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 ruining 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.