PHEMIE KELLER.
A Novel.
BY F. G. TRAFFORD,
AUTHOR OF “GEORGE GEITH,” “CITY AND SUBURB,” “MAXWELL DREWITT,” “TOO
MUCH ALONE,” “WORLD AND THE CHURCH,” “RACE FOR WEALTH.”
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND.
1866.
[_The Right of Translation and Reproduction is reserved._]
LONDON:
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I.— SORROWFUL TIDINGS 1
II.— WIDOWED 24
III.— THE LETTER 35
IV.— MEETING 62
V.— RECONCILED 96
VI.— THE LAST ENEMY 119
VII.— OLD FRIENDS AND OLD PLACES 141
VIII.— PHEMIE’S JOURNEY 175
IX.— THE RETURN 201
X.— BASIL’S COMFORTER 217
XI.— CONFESSIONS 230
XII.— PHEMIE EXPRESSES HER OPINIONS 265
XIII.— CONCLUSION 287
PHEMIE KELLER.
CHAPTER I.
SORROWFUL TIDINGS.
It was drawing towards the close of the year 1856 (there may be some
among my readers who can recollect what a dull, foggy, cheerless ending
that year had), when one morning the post to Marshlands brought with it
an Indian letter for Captain Stondon.
The post often brought Indian letters there—long letters (for though the
writer addressed his epistles to Captain Stondon, he knew they would be
read by Phemie), full of descriptions of the country, of his
occupations, of his prospects, of his hopes.
Nearly three years had elapsed since Basil’s departure, but time made no
difference in the regularity of his correspondence. Let him be busy or
the reverse, the young man still found leisure to despatch his budget of
news. Perhaps he felt that on those letters Phemie lived; that her
existence was only rendered supportable by the excitement of waiting for
his missives, and hearing them read aloud; that she loved the sight of
his handwriting as she had once loved the sight of himself; that she
counted up the days as they came and went—counted how long it was since
the arrival of his last letter, how long it would be before the advent
of his next. The time had passed with her somehow; she was no longer the
girl Phemie; she had changed from the young wife, from the beautiful
gracious hostess, to a quiet, undemonstrative woman, who tried with all
her heart and all her soul to do her duty.
It had come to that—for lack of explanation—even because of her
husband’s excessive tenderness and consideration, she found she could
only give him duty, never love. Her lover was gone from her—she had
driven him away! Her lover, who had not married Miss Derno after all,
who had loved her, her only—Phemie Stondon, who now sat with her hands
folded, and her untasted breakfast before her, waiting for the news
which Captain Stondon appeared unusually loth to communicate.
When he went away she vowed she would never ask a question concerning
him, and so far she never had; but now she saw something in her
husband’s face which impelled her to say—
“Is Basil ill—is there anything the matter?”
Captain Stondon looked at his wife as she spoke, and seeing her pale,
anxious countenance—her eager, earnest expression, turned sick as he
answered—“He is ill; he is coming back to England. You see what he
says.” And he tossed the letter over to her, and then got up and walked
to the window, and looked out, with such feelings of bitterness swelling
in his heart as were only imagined by God and himself.
He made no man his confidant; but the knowledge that had come to him
among the pines, while the autumn wind moaned through the branches, and
went sobbing away into the night, had whitened his hair, and bowed his
head, and taken the pride and the trust and the happiness out of his
heart. He had his wife safe—as the world calls safety; there was no
speck on her honour, so far as the world knew. Yet no time could ever
make her seem to him as she had been—the Phemie he had held to his heart
among the hills. The pure, innocent, guileless Phemie had gone, and left
him in her stead a woman, whose thoughts morning, noon, and night, were
wandering over the sea; who loved Basil as she had never loved him; whom
he could not accuse of perfidy, because she had not been false; to whom
he dared not speak of his sorrow, because he dreaded seeing her face
change and change at finding her secret discovered, her trouble known.
And all the time Phemie was wishing that by any means he and she could
come nearer to each other again—that she could show him more love, more
attention, greater attachment. She was very wretched, and she wanted
some one to comfort her; it made her miserable to notice his whitening
hair, his bent head, his feeble steps, his failing health; she thought
of him now with a tenderness such as she had never felt for him in the
years before any one came between them; and if she could by any will or
act of her own have kept her thoughts from wandering away to that man in
the far-off land, she would have done so.
Even now she was not glad to hear he was coming back; she laid down the
letter when she had quite finished it; and her husband, turning from the
window, caught her eyes making a very long and sorrowful journey into
the future. He knew by that look she was true—knew that the clear,
honest eyes could never have held such a sad, wistful expression in
their blue depths, had the news not been a trouble to her as well as a
surprise.
She was thinking the same thoughts as her husband at that moment; she
was wondering, as he was wondering, whether Basil were really ill or
whether he was making bad health a pretext for returning to England; and
she was resolving that if Basil came home unchanged, she would at all
hazards speak to her husband, and let him comprehend how matters really
stood; while he, on his part, was thinking that, supposing Basil were
playing a false game in any way, he would either take Phemie abroad, or
else—well, yes—there should be confidence—painful confidence between
them at last.
And yet the man’s heart yearned towards Basil. He had been fond of him
as he might have been of a son; and if he were ill, if he had overcome
his madness, if he could live in England, and yet not seek to destroy
what measure of peace still existed in Phemie’s heart, Captain Stondon
felt he should be glad to see the man whose love for his wife had driven
him forth into exile, on British ground again.
The mysteries of human nature are inexplicable; its inconsistencies are
never ending. For any outsider even to attempt to describe all Captain
Stondon had thought and felt about his wife and Basil—about Basil and
his mother—about himself and Phemie, would be useless. I can only say
that he was sorry and he was glad at the news contained in Basil’s note.
He had been wretched about the young man; Mrs. Montague Stondon made his
life a weariness concerning her son. He felt that if Basil died abroad
he should feel as though he had almost two deaths to answer for. If
Basil would only marry, if Phemie could only forget the love that had
been a curse to her, if he could only see oftener the look in his wife’s
face which had just comforted him, he believed his declining days might
still be bright with sunshine.
And Phemie’s first comment on the letter was satisfactory.
“Of course,” she said, “Basil will go to his mother. He had better not
come here. I would rather he did not learn to look upon Marshlands as
his home again. Do not think me hard, Henry,” she went on, pleadingly;
“I have my reasons. It was bad for Basil leading the idle life he did
with us, it was indeed.”
“My love, my own darling wife, if you only tell me what you wish, I will
be guided by you. I think I should have been wise to listen to you
before.”
“Well, listen to me now,” she entreated; “if his health be really bad,
give him a handsome allowance and let him travel. Let him make his
head-quarters with his mother—let him do anything but come here. You
will not give in to him, Henry?” she went on; “you will be firm; you
will keep our home as it is, without bringing strangers here again. Will
you not?—will you not?”
She was older then than when this story opened—older by ten years; but
her beauty at seven-and-twenty was almost as great as it had been at
seventeen; and while she stood there, pleading against the love of her
heart—stood with flushed cheek and soft, low, tender voice, in the tones
of which there was yet a touch of passionate regret, Captain Stondon
felt that, though they had been separated for so long, there would still
be danger for Basil near her; and then he wished Basil were not
returning. He would have given half Marshlands to have kept him out of
England.
There was one thing, however, which induced Captain Stondon to believe
that his relative was really ill—viz., the fact that he meant to perform
his homeward journey by long sea, to spare himself the fatigue of the
overland route. There could be no deception about this matter. He
mentioned the name of the vessel in which he had taken his passage; he
stated the period about which she might be expected to arrive; he
requested Captain Stondon to break the news of his serious illness to
his mother, and ask her to prepare for his reception.
“God knows,” he finished, “whether I shall ever live to see England
again; but if I do, I should like to stay for a time at Hastings.”
Reading his letter over for the first time, the earnest brevity of his
communication failed to strike Captain Stondon; but the longer he
pondered over Basil’s words, the more satisfied he felt that he had been
stricken down by some terrible sickness, and that perhaps he was, after
all, only coming home to die.
“And if so—better so,” Phemie thought; “better he should die than that
we should have to live through the past again, with its shame, and its
sorrow.” And then, in the solitude of her own room, she covered her face
with her hands, and wept aloud.
Can the old love ever die? Can we ever bury that body out of our sight,
and heap the mould upon it, and tramp it into the clay? The men and the
women may change—they may grow old—they may die—they may pass from the
familiar haunts, and the place which has known them may know them no
more; but still the picture painted long and long before on the canvas
of some human fancy remains young and fresh and lovely. There it hangs
on the walls of the heart, and not all the world’s dust—not all the
world’s cares—not all time’s ravages can make those dear features other
than beautiful for ever.
Well, well, the dark days were at hand when Phemie could have nothing
but recollection; when the picture hung in the innermost chamber would
be all she might ever hope to see more; when the man’s memory would be
encircled with a halo of mystery; when a sad and tender interest would
surround the last hours of Basil Stondon’s life, giving to his fate that
sad and pathetic interest which was alone needed to fill Phemie’s cup of
love and sorrow full unto overflowing.
The ship sailed, and the ship came, but Basil Stondon did not arrive
with her; neither did the next Indian mail bring any explanation of his
absence. Captain Stondon wrote to the owners, who stated, in reply, that
they knew a Mr. Stondon had sailed in the _Lahore_; but as the vessel
had been laid up for repairs, and the captain and mates and most of the
crew had shipped in a new merchantman belonging to the same firm for
China, till the return of the mates or captain they (Messrs. Hunter,
Marks, Son, and Co.) would be unable to obtain further information.
Meanwhile, they remained Captain Stondon’s obedient servants.
After that there ensued a pause, during which Captain Stondon wrote to
General Hurlford, requesting tidings of Basil. Before any reply could be
looked for to this communication the news of the Indian mutiny arrived
in England, and throughout the length and breadth of Great Britain there
arose such a cry of distress and terror as drowned the sound of any
single grief—of any individual’s solitary sorrow.
Straightway down to Marshlands came Mrs. Montague Stondon—came demanding
her son as though Captain Stondon hid him there in durance.
“You know, now, what has happened to him,” she said. “He saw what was
approaching, and would not desert his post. You see for yourself.” And
she thrust the “Times” into Captain Stondon’s face. “General Hurlford is
killed; and Thilling, and Osmonde, and hundreds of others whose names
are not mentioned; and my boy is dead too—murdered—butchered, and by
you.”
Marshlands never witnessed such scenes previously as were enacted within
its walls for a fortnight after that. Mrs. Montague would not stay in
the house of her “son’s murderer,” but remained at Disley, where she
made descents on Captain Stondon, whose life she almost harassed out of
him by entreating that he would obtain accurate information for her.
“If I could but know where he was buried, it would comfort me,” she
said. And then she relapsed into violent hysterics at the idea that
perhaps he was not buried at all. “First my husband—now my son. And it
was your doing, his going out there,” she would remark to Captain
Stondon, Phemie, and Miss Derno. “You were all against him—all. Because
he was next heir you hated him. You sold him into captivity as Joseph’s
brethren sold him; and now he is dