Christmas at Thompson Hall (14 page)

It would be wearisome to repeat all that was said on that night between the 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 had 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 it 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 then 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 herself 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 bookroom, 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 agreed 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 you should think of it calmly before you refuse. You shall give me your answer on New Year's morning.”

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

“Not impossible, dearest. I do know that it would be a hard thing to do.”

“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 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 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 give no advice 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 love him, — if you feel that as his wife you could 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?”

“Oh, mamma!”

“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's happiness on such telling, — you will, I think, sin greatly against him by allowing 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 with 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. None 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,” replied Bessy.

“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 it is equally true whether you bid him come or allow him to remain away. That task of making up one's mind for life must always 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 was 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 6th of January, Frank Garrow drove over to the station at Penrith to meet him. On their way back to Thwaite 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, 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 Frank's mistletoe bough.

And so also was Bessy. Nor do I think that she was much more conscious when that interview was over. Godfrey had made all manner of promises to Frank; but when the moment arrived he had found the crisis too important for any special reference to the little bough above his head. Not so, however, Patty Coverdale. “It's a shame,” she said, 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 will not enter the room again 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.

A Christmas Story of the War in Kentucky

C
HRISTMAS OF 1860 IS NOW THREE YEARS PAST, and the civil war which was then being commenced in America is still raging without any apparent sign of an end. The prophets of that time who prophesied the worst never foretold anything so black as this. On that Christmas day Major Anderson, who then held the command of the forts in Charleston harbour on the part of the United States Government, removed his men and stores from Fort Moultrie to Fort Sumter, thinking that he might hold the one though not both against any attack from the people of Charleston, whose State, that of South Carolina, had seceded five days previously. That was in truth the beginning of the war, though at that time Mr. Lincoln was not yet President. He became so on the 4th of March, 1861, and on the 15th of April following Fort Sumter was evacuated by Major Anderson, on the part of the United States Government, under fire from the people of Charleston. So little bloody, however, was that affair that no one was killed in the assault; — though one poor fellow perished in the saluting fire with which the retreating officer was complimented as he retired with the so-called honours of war. During the three years that have since passed, the combatants have better learned the use of their weapons of war. No one can now laugh at them for bloodless battles. Never have the sides of any stream been so bathed in blood as have the shores of those Virginian rivers whose names have lately become familiar to us. None of those old death-dooming generals of Europe whom we have learned to hate for the cold-blooded energy of their trade, — Tilly, Gustavus Adolphus, Frederic, or Napoleon; — none of these ever left so many carcases to the kites as have the Johnsons, Jacksons, and Hookers of the American armies, who come and go so fast, that they are almost forgotten before the armies they have led have melted into clay.

Of all the states of the old union, Virginia has probably suffered the most, but Kentucky has least deserved the suffering which has fallen to her lot. In Kentucky the war has raged hither and thither, every town having been subject to inroads from either army. But she would have been loyal to the Union if she could; — nay, on the whole she has been loyal. She would have thrown off the plague chain of slavery if the prurient virtue of New England would have allowed her to do so by her own means. But virtuous New England was too proud of her own virtue to be content that the work of abolition should thus pass from her hands. Kentucky, when the war was beginning, desired nothing but to go on in her own course. She wished for no sudden change. She grew no cotton. She produced corn and meat, and was a land flowing with milk and honey. Her slaves were not as the slaves of the Southern States. They were few in number; tolerated for a time because their manumission was understood to be of all questions the most difficult; — rarely or never sold from the estates to which they belonged. When the war broke out Kentucky said that she would be neutral. Neutral, — and she lying on the front lines of the contest! Such neutrality was impossible to her, — impossible to any of her children!

Near to the little State capital of Frankfort there lived at that Christmas time of 1860 an old man, Major Reckenthorpe by name, whose life had been marked by many circumstances which had made him well known throughout Kentucky. He had sat for nearly thirty years in the Congress of the United States at Washington, representing his own State sometimes as senator, and sometimes in the lower house. Though called a major he was by profession a lawyer, and as such had lived successfully. Time had been when friends had thought it possible that he might fill the President's chair; but his name had been too much and too long in men's mouths for that. Who had heard of Lincoln, Pierce, or Polk, two years before they were named as candidates for the Presidency? But Major Reckenthorpe had been known and talked of in Washington longer perhaps than any other living politician.

