Christmas at Thompson Hall (11 page)

The old woman got up from her chair, and nodded her head, and held out her withered old hand to be shaken. The children opened their mouths wider than ever, and hoped there might be no great delay. The lame aunt curtseyed and explained the circumstances. “Beef, Miss Isabel, do take a mortal time t' boil; and it ain't no wise good for t' bairns to have it any ways raw.” To this opinion Isabel gave her full assent, and expressed her gratification that the amount of beef should be sufficient to require so much cooking. Then the truth came out. “Muster Archer just sent us over from Rowdy's a meal's meat with a vengence; God bless him!” “God bless him!” crooned out the old woman, and the children muttered some unintelligible sound, as though aware that duty required them to express some Amen to the prayer of their elders. Now Rowdy was the butcher living at Grassington, some six miles away, — for at Kirkby Cliffe there was no butcher. Isabel smiled all round upon them sweetly, with her eyes full of tears, and then left the cottage without a word.

He had done this because she had expressed a wish that these people should be kindly treated, — had done it without a syllable spoken to her or to any one, — had taken trouble, sending all the way to Grassington for Mrs. Mucklewort's beef! No doubt he had given other people beef, and had whispered no word of his kindness to any one at the rectory. And yet she had taken upon herself to rebuke him, because he had not cared for Christmas Day! As she walked along, silent, holding Mabel's hand, it seemed to her that of all men he was the most perfect. She had rebuked him, and had then told him — with incredible falseness — that she did not like him; and after that, when he had proposed to her in the kindest, noblest manner, she had rejected him, — almost as though he had not been good enough for her! She felt now as though she would like to bite the tongue out of her head for such misbehavior.

“Was not that nice of him?” said Mabel. But Isabel could not answer the question. “I always thought he was like that,” continued the younger sister. “If he were my lover, I'd do anything he asked me, because he is so good-natured.”

“Don't talk to me,” said Isabel. And Mabel, who comprehended something of the condition of her sister's mind, did not say another word on their way back to the parsonage.

It was the rule of the house that on Christmas Day they should dine at four o'clock; — a rule which almost justified the very strong expression with which Maurice first offended the young lady whom he loved. To dine at one or two o'clock is a practice which has its recommendations. It suits the appetite, is healthy, and divides the day into two equal halves, so that no man so dining fancies that his dinner should bring to him an end of his usual occupations. And to dine at six, seven, or eight is well adapted to serve several purposes of life. It is convenient, as inducing that gentle lethargy which will sometimes follow the pleasant act of eating at a time when the work of the day is done; and it is both fashionable and comfortable. But to dine at four is almost worse than not to dine at all. The rule, however, existed at Kirkby Cliffe parsonage in regard to this one special day in the year, and was always obeyed.

On this occasion Isabel did not see her lover from the moment in which he left her at the church door till they met at the table. She had been with her mother, but her mother had said not a word to her about Maurice. Isabel knew very well that they two had walked home together from the church, and she had thought that her best chance lay in the possibility that he would have spoken of what had occurred during the walk. Had this been so, surely her mother would have told her; but not a word had been said; and even with her mother Isabel had been too shamefaced to ask a question. In truth, Isabel's name had not been mentioned between them, nor had any allusion been made to what had taken place during the morning. Mrs. Lownd had been too wise and too wary, — too well aware of what was really due to her daughter, — to bring up the subject herself; and he had been silent, subdued, and almost sullen. If he could not get an acknowledgment of affection from the girl herself, he certainly would not endeavour to extract a cold compliance by the mother's aid. Africa, and a disruption of all the plans of his life, would be better to him than that. But Mrs. Lownd knew very well how it was with him; knew how it was with them both; and was aware that in such a condition things should be allowed to arrange themselves. At dinner, both she and the rector were full of mirth and good humour, and Mabel, with great glee, told the story of Mrs. Muckelwort's dinner. “I don't want to destroy your pleasure,” she said, bobbing her head at Maurice; “but it did look so nasty! Beef should always be roast beef on Christmas Day.”

“I told the butcher it was to be roast beef,” said Maurice, sadly.

“I dare say the little Muckleworts would just as soon have it boiled,” said Mrs. Lownd. “Beef is beef to them, and a pot for boiling is an easy apparatus.”

“If you had beef, Miss Mab, only once or twice a year,” said her father, “you would not care whether it were roast or boiled.” But Isabel spoke not a word. She was most anxious to join the conversation about Mrs. Mucklewort, and would have liked much to give testimony to the generosity displayed in regard to quantity; but she found that she could not do it. She was absolutely dumb. Maurice Archer did speak, making, every now and then, a terrible effort to be jocose; but Isabel from first to last was silent. Only by silence could she refrain from a renewed deluge of tears.

In the evening two or three girls came in with their younger brothers, the children of farmers of the better class in the neighbourhood, and the usual attempts were made at jollity. Games were set on foot, in which even the rector joined, instead of going to sleep behind his book, and Mabel, still conscious of her sister's wounds, did her very best to promote the sports. There was blindman's-buff, and hide and seek, and snapdragon, and forfeits, and a certain game with music and chairs, — very prejudicial to the chairs, — in which it was everybody's object to sit down as quickly as possible when the music stopped. In the game Isabel insisted on playing, because she could do that alone. But even to do this was too much for her. The sudden pause could hardly be made without a certain hilarity of spirit, and her spirits were unequal to any exertion. Maurice went through his work like a man, was blinded, did his forfeits, and jostled for the chairs with the greatest diligence; but in the midst of it all he, too, was as solemn as a judge, and never once spoke a single word to Isabel. Mrs. Lownd, who usually was not herself much given to the playing of games, did on this occasion make an effort, and absolutely consented to cry the forfeits; but Mabel was wonderfully quiet, so that the farmer's daughters hardly perceived that there was anything amiss.

