be right,” said her
father.

“If I were to ask him here again, it would be telling him that I would—”

“Exactly, Bessy.  It would be telling him that you would be his wife.  He
would understand it so, and so would your mother and I.  It must be so
understood altogether.”

“But, papa, when we were at Liverpool—”

“I have told him everything, dearest,” said Mrs. Garrow.

“I think I understand the whole,” said the Major; “and in such a matter
as this I will not give you counsel on either side.  But you must
remember that in making up your mind, you must think of him as well as of
yourself.  If you do not love him;—if you feel that as his wife you
should not love him, there is not another word to be said.  I need not
explain to my daughter that under such circumstances she would be wrong
to encourage the visits of a suitor.  But your mother says you do love
him.”

“I will not ask you.  But if you do;—if you have so told him, and allowed
him to build up an idea of his life-happiness on such telling, you will,
I think, sin greatly against him by allowing a false feminine pride to
mar his happiness.  When once a girl has confessed to a man that she
loves him, the confession and the love together put upon her the burden
of a duty towards him, which she cannot with impunity throw aside.”  Then
he kissed her, and bidding her give him a reply on the morning of the new
year, left her with her mother.

She had four days for consideration, and they went past her by no means
easily.  Could she have been alone with her mother, the struggle would
not have been so painful; but there was the necessity that she should
talk to Isabella Holmes, and the necessity also that she should not
neglect the Coverdales.  Nothing could have been kinder than Bella.  She
did not speak on the subject till the morning of the last day, and then
only in a very few words.  “Bessy,” she said, “as you are great, be
merciful.”

“But I am not great, and it would not be mercy.”

“As to that,” said Bella, “he has surely a right to his own opinion.”

On that evening she was sitting alone in her room when her mother came to
her, and her eyes were red with weeping.  Pen and paper were before her,
as though she were resolved to write, but hitherto no word had been
written.

“Well, Bessy,” said her mother, sitting down close beside her; “is the
deed done?”

“What deed, mamma?  Who says that I am to do it?”

“The deed is not the writing, but the resolution to write.  Five words
will be sufficient,—if only those five words may be written.”

“It is for one’s whole life, mamma.  For his life, as well as my own.”

“True, Bessy;—that is quite true.  But equally true whether you bid him
come or allow him to remain away.  That task of making up one’s mind for
life, must at last be done in some special moment of that life.”

“Mamma, mamma; tell me what I should do.”

But this Mrs. Garrow would not do.  “I will write the words for you if
you like,” she said, “but it is you who must resolve that they shall be
written.  I cannot bid my darling go away and leave me for another
home;—I can only say that in my heart I do believe that home would be a
happy one.”

It was morning before the note was written, but when the morning came
Bessy had written it and brought it to her mother.

“You must take it to papa,” she said.  Then she went and hid herself from
all eyes till the noon had passed.  “Dear Godfrey,” the letter ran, “Papa
says that you will return on Wednesday if I write to ask you.  Do come
back to us,—if you wish it.  Yours always, Bessy.”

“It is as good as though she had filled the sheet,” said the Major.  But
in sending it to Godfrey Holmes, he did not omit a few accompanying
remarks of his own.

An answer came from Godfrey by return of post; and on the afternoon of
the sixth of January, Frank Garrow drove over to the station at Penrith
to meet him.  On their way back to Thwaite Hall there grew up a very
close confidence between the two future brothers-in-law, and Frank
explained with great perspicuity a little plan which he had arranged
himself.  “As soon as it is dark, so that she won’t see it, Harry will
hang it up in the dining-room,” he said, “and mind you go in there before
you go anywhere else.”

“I am very glad you have come back, Godfrey,” said the Major, meeting him
in the hall.

“God bless you, dear Godfrey,” said Mrs. Garrow, “you will find Bessy in
the dining-room,” she whispered; but in so whispering she was quite
unconscious of the mistletoe bough.

And so also was Bessy, nor do I think that she was much more conscious
when that introduction was over.  Godfrey had made all manner of promises
to Frank, but when the moment arrived, he had found the moment too
important for any special reference to the little bough above his head.
Not so, however, Patty Coverdale.  “It’s a shame,” said she, bursting out
of the room, “and if I’d known what you had done, nothing on earth should
have induced me to go in.  I won’t enter the room till I know that you
have taken it out.”  Nevertheless her sister Kate was bold enough to
solve the mystery before the evening was over.




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