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The Mistletoe Bough By: Anthony Trollope (1815-1882) |
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THE MISTLETOE BOUGH
by Anthony Trollope
"Let 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 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 grand mothers were
alive, and we have become more fastidious in our amusements.
Nevertheless, I think that she made 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 decided between
Mrs. Garrow and her daughter, nor had the mother been present when
these little amenities had passed between the brothers 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 them 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 shot belt 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 ran
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 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 Westmoreland 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... Continue reading book >>
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Fiction |
Literature |
Short stories |
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