It came to pass, after a while, that Isabel had retreated to her room, — not for the night, as it was as yet hardly eight o'clock, — and she certainly would not disappear till the visitors had taken their departure, — a ceremony which was sure to take place with the greatest punctuality at ten, after an early supper. But she had escaped for a while, and in the meantime some frolic was going on which demanded the absence of one of the party from the room, in order that mysteries might be arranged of which the absent one should remain in ignorance. Maurice was thus banished, and desired to remain in desolation for the space of five minutes; but, just as he had taken up his position, Isabel descended with slow, solemn steps, and found him standing at her father's study door. She was passing on, and had almost entered the drawing-room, when he called her. “Miss Lownd,” he said. Isabel stopped, but did not speak; she was absolutely beyond speaking. The excitement of the day had been so great, that she was all but overcome by it, and doubted, herself, whether she would be able to keep up appearances till the supper should be over, and she should be relieved for the night. “Would you let me say one word to you?” said Maurice. She bowed her head and went with him into the study.

Five minutes had been allowed for the arrangement of the mysteries, and at the end of the five minutes Maurice was authorized, by the rules of the game, to return to the room. But he did not come, and upon Mabel's suggesting that possibly he might not be able to see his watch in the dark, she was sent to fetch him. She burst into the study, and there she found the truant and her sister, very close, standing together on the hearthrug. “I didn't know you were here, Bell,” she exclaimed. Whereupon Maurice, as she declared afterwards, jumped round the table after her, and took her in his arms and kissed her. “But you must come,” said Mabel, who accepted the embrace with perfect goodwill.

“Of course you must. Do go, pray, and I'll follow, — almost immediately.” Mabel perceived at once that her sister had altogether recovered her voice.

“I'll tell 'em you're coming,” said Mabel, vanishing.

“You must go now,” said Isabel. “They'll all be away soon, and then you can talk about it.” As she spoke, he was standing with his arm round her waist, and Isabel Lownd was the happiest girl in all Craven.

Mrs. Lownd knew all about it from the moment in which Maurice Archer's prolonged absence had become cause of complaint among the players. Her mind had been intent upon the matter, and she had become well aware that it was only necessary that the two young people should be alone together for a few moments. Mabel had entertained great hopes, thinking, however, that perhaps three or four years must be passed in melancholy gloomy doubts before the path of true love could be made to run smooth; but the light had shone upon her as soon as she saw them standing together. The parson knew nothing about it till the supper was over. Then, when the front door was open, and the farmer's daughters had been cautioned not to get themselves more wet than they could help in the falling snow, Maurice said a word to his future father-in-law. “She has consented at last, sir. I hope you have nothing to say against it.”

“Not a word,” said the parson, grasping the young man's hand, and remembering as he did so, the extension of the time over which that phrase “at last” was supposed to spread itself.

Maurice had been promised some further opportunity of “talking about it,” and of course claimed a fulfillment of the promise. There was a difficulty about it, as Isabel, having now been assured of her happiness, was anxious to talk about it all to her mother rather than to him; but he was imperative, and there came at last for him a quarter of an hour of delicious triumph in that very spot on which he had been so scolded for saying that Christmas was a bore. “You were so very sudden,” said Isabel, excusing herself for her conduct in the morning.

“But you did love me?”

“If I do now, that ought to be enough for you. But I did, and I've been so unhappy since; and I thought that, perhaps, you would never speak to me again. But it was all your fault; you were so sudden. And then you ought to have asked papa first, — you know you ought. But, Maurice, you will promise me one thing. You won't ever again say that Christmas Day is a bore!”

L
ET 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 a 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 grandmothers were alive, and we have become more fastidious in our amusements. Nevertheless, I think that she laid 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 discussed and decided between Mrs. Garrow and her daughter, nor had the mother been present when those little amenities had passed between the brother 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 her brothers 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 shotbelt 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 run 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 there 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 Westmorland 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 halfway 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 door 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 on to staples driven into the rock on either side, and thus 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 wood 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 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 forty acres of land, and he was the owner of one small farm close by, which was let to a tenant. That, together with his halfpay 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 certainly be said that she deserved such sunshine.

In 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 care 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, except 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 summers. And Isabella Holmes was coming. 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 afford to marry. Some two years since, on the eve of his 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 Major had 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, if carried too far, 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
summum bonum
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 thus 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 had resolved not to worship her lover, and he, perhaps, had resolved that he would be worshipped.

She was a pretty, fair girl, with soft dark brown hair, and soft long dark eyelashes. Her grey eyes 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 stirred she could rouse herself to great energy, and speak with feeling and almost with fire. Her fault was too great 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 flaw to her outward cheerfulness. We know the story of the Spartan boy who held the fox under his tunic. The fox was biting him into the very entrails, but the young hero spoke 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 ruffle 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 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 it 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 heart.

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 Elizabeth 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 impossible to avoid the subject in conversation. “Dearest Isabella, let it be as though it never had been,” she had said in one of her letters. But sometimes it is very difficult to let things be as though they never had been.