Chapter XV: Part 15

“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.

“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 bed-room, 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.”

“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-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.

RETURNING HOME.

It is generally supposed that people who live at home,--good domestic people, who love tea and their arm-chairs, and who keep the parlour hearth-rug ever warm,--it is generally supposed that these are the people who value home the most, and best appreciate all the comforts of that cherished institution. I am inclined to doubt this. It is, I think, to those who live farthest away from home, to those who find the greatest difficulty in visiting home, that the word conveys the sweetest idea. In some distant parts of the world it may be that an Englishman acknowledges his permanent resting place; but there are many others in which he will not call his daily house, his home. He would, in his own idea, desecrate the word by doing so. His home is across the blue waters, in the little northern island, which perhaps he may visit no more; which he has left, at any rate, for half his life; from which circumstances, and the necessity of living, have banished him. His home is still in England, and when he speaks of home his thoughts are there.

No one can understand the intensity of this feeling who has not seen or felt the absence of interest in life which falls to the lot of many who have to eat their bread on distant soils. We are all apt to think that a life in strange countries will be a life of excitement, of stirring enterprise, and varied scenes;--that in abandoning the comforts of home, we shall receive in exchange more of movement and of adventure than would come in our way in our own tame country; and this feeling has, I am sure, sent many a young man roaming. Take any spirited fellow of twenty, and ask him whether he would like to go to Mexico for the next ten years! Prudence and his father may ultimately save him from such banishment, but he will not refuse without a pang of regret.

Alas! it is a mistake. Bread may be earned, and fortunes, perhaps, made in such countries; and as it is the destiny of our race to spread itself over the wide face of the globe, it is well that there should be something to gild and paint the outward face of that lot which so many are called upon to choose. But for a life of daily excitement, there is no life like life in England; and the farther that one goes from England the more stagnant, I think, do the waters of existence become.

But if it be so for men, it is ten times more so for women. An Englishman, if he be at Guatemala or Belize, must work for his bread, and that work will find him in thought and excitement. But what of his wife? Where will she find excitement? By what pursuit will she repay herself for all that she has left behind her at her mother’s fireside? She will love her husband. Yes; that at least! If there be not that, there will be a hell, indeed. Then she will nurse her children, and talk of her--home. When the time shall come that her promised return thither is within a year or two of its accomplishment, her thoughts will all be fixed on that coming pleasure, as are the thoughts of a young girl on her first ball for the fortnight before that event comes off.

On the central plain of that portion of Central America which is called Costa Rica stands the city of San José. It is the capital of the Republic,--for Costa Rica is a Republic,--and, for Central America, is a town of some importance. It is in the middle of the coffee district, surrounded by rich soil on which the sugar-cane is produced, is blessed with a climate only moderately hot, and the native inhabitants are neither cut-throats nor cannibals. It may be said, therefore, that by comparison with some other spots to which Englishmen and others are congregated for the gathering together of money, San José may be considered as a happy region; but, nevertheless, a life there is not in every way desirable. It is a dull place, with little to interest either the eye or the ear. Although the heat of the tropics is but little felt there on account of its altitude, men and women become too lifeless for much enterprise. There is no society. There are a few Germans and a few Englishmen in the place, who see each other on matters of business during the day; but, sombre as life generally is, they seem to care little for each other’s company on any other footing. I know not to what point the aspirations of the Germans may stretch themselves, but to the English the one idea that gives salt to life is the idea of home. On some day, however distant it may be, they will once more turn their faces towards the little northern island, and then all will be well with them.

To a certain Englishman there, and to his dear little wife, this prospect came some few years since somewhat suddenly. Events and tidings, it matters not which or what, brought it about that they resolved between themselves that they would start immediately;--almost immediately. They would pack up and leave San José within four months of the day on which their purpose was first formed. At San José a period of only four months for such a purpose was immediately. It creates a feeling of instant excitement, a necessity for instant doing, a consciousness that there was in those few weeks ample work both for the hands and thoughts,--work almost more than ample. The dear little wife, who for the last two years had been so listless, felt herself flurried.

“Harry,” she said to her husband, “how shall we ever be ready?” And her pretty face was lighted up with unusual brightness at the happy thought of so much haste with such an object. “And baby’s things too,” she said, as she thought of all the various little articles of dress that would be needed. A journey from San José to Southampton cannot in truth be made as easily as one from London to Liverpool. Let us think of a month to be passed without any aid from the washerwoman, and the greatest part of that month amidst the sweltering heats of the West Indian tropics!

In the first month of her hurry and flurry Mrs. Arkwright was a happy woman. She would see her mother again and her sisters. It was now four years since she had left them on the quay at Southampton, while all their hearts were broken at the parting. She was a young bride then, going forth with her new lord to meet the stern world. He had then been home to look for a wife, and he had found what he looked for in the younger sister of his partner. For he, Henry Arkwright, and his wife’s brother, Abel Ring, had established themselves together in San José. And now, she thought, how there would be another meeting on those quays at which there should be no broken hearts; at which there should be love without sorrow, and kisses, sweet with the sweetness of welcome, not bitter with the bitterness of parting. And people told her,--the few neighbours around her,--how happy, how fortunate she was to get home thus early in her life. They had been out some ten,--some twenty years, and still the day of their return was distant. And then she pressed her living baby to her breast, and wiped away a tear as she thought of the other darling whom she would leave beneath that distant sod.

And then came the question as to the route home. San José stands in the middle of the high plain of Costa Rica, half way between the Pacific and the Atlantic. The journey thence down to the Pacific is, by comparison, easy. There is a road, and the mules on which the travellers must ride go steadily and easily down to Punta Arenas, the port on that ocean. There are inns, too, on the way,--places of public entertainment at which refreshment may be obtained, and beds, or fair substitutes for beds. But then by this route the traveller must take a long additional sea voyage. He must convey himself and his weary baggage down to that wretched place on the Pacific, there wait for a steamer to take him to Panamá, cross the isthmus, and reship himself in the other waters for his long journey home. That terrible unshipping and reshipping is a sore burden to the unaccustomed traveller. When it is absolutely necessary,--then indeed it is done without much thought; but in the case of the Arkwrights it was not absolutely necessary. And there was another reason which turned Mrs. Arkwright’s heart against that journey by Punt’ Arenas. The place is unhealthy, having at certain seasons a very bad name;--and here on their outward journey her husband had been taken ill. She had never ceased to think of the fortnight she had spent there among uncouth strangers, during a portion of which his life had trembled in the balance. Early, therefore, in those four months she begged that she might not be taken round by Punt’ Arenas. There was another route. “Harry, if you love me, let me go by the Serapiqui.” As to Harry’s loving her, there was no doubt about that, as she well knew.

There was this other route by the Serapiqui river, and by Greytown. Greytown, it is true, is quite as unhealthy as Punt’ Arenas, and by that route one’s baggage must be shipped and unshipped into small boats. There are all manner of difficulties attached to it. Perhaps no direct road to and from any city on the world’s surface is subject to sharper fatigue while it lasts. Journeying by this route also, the traveller leaves San José mounted on his mule, and so mounted he makes his way through the vast primeval forests down to the banks of the Serapiqui river. That there is a track for him is of course true; but it is simply a track, and during nine months of the twelve is so deep in mud that the mules sink in it to their bellies. Then, when the river has been reached, the traveller seats him in his canoe, and for two days is paddled down,--down along the Serapiqui, into the San Juan River, and down along the San Juan till he reaches Greytown, passing one night at some hut on the river side. At Greytown he waits for the steamer which will carry him his first stage on his road towards Southampton. He must be a connoisseur in disagreeables of every kind who can say with any precision whether Greytown or Punt’ Arenas is the better place for a week’s sojourn.

For a full month Mr. Arkwright would not give way to his wife. At first he all but conquered her by declaring that the Serapiqui journey would be dangerous for the baby; but she heard from some one that it could be made less fatiguing for the baby than the other route. A baby had been carried down in a litter strapped on to a mule’s back. A guide at the mule’s head would be necessary, and that was all. When once in her boat the baby would be as well as in her cradle. What purpose cannot a woman gain by perseverance? Her purpose in this instance Mrs. Arkwright did at last gain by persevering.

And then their preparations for the journey went on with much flurrying and hot haste. To us at home, who live and feel our life every day, the manufacture of endless baby-linen and the packing of mountains of clothes does not give an idea of much pleasurable excitement; but at San José, where there was scarcely motion enough in existence to prevent its waters from becoming foul with stagnation, this packing of baby-linen was delightful, and for a month or so the days went by with happy wings.

But by degrees reports began to reach both Arkwright and his wife as to this new route, which made them uneasy. The wet season had been prolonged, and even though they might not be deluged by rain themselves, the path would be in such a state of mud as to render the labour incessant. One or two people declared that the road was unfit at any time for a woman,--and then the river would be much swollen. These tidings did not reach Arkwright and his wife together, or at any rate not till late amidst their preparations, or a change might still have been made. As it was, after all her entreaties, Mrs. Arkwright did not like to ask him again to alter his plans; and he, having altered them once, was averse to change them again. So things went on till the mules and the boats had been hired, and things had gone so far that no change could then be made without much cost and trouble.

During the last ten days of their sojourn at San José, Mrs. Arkwright had lost all that appearance of joy which had cheered up her sweet face during the last few months. Terror at that terrible journey obliterated in her mind all the happiness which had arisen from the hope of being soon at home. She was thoroughly cowed by the danger to be encountered, and would gladly have gone down to Punt’ Arenas, had it been now possible that she could so arrange it. It rained, and rained, and still rained, when there was now only a week from the time they started. Oh! if they could only wait for another month! But this she said to no one. After what had passed between her and her husband, she had not the heart to say such words to him. Arkwright himself was a man not given to much talking, a silent thoughtful man, stern withal in his outward bearing, but tender-hearted and loving in his nature. The sweet young wife who had left all, and come with him out to that dull distant place, was very dear to him,--dearer than she herself was aware, and in these days he was thinking much of her coming troubles. Why had he given way to her foolish prayers? Ah, why indeed?

And thus the last few days of their sojourn in San José passed away from them. Once or twice during these days she did speak out, expressing her fears. Her feelings were too much for her, and she could not restrain herself. “Poor mamma,” she said, “I shall never see her!” And then again, “Harry, I know I shall never reach home alive.”

“Fanny, my darling, that is nonsense.” But in order that his spoken word might not sound stern to her, he took her in his arms and kissed her.

“You must behave well, Fanny,” he said to her the day before they started. Though her heart was then very low within her, she promised him that she would do her best, and then she made a great resolution. Though she should be dying on the road, she would not complain beyond the absolute necessity of her nature. She fully recognised his thoughtful tender kindness, for though he thus cautioned her, he never told her that the dangers which she feared were the result of her own choice. He never threw in her teeth those prayers which she had made, in yielding to which he knew that he had been weak.

Then came the morning of their departure. The party of travellers consisted of four besides the baby. There was Mr. Arkwright, his wife, and an English nurse, who was going to England with them, and her brother, Abel King, who was to accompany them as far as the Serapiqui River. When they had reached that, the real labour of the journey would be over. They had eight mules; four for the four travellers, one for the baby, a spare mule laden simply with blankets, so that Mrs. Arkwright might change in order that she should not be fatigued by the fatigue of her beast, and two for their luggage. The heavier portion of their baggage had already been sent off by Punt’ Arenas, and would meet them at the other side of the Isthmus of Panamá.

For the last four days the rain had ceased,--had ceased at any rate at San José. Those who knew the country well, would know that it might still be raining over those vast forests; but now as the matter was settled, they would hope for the best. On that morning on which they started the sun shone fairly, and they accepted this as an omen of good. Baby seemed to lay comfortably on her pile of blankets on the mule’s back, and the face of the tall Indian guide who took his place at that mule’s head pleased the anxious mother.

“Not leave him ever,” he said in Spanish, laying his hand on the cord which was fastened to the beast’s head; and not for one moment did he leave his charge, though the labour of sticking close to him was very great.

They had four attendants or guides, all of whom made the journey on foot. That they were all men of mixed race was probable; but three of them would have been called Spaniards, Spaniards, that is, of Costa Rica, and the other would be called an Indian. One of the Spaniards was the leader, or chief man of the party, but the others seemed to stand on an equal footing with each other; and indeed the place of greatest care had been given to the Indian.

For the first four or five miles their route lay along the high road which leads from San José to Punt’ Arenas, and so far a group of acquaintances followed them, all mounted on mules. Here, where the ways forked, their road leading through the great forests to the Atlantic, they separated, and many tears were shed on each side. What might be the future life of the Arkwrights had not been absolutely fixed, but there was a strong hope on their part that they might never be forced to return to Costa Rica. Those from whom they now parted had not seemed to be dear to them in any especial degree while they all lived together in the same small town, seeing each other day by day; but now,--now that they might never meet again, a certain love sprang up for the old familiar faces, and women kissed each other who hitherto had hardly cared to enter each other’s houses.

And then the party of the Arkwrights again started, and its steady work began. In the whole of the first day the way beneath their feet was tolerably good, and the weather continued fine. It was one long gradual ascent from the plain where the roads parted, but there was no real labour in travelling. Mrs. Arkwright rode beside her baby’s mule, at the head of which the Indian always walked, and the two men went together in front. The husband had found that his wife would prefer this, as long as the road allowed of such an arrangement. Her heart was too full to admit of much speaking, and so they went on in silence.

The first night was passed in a hut by the roadside, which seemed to be deserted,--a hut or rancho as it is called in that country. Their food they had, of course, brought with them; and here, by common consent, they endeavoured in some sort to make themselves merry.

“Fanny,” Arkwright said to her, “it is not so bad after all; eh, my darling?”

“No,” she answered; “only that the mule tires one so. Will all the days be as long as that?”

He had not the heart to tell her that as regarded hours of work, that first day must of necessity be the shortest. They had risen to a considerable altitude, and the night was very cold; but baby was enveloped among a pile of coloured blankets, and things did not go very badly with them; only this, that when Fanny Arkwright rose from her hard bed, her limbs were more weary and much more stiff than they had been when Arkwright had lifted her from her mule.

On the second morning they mounted before the day had quite broken, in order that they might breakfast on the summit of the ridge which separates the two oceans. At this spot the good road comes to an end, and the forest track begins; and here also, they would, in truth, enter the forest, though their path had for some time been among straggling trees and bushes. And now, again, they rode two and two, up to this place of halting, Arkwright and Ring well knowing that from hence their labours would in truth commence.