Upon the whole he had been a good man, serving his country as best he knew how, and adhering honestly to his own political convictions. He had been and now was a slaveowner, but had voted in the Congress of his own State for the abolition of slavery in Kentucky. He had been a passionate man, and had lived not without the stain of blood on his hands, for duels had been familiar to him. But he had lived in a time and in a country in which it had been hardly possible for a leading public man not to be familiar with a pistol. He had been known as one whom no man could attack with impunity; but he had also been known as one who would not willingly attack anyone. Now at the time of which I am writing, he was old, — almost on the shelf, — past his duellings and his strong short invectives on the floors of Congress; but he was a man whom no age could tame, and still he was ever talking, thinking, and planning for the political well-being of his State.

In person he was tall, still upright, stiff, and almost ungainly in his gait, with eager grey eyes which the waters of age could not dim, with short, thick, grizzled hair which age had hardly thinned, but which ever looked rough and uncombed, with large hands, which he stretched out with extended fingers when he spoke vehemently; — and of the Major it may be said that he always spoke with vehemence. But now he was slow in his steps, and infirm on his legs. He suffered from rheumatism, sciatica, and other maladies of the old, which no energy of his own could repress. In these days he was a stern, unhappy, all but broken-hearted old man; for he saw that the work of his life had been wasted.

And he had another grief which at this Christmas of 1860 had already become terrible to him, and which afterwards bowed him with sorrow to the ground. He had two sons, both of whom were then at home with him, having come together under the family roof tree that they might discuss with their father the political position of their country, and especially the position of Kentucky. South Carolina had already seceded, and other Slave States were talking of secession. What should Kentucky do? So the Major's sons, young men of eight-and-twenty and five-and-twenty, met together at their father's house; — they met and quarrelled deeply, as their father had well known would be the case.

The eldest of these sons was at that time the owner of the slaves and land which his father had formerly possessed and farmed. He was a Southern gentleman, living on the produce of slave labour, and as such had learned to vindicate, if not love, that social system which has produced as its result the war which is still raging at this Christmas of 1863. To him this matter of secession or non-secession was of vital import. He was prepared to declare that the wealth of the South was derived from its agriculture, and that its agriculture could only be supported by its slaves. He went further than this, and declared also that no further league was possible between a Southern gentleman and a Puritan from New England. His father, he said, was an old man, and might be excused by reason of his age from any active part in the contest that was coming. But for himself there could be but one duty; — that of supporting the new Confederacy, to which he would belong, with all his strength and with whatever wealth was his own.

The second son had been educated at Westpoint, the great military school of the old United States, and was now an officer in the National Army. Not on that account need it be supposed that he would, as a matter of course, join himself to the Northern side in the war, — to the side which, as being in possession of the capital and the old Government establishments, might claim to possess a right to his military services. A large proportion of the officers in the pay of the United States leagued themselves with Secession, — and it is difficult to see why such an act would be more disgraceful in them than in others. But with Frank Reckenthorpe such was not the case. He declared that he would be loyal to the Government which he served; and in saying so, seemed to imply that the want of such loyalty in any other person, soldier or non-soldier, would be disgraceful, as in his opinion it would have been disgraceful in himself.

“I can understand your feeling,” said his brother, who was known as Tom Reckenthorpe, “on the assumption that you think more of being a soldier than of being a man; but not otherwise.”

“Even if I were no soldier, I would not be a rebel,” said Frank.

“How a man can be a rebel for sticking to his own country, I cannot understand,” said Tom.

“Your own country!” said Frank. “Is it to be Kentucky or South Carolina? And is it to be a republic or a monarchy; — or shall we hear of Emperor Davis? You already belong to the greatest nation on earth, and you are preparing yourself to belong to the least; — that is, if you should be successful. Luckily for yourself, you have no chance of success.”

