The Mistletoe Bough By Anthony Trollope
“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?”
“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 alarm 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.
The Mistletoe Bough by Anthony Trollope