YES OR NO.
The grief must have been terrible, the anxiety intense, that could have
made Phemie Keller indifferent to her personal appearance; and,
accordingly, in spite of all her sorrow and indecision, the young lady
took Peggy’s advice kindly, and—followed it. She bathed her face, and
then removed the traces of tears by breathing on her handkerchief and
holding it to her eyes; she unfastened her hair, and let it fall down in
thick luxuriant waves, which she combed and brushed caressingly.
She was very proud of her hair; her own beauty was a great pleasure to
this mountain-reared maiden. Perhaps she would have been a more perfect
character had she not taken such delight in her own loveliness; but then
she would not have been Phemie Keller. She would not have been the girl
who, full of innocent vanity, stood before her little glass, arranging
her plaits and braids in the most becoming manner she could devise.
I have read a good many books, but I never recollect meeting in one of
them with an account of a heroine who made herself look ugly in order to
let down a rejected lover easily, nor among my own acquaintance have I
ever known a woman forget, when discarding a suitor, to put on her best
looks for the occasion.
It may be cruel, but is it not natural? Would you have Lesbia leave off
her padding and stays, and her robe of gold, so that she might send the
poor wretch away disenchanted? Would you have Nora Creina bind up her
dishevelled locks, which are no doubt amazingly becoming to her, though
they do not suit Lesbia, and put on a stiff robe of state, instead of
the picturesque costume which floats as wild as mountain breezes, when
she trips across the lea to say No, sir, no? Would you have Hebe push
back her hair from her charming face, and make herself look a fright?
Would you have Miss, with the fine forehead and Roman nose, wear
lackadaisical curls over her temples? Would you have Drusilla uncover
her scraggy shoulders, or Lavinia veil her snow-white neck? Can you
expect the dear creatures to send the man away, wondering at his own
unutterable want of taste? Is it not most natural that they should wish
him to depart in a frame of mind bordering on insanity, possessed by
seven fierce devils of loveliness, who make his last state worse by far
than his first.
And finally, although the success she had achieved might not be that
precise kind of success which Phemie’s little heart desired to compass,
was it not natural that, having gained a certain worldly triumph, auburn
hair and dark-blue eyes should want to look their best over the matter?
For all of which reasons, and more especially because the girl’s vanity
was as genuine as her grief, Phemie Keller brushed and smoothed and
braided her hair as daintily as though she had been going down stairs to
meet the hero of her dreams.
All women cannot go to the queen’s drawing-room, though they may all
wish to do so; but, spite of that, they put on their best dresses, and
adopt the newest style of head decoration, when invited to a select
tea-party at the squire’s just outside the village.
Even for Mr. Fagg’s benefit, even to gladden Mr. Conbyr’s failing sight,
Phemie would have made the best of herself, and as it was—so it was—this
innocent, unsophisticated beauty took as much pains in arraying herself
for the campaign as though she had been born and bred amongst those
ancient ladies who wore tires on their heads and pillows to their arms,
and went mincingly, making a tinkling as they went.
On the whole, the result was satisfactory. At sweet sixteen, tears are
not altogether unbecoming. Rain, in the summer-time, produces a
different effect on the landscape to rain in the winter; and, in like
manner, it is one thing when tears wet the sweet buds of youth, and hang
heavy on the roses of girlhood; and quite another when they roll heavily
down the worn cheeks of middle age, and mingle with the snows of later
life.
All the sweeter did Phemie Keller look for the shower so lately fallen.
There was a certain languor about her eyes, a certain pallor in her
cheeks, which made her beauty irresistible; and as she turned to leave
the room, the girl felt perfectly satisfied with her own appearance, and
equally certain that Captain Stondon would be satisfied with it too.
And yet, spite of this conviction, there was a sick, faint feeling about
Phemie’s heart while she went slowly along the passage to decide her
fate. How fearfully prosaic! how horribly matter-of-fact! how terribly
real seemed this question which she was called upon to decide! There was
no haze of love—there was no wild attachment—no passionate hero worship.
She had never listened for his step with hand laid on heart to still its
throbbings; his voice had never sent the blood rushing to cheek and
brow; she had never thought of him through the day, and dreamed of him
by night; she had never walked with him hand in hand among the flowers
of that enchanted garden which is the only Eden man ever now enters upon
earth; the whispers of love were not in her ear, urging her footsteps
on. It was a hard, cold bargain, and though Phemie did not, could not
reason all this out for herself, as I have done for you, reader, still
she instinctively hung back, and delayed the evil moment as long as
possible.
“I am going down now, uncle,” she said, opening the door of Mr.
