Holly: The Romance of a Southern Girl

by Ralph Henry Barbour

“You’re a traitor, Uncle Major,” she answered, indignantly. With a quick gesture she seized the mistletoe from his grasp and threw it across the room. As she turned, her head in air, her eyes encountered Winthrop’s and their glances clung for an instant. He wondered afterwards what she had read in his eyes for her own grew large and startled ere the lids fell over them and she turned and ran out through the hall. The rest followed laughing. Winthrop ascended to his room, closed his door, lighted a pipe and sat down at an open window. From below came the sound of voices, rising and falling, and the harsh song of a red-bird in the magnolia-tree. From the back of the house came the sharp explosions of firecrackers, and Winthrop knew that Young Tom was beatifically happy. The firecrackers had been Winthrop’s “Chrismus gif.” But his thoughts didn’t remain long with the occupants of the porch or with Young Tom, although he strove to keep them there. There was something he must face, and so, tamping the tobacco down in his pipe with his finger, he faced it.

He was in love with Holly.

The sudden rage of jealousy which had surged over him down there in the dining-room had opened his eyes. He realized now that he had been falling in love with her, deeper and deeper every day, ever since his arrival at Waynewood. He had been blinding himself with all sorts of excuses, but to-day they were no longer convincing. He had made a beastly mess of things. If he had only had the common sense to look the situation fairly in the face a month ago! It would have been so simple then to have beat a retreat. Now he might retreat as far as he could go without undoing the damage. Well, thank Heaven, there was no harm done to anyone save himself! Then he recalled the startled look in Holly’s brown eyes and wondered what she had read in his face. Could she have guessed? Nonsense; he was too old to parade his emotions like a school-boy. Doubtless he had looked annoyed, disgusted, and Holly had seen it and probably resented it. That was all. Had he unwittingly done anything to cause her to suspect? He strove to remember. No, the secret was safe. He sighed with relief. Thank Heaven for that! If she ever guessed his feelings what a fool she would think him, what a middle-aged, sentimental ass! And how she would laugh! But no, perhaps she wouldn’t do just that; she was too kind-hearted; but she would be amused. Winthrop’s cheeks burned at the thought.

Granted all this, what was to be done? Run away? To what end? Running away wouldn’t undo what was done. Now that he realized what had happened he could keep guard on himself. None suspected, none need ever suspect, Holly least of all. It would be foolish to punish himself unnecessarily for what, after all, was no offense. No; he would stay at Waynewood; he would see Holly each day, and he would cure himself of what, after all, was—could be—only a sentimental attachment evolved from propinquity and idleness. Holly was going to marry Julian; and even were she not——. Winthrop glanced toward the photograph frame on the bureau—there were circumstances which forbade him entering the field. Holly was not for him. Surely if one thoroughly realized that a thing was unobtainable he must cease to desire it in time. That was common sense. He knocked the ashes from his pipe and arose.

“That’s it, Robert, my boy,” he muttered. “Common sense. If you’ll just stick to that you’ll come out all right. There’s nothing like a little, hard, plain common sense to knock the wind out of sentiment. Common sense, my boy, common sense!”

He joined the others on the porch and conducted a very creditable flirtation with Miss Edith until visitors began to arrive, and the big bowl of eggnog was set in the middle of the dining-room table and banked with holly. After dark they went into town and watched the fireworks on the green surrounding the school-house. Holly walked ahead with Julian, and Winthrop thought he had never seen her in better spirits. She almost seemed to avoid him that evening, but that was perhaps only his fancy. Returning, there were only Holly and Julian and Winthrop, for Miss Bartram and the Bursons returned to their homes and the Major had been left at Waynewood playing bezique with Miss India. For awhile the conversation lagged, but Winthrop set himself the task of being agreeable to Julian and by the time they reached the house that youth had thawed out and was treating Winthrop with condescending friendliness. Winthrop left the young pair on the porch and joined the Major and Miss India in the parlor, watching their play and hiding his yawns until the Major finally owned defeat.

XI.

Holly had grown older within the last two months, although no one but Aunt India realized it. It was as though her eighteenth birthday had been a sharp line of division between girlhood and womanhood. It was not that Holly had altered either in appearance or actions; she was the same Holly, gay or serious, tender or tyrannical, as the mood seized her; but the change was there, even if Miss India couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Perhaps she was a little more sedate when she was sedate, a little more thoughtful at all times. She read less than she used to, but that was probably because there were fewer moments when she was alone. She was a little more careful of her attire than she had been, but that was probably because there was more reason to look well. Miss India felt the change rather than saw it.