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.
George Walker at Suez
Of all the spots on the world’s surface that I, George Walker, of Friday Street, London, have ever visited, Suez in Egypt, at the head of the Red Sea, is by far the vilest, the most unpleasant, and the least interesting. There are no women there, no water, and no vegetation. It is surrounded, and indeed often filled, by a world of sand. A scorching sun is always overhead; and one is domiciled in a huge cavernous hotel, which seems to have been made purposely destitute of all the comforts of civilised life. Nevertheless, in looking back upon the week of my life which I spent there I always enjoy a certain sort of triumph;—or rather, upon one day of that week, which lends a sort of halo not only to my sojourn at Suez, but to the whole period of my residence in Egypt.
I am free to confess that I am not a great man, and that, at any rate in the earlier part of my career, I had a hankering after the homage which is paid to greatness. I would fain have been a popular orator, feeding myself on the incense tendered to me by thousands; or failing that, a man born to power, whom those around him were compelled to respect, and perhaps to fear.