“At any rate I will do my best to fight for it.”

“Nonsense, Tom,” said the old man, who was sitting by.

“It is no nonsense, sir. A man can fight without having been at Westpoint. Whether he can do so after having his spirit drilled and drummed out of him there, I don't know.”

“Tom!” said the old man.

“Don't mind him, father,” said the younger. “His appetite for fighting will soon be over. Even yet I doubt whether we shall ever see a regiment in arms sent from the Southern States against the Union.”

“Do you?” said Tom. “If you stick to your colours, as you say you will, your doubts will soon be set at rest. And I'll tell you what, if your regiment is brought into the field, I trust that I may find myself opposite to it. You have chosen to forget that we are brothers, and you shall find that I can forget it also.”

“Tom!” said the father, “you should not say such words as that; at any rate, in my presence.”

“It is true, sir,” said he. “A man who speaks as he speaks does not belong to Kentucky, and can be no brother of mine. If I were to meet him face to face, I would as soon shoot him as another; — sooner, because he is a renegade.”

“You are very wicked, — very wicked,” said the old man, rising from his chair, — “very wicked.” And then, leaning on his stick, he left the room.

“Indeed, what he says is true,” said a sweet, soft voice from a sofa in the far corner of the room. “Tom, you are very wicked to speak to your brother thus. Would you take on yourself the part of Cain?”

“He is more silly than wicked, Ada,” said the soldier. “He will have no chance of shooting me, or of seeing me shot. He may succeed in getting himself locked up as a rebel; but I doubt whether he'll ever go beyond that.”

“If I ever find myself opposite to you with a pistol in my grasp,” said the elder brother, “may my right hand — ”

But his voice was stopped, and the imprecation remained unuttered. The girl who had spoken rushed from her seat and put her hand before his mouth. “Tom,” she said, “I will never speak to you again if you utter such an oath, — never.” And her eyes flashed fire at his and made him dumb.

Ada Forster called Mrs. Reckenthorpe her aunt, but the connection between them was not so near as that of aunt and niece. Ada nevertheless lived with the Reckenthorpes, and had done so for the last two years. She was an orphan, and on the death of her father had followed her father's sister-in-law from Maine down to Kentucky; — for Mrs. Reckenthorpe had come from that farthest and most straitlaced State of the Union, in which people bind themselves by law to drink neither beer, wine, nor spirits, and all go to bed at nine o'clock. But Ada Forster was an heiress, and therefore it was thought well by the elder Reckenthorpes that she should marry one of their sons. Ada Forster was also a beauty, with slim, tall form, very pleasant to the eye; with bright, speaking eyes and glossy hair; with ivory teeth of the whitest, — only to be seen now and then when a smile could be won from her; and therefore such a match was thought desirable also by the younger Reckenthorpes. But unfortunately it had been thought desirable by each of them, whereas the father and mother had intended Ada for the soldier.

I have not space in this short story to tell how progress had been made in the troubles of this love affair. So it was now, that Ada had consented to become the wife of the elder brother, — of Tom Reckenthorpe, with his home among the slaves, — although she, with all her New England feelings strong about her, hated slavery and all its adjuncts. But when has Love stayed to be guided by any such consideration as that? Tom Reckenthorpe was a handsome, high-spirited, intelligent man. So was his brother Frank. But Tom Reckenthorpe could be soft to a woman, and in that, I think, had he found the means of his success. Frank Reckenthorpe was never soft.

Frank had gone angrily from home when, some three months since, Ada had told him her determination. His brother had been then absent, and they had not met till this their Christmas meeting. Now it had been understood between them, by the intervention of their mother, that they would say nothing to each other as to Ada Forster. The elder had, of course, no cause for saying aught, and Frank was too proud to wish to speak on such a matter before his successful rival. But Frank had not given up the battle. When Ada had made her speech to him, he had told her that he would not take it as conclusive. “The whole tenor of Tom's life,” he had said to her, “must be distasteful to you. It is impossible that you should live as the wife of a slaveowner.”