Aggland’s private sanctum, a room filled with books, ornamented with
fire-arms, littered with fishing-tackle, into which none of the
household were privileged to enter excepting Phemie herself. “I am going
down now,” and she stood in the doorway, looking as if she never wished
to go down, but wanted to stay there for ever; while Mr. Aggland, who
was busy among the pipes of the organ referred to on one occasion by Mr.
Conbyr, lifted his head, and bade her come in.
“I do not tell you to do anything, Phemie,” he said; “remember that,”
and he laid his hand on her shoulder while he spoke. “So far as I see,
you need not even make up your own mind just at present. Do not be in a
hurry to say either yea or nay. ‘Hasty marriage seldom proveth well,’
Shakespeare says, as you know, and further—
‘What is wedlock forced, but a hell,
An age of discord and perpetual strife?’
For which reason, do not let anyone over-persuade you in this matter.
‘For marriage is a matter of more worth
Than to be dealt in by attorneyship.’”
“I know as much about my mind now as I shall ever know,” answered
Phemie. “I have been thinking, thinking all day, till I am sick of
thinking. Advise me, uncle,” she added, with sudden vehemence; “tell me
what I ought to do.”
“Seneca says—” began Mr. Aggland.
“Oh! never mind what Seneca says,” interrupted Phemie; “I want to hear
what you say.”
“Well, then, my opinion is exactly his,” persisted her uncle; “that no
man should presume to give advice to others who has not first given good
counsel to himself.”
“You are playing with me,” she said, pettishly. “I want advice, and you
give me old saws instead: I want help, and you will not hold out a
finger towards me.”
“Because I cannot,” he answered. “You are coming for advice to a man
who, never having followed any rule of reason in his own life, is
incompetent to show the wisest course to another. I have been led by
impulse for so long that I believe I have forgotten there is such a
thing as prudence. All my life long I have lacked ‘good sense;’
‘Which only is the gift of heaven;
And though no science, fairly worth the seven.’
It was but the other day I was reading what William Finlay wrote about
himself, and I thought then that the picture might have been drawn from
me.”
And Mr. Aggland hummed—
“‘While others have been busy bustling
After wealth and fame,
And wisely adding house to house,
And Baillie to their name;
I, like a thoughtless prodigal,
Have wasted precious time,
And followed lying vanities,
To string them up in rhyme.’”
“Uncle, if you asked me for anything, I would give it to you,” said
Phemie, reproachfully.
“And so would I give you anything but advice,” he answered.
“Anything except what I want,” she said—“anything but that;” and at the
words, Mr. Aggland rose up, startled.
“Phemie, child,” he exclaimed, “do you know what it is you are asking
from me? do you think what it is you want me to decide? It is your
future; it is the whole of that which I once owned, but which is now
behind me for ever; and I have made such a wretched thing of life, that
I cannot tell you what to do. I am no judge, my dear; I am no judge.”
“But I have nobody else,” she said, piteously, “and I cannot keep him
waiting all night, and I do not know what to say, and—and my heart is
breaking.” At which point, Phemie’s composure gave way, and she covered
her face with her hands and sobbed aloud.
“Damn marriage!” was Mr. Aggland’s remark, and he uttered it in all
sincerity. “I wish we were in heaven, Phemie, where there is neither
marrying nor giving in marriage; where there are no bad crops, and no
anxieties concerning the future. I cannot advise you whether or no to
take Captain Stondon’s offer; but I do advise you to hear what he has
got to say about the matter. He is a good man, and a true:
‘Nature might stand up
And say to all the world, this was a man.’
You may find some one whom you could love better, Phemie, but you would
never find anybody better. And, because I believe this, I bid you go and
listen to him first, and afterwards, if you like, we will talk
together.”
And with this safe counsel, having dismissed his niece, Mr. Aggland
turned him to his work again, muttering Otway’s opinion, “‘The worst
thing an old man can be is a lover.’”
It was not the worst thing imaginable, however, for Captain Stondon; it
was well for him to have an object given to his objectless life; well
for him to have some one to think of beside himself; well for him to
have at last a definite hope in existence: and sitting all alone by the
fire, the officer was dreaming some pleasant dreams, and thinking
himself far from unfortunate, when Phemie turned the handle of the door
and entered shyly.
But as she did so—as she came slowly out of the darkness into the light,
something like a shadow seemed to come out of the darkness more swiftly
than she and stand between them. It was not a doubt, and yet Captain
Stondon felt himself remain irresolute for a moment; it was not fear,
and yet he had experienced the same sensation before entering a battle
from which he had been afterwards carried wounded: it was a cloud thrown
for a moment over a landscape, fair to see, lovely to contemplate; it
was one of those intangible messengers of evil who, fleet of foot, rush
through our hearts in the midst of our joy, bidding us prepare for the
sorrows that are following more slowly after into our lives.
It just came between them for a moment and departed, and next instant
Captain Stondon was holding the girl’s hands in his, and praying her
forgiveness for his over-haste. In one sentence he told her, he had not
been able to rest at the vicarage; that he could not sit patiently
waiting to hear his fate: in the next, he begged her to believe he was
in no hurry; that he would not hasten her decision; that whenever she
chose to give him an answer, would be the time he should like best to
hear it.
“All this day,” he went on, “I have been thinking of you. I have been
longing to be at the Hill Farm once more. I have been wishing for the
sound of your voice. I know I ought not to have come here this evening;
but I could not live without seeing you. Do not say anything to me if
you would rather not. Send me away again now, and I will go through the
darkness and the rain, content to have looked in your face once more.”
It was needful for him to do all the talking, for Phemie never opened
her lips. She never helped him in the least, but stood with one hand
resting on the stone chimney-piece, looking intently into the fire. If
she had been born deaf and dumb, she could not have made less sign, and
yet still all the time she was struggling to find words to tell him what
was passing through her heart; she was trying to discover what she was
feeling, so that she might show him honestly all that was in her mind.
He might not be a hero, but he loved her; he might not have black hair
and piercing eyes, but he was not beyond the pale of humanity on that
account. All the strength of feeling—all the power of affection he had
never, since his earliest youth, lavished on any human being, he was now
wasting upon her, as the sea lays its treasures upon some bare and
thankless strand: and even as the waves of that same sea, meeting some
tiny stream, force back the waters of the rivulet and prevent it
mingling with the ocean, so, the very force and vehemence of this man’s
passion stopped Phemie’s utterance and made her shrink back into
herself.
She felt as one standing out unsheltered in a hurricane—she felt
powerless to speak—to lift up her voice and protest against marrying him
solely because he wished to marry her. She felt what many an older woman
has felt—that she had got into a mess, out of which it was impossible to
extricate herself. Through no wish—through no striving—through no desire
of her own—this man had fallen in love with her, and she would never
have the courage to bid him go: she could do nothing but what she did
do—lift her lovely, pleading eyes to his and burst into tears.
Then he knew—then the shadow fell between them again—then he paused
before he took the girl gently to him and soothed her grief, and calmed
her agitation as though he had been her father. He had deceived himself;
he had thought this young thing could love him; he had thought, because
he was still able to feel affection, that the power of winning the heart
of a creature in her teens was left also. He had remembered his lands
and his houses, his gold and his silver; but he had forgotten what mere
gewgaws these things seem in the eyes of a girl unless she has some one
dearer to her than aught else on earth—to hold and to spend with her.
He had deceived himself, and he awakened to the knowledge with a pang,
and then straight away he fell to deceiving himself again, and thought
that if once he could get her to say yes—if once he could induce her to
marry him—he would earn her love; he would purchase it by his
tenderness, by his forbearance, by his devotion.
Anything rather than give her up—anything sooner than lose auburn hair
and blue eyes for ever—any trouble—any sorrow—any pain—if trouble,
sorrow, and pain, could hinder his going out again into the wide world
without Phemie Keller by his side.
And never had Phemie seemed so charming to him as she did at that
moment; never in her gayest mood had he loved her so much as he did when
she stood there passive, letting him stroke her hair, and draw her hands
away from her tear-stained face, as though she had been a child.
Everything which strikes us as most beautiful in girlhood adorned Phemie
Keller then: innocence, timidity, dependence, guilelessness—the man
could have knelt down and worshipped her. She was so young, so fresh, so
lovely, so different from anything he had ever seen before, that Captain
Stondon felt his pulses grow still as he looked at her—felt the spell of
her purity and beauty laid upon him soothingly.
He could not give her up; he told her so more calmly than he had spoken
any sentence yet. He knew that in many respects he was not the lover to
win a young girl’s fancy, but he would prove none the worse husband for
that.
She should have as long a time as she liked to think the matter over; he
would not hurry her; the winds of heaven should not breathe upon her too
roughly if she married him; they would travel. He would take her to
Paris and Rome; they would go to Switzerland and Spain. She should see
all the places of which she had read. He would make her uncle’s position
more comfortable.
Duncan should be sent to school, and Helen also; and Helen should come
and spend her vacations at Marshlands. As for Phemie, if his love, if
his care, if his wealth, if his devotion could keep trouble from
crossing her path, life should to her be but as a long pleasant summer’s
day; and then Captain Stondon went on to tell her how he had never loved
but once before, and of what a desert his life had been since.
“But you can make it a heaven upon earth now, if you will,” he said;
“you can make me either the happiest or the most miserable of mortals.”
Yet still she never spoke.
“Am I to go away without one word?” he said. “Will you not say anything
to me before I return to the vicarage?”
But Phemie never answered.
“Am I to take silence as consent so far?” he went on.
In answer to which question the girl remained resolutely mute.
“May I think that you are not averse to me?” he persisted; but the sweet
lips never opened, the lovely face never was turned towards him.
“Do not send me away without even a smile,” he said at last. “Well,
well, I will not teaze you,” and he made a feint of turning to leave the
room.
Then all at once Phemie found words, and cried—
“Do not go, Captain Stondon; I want to speak to you. I have something to
say—do not go!”
“Nobody will advise me,” went on the girl, passionately: “if I was to
inquire of any person I know, what I ought to do, they would tell me
what I could tell them; that you have done me a great honour; that it is
a wonderful thing for a gentleman like you to have asked a girl like me.
I went to my uncle, and he bade me come to you; and I do come to you,
sir. What am I to do? oh! what am I to do?”
It was his turn to be silent now, and he stood looking at Phemie, at her
clasped hands, at her beseeching attitude, at her eyes which were
swimming with tears, for a minute before he answered—
“My poor child, how can I tell you what to do? I, to whom ‘yes’ will be
life, and ‘no’ death, to every plan and hope, and desire of my future
existence. All I can say is, do not marry me if you think it will not be
for your happiness to do so; and, above all, do not marry me if you care
for anyone else.”
He put such a constraint upon himself as he said this, that Phemie,
though she caught their sense, could scarcely hear his words.
She did not know anything of the storm which was sweeping through his
heart; but she had a vague idea that he was fighting some kind of battle
when he went on—
“I love you so well that you will be safe in making me your friend. If
anyone else is fond of you, if you are fond of any other person, tell
me, and I must try to be disinterested—try to see my duty and do it.
Have you any attachment—any preference? Answer me frankly, dear, for
God’s sake, for it may save us both much misery hereafter.”
The pretty head drooped lower, and the flushed cheeks grew redder; but
the sweet lips parted for all that, and Phemie whispered—“No.”
“You are certain?” he said, and he raised her lovely face, so that he
might see the story it had to tell.
This time Phemie lifted her eyes to his shyly, yet trustingly, while she
replied—
“I am quite sure, sir—quite.”
That was a comfort, at any rate: terrible jealousy of Mr. Fagg—grave
doubts concerning one or two young men he had met in the
valley—suspicions of some secret lover, whose very existence was unknown
to anyone but Phemie—had all conspired together to make the officer’s
life a weariness to him during the last few minutes: but there was no
mistaking Phemie’s face and Phemie’s manner. She had no clandestine
attachment—no attachment of any kind—not even for him.
There was the misery—there was the next difficulty he had to face, but
Captain Stondon did face it for all that, and said—
“I am afraid that you do not care for me?”
“I do not know, sir.” What an aggravating chit it was with its uncertain
answers—with its frightened manners and averted face!
“Do you dislike me, Phemie?”
“No, sir.”
It was on the tip of Captain Stondon’s tongue to say, “Then what do you
do?” but he refrained, and proceeded: “Could you learn to love me?”
“I do not know;” and the officer struck his heel impatiently against the
floor at her reply.
What was the use of catechising her thus? What is the use of asking a
child who does not know its A B C, questions about reading, writing, and
arithmetic? And was not all the alphabet of love a terra incognita to
Phemie Keller? Like a baby, she knew fairy tales; but she was ignorant
of her letters. Practical love was a thing of which she knew as little
as chubby five-years-old knows of Hebrew. The right master to teach her
had never crossed her path; and though Captain Stondon was perfectly up
in the subject himself, he lacked the power to impart information to
her.
She might marry him—she might be fond enough of him—she might bear him
sons and daughters; but she could never feel for the husband she was
bound to—love, such we mean when we talk about “The dream of Life’s
young day.”
It was natural, however, that Captain Stondon should blind himself to
this fact—natural that, loving her so much, he should forget everything
except that she was free—that it was possible for him to gain her—that
he might hope to see her mistress of Marshlands yet.
He might win this young thing for his wife; and as he thought of
this—thought it was only her youth which made her answers vague—her
inexperience which caused her uncertainty—his impatience vanished, and
sweet visions arose of an angel walking side by side with him upon the
earth. He saw her flitting from room to room in the great house that had
always hitherto seemed to him so deserted; on the lawn, in the gardens,
he beheld blue eyes and auburn hair—pleasant pictures of
home-life—home-life, such as he had often read about in books, were
before his eyes; that which he had dreamed of so many, many years before
was all coming true at last. She did not dislike him: for the rest—“She
did not know.” He would be satisfied with that for the present; and
instead of pressing the unsatisfactory part of the subject, he would
talk to Phemie about what she could understand, viz., her position as
Mrs. Stondon, in comparison to her position as Miss Keller.
Wherein Captain Stondon was wise. Phemie possessed as much common sense
as her cousins. Setting the lord out of the question, and putting the
Kellers along with the lord, she knew exactly how she was situated to a
T; and if the officer did put the actual state of matters in plain
English before her, Phemie had quite sufficient knowledge to understand
that all he said contained neither more nor less than the truth.
Mr. Aggland was not rich. If he died—and Phemie had seen enough of death
to convince her disease might visit the Hill Farm any day—the girl would
have no home, no friends, no money. Or if sickness came—sickness and bad
seasons—how were the family to be supported?
Again, if all went well, did she think she could be content to spend all
her life in Cumberland? Would she not like to go abroad, to mix in
society, to have plenty of money with which to help her relations, and
to repay some portion of what had been done for her?
As a man of the world, Captain Stondon could not but know that the match
would be a capital one for Phemie; and though he would have given all he
possessed ten times over cheerfully to get her for his own, he still
placed his social advantages in their best light before her.
And Phemie listened, and Phemie thought, and the longer she listened and
the more she thought, the stronger grew the idea that she should marry
this man—that she would be somehow throwing away her best chance if she
refused to take him.
She did not like saying Yes; and yet she was afraid the day might come
when she would rue saying No. He was very good—he was very patient—he
was very kind—he was very generous—why should she not be happy?
If an infant be crying its eyes out, a skilful nurse has but to dangle a
bunch of beads before it, and straightway the tears are dried, the sobs
cease, and with a crow of delight feeble little hands are stretched out
to seize the glittering prize.
Somewhat after the same fashion, Phemie Keller had been crying for that
which she could not get; and now, partly because she was weary of
weeping, and greatly because the world’s vanities looked tempting as
Captain Stondon presented them for her contemplation, she gradually
forgot to shed any more tears, and began to listen with interest to what
he was saying.
He told her about Marshlands—about its fine timber, about its
old-fashioned rooms, its endless corridors, its lovely gardens.
Carriages, horses, visitors, servants—all these things, which are
doubtless as valueless to you, my reader, as the string of beads are to
the adult, looked very tempting to Phemie Keller.
She had not been used to such vanities, and people who have not known
luxuries are apt to overrate the happiness of their possession. By
degrees she began to ask questions, and to listen with interest to his
answers; almost imperceptibly she came to see that, though Captain
Stondon might not be a lord, he was a grand personage—a wealthy
gentleman for all that. He was doing her an honour, and a man has
travelled a long way towards success when he makes a woman feel this.
“He could get many a great lady to marry him,” thought Phemie, and she
felt grateful to him for choosing her. He would give her money to buy
toys for the children—a microscope or a telescope for her uncle, and a
gown for Peggy M‘Nab.
She would have to darn no more stockings, but he would very probably let
her get as much Berlin wool and canvas as would enable her to work a
sofa-pillow like one there was down at the Vicarage. She should go to
London, and perhaps see the Queen. Altogether, she did not feel so very
miserable after he had been talking to her for half-an-hour, and though
she was still resolute not to say Yes in a hurry, she promised to speak
to her uncle.
Of course Captain Stondon knew by this time that her consent was a mere
question of time. His wooing might be tedious, but it could not be
difficult; and as he took his way down the valley, he found himself
thinking about the marriage service, and picturing to himself how
exquisite Phemie would look as a bride.
Ere a week was over, she had promised, reluctantly possibly, but still
faithfully, to become his wife some day; and the officer went about in a
seventh heaven of ecstacy, whilst Mr. Aggland sat gravely looking on,
and Duncan sang in a broad Scotch dialect, which was fortunately
unintelligible to the lover, though Phemie understood it all too well—
“He wandered hame wearie—the nicht it was drearie,
And thowless he tint his gate ’mang the deep snaw;
The owlet was screamin’, while Johnnie cried, ‘Women
Wad marry auld Nick if he’d keep them aye braw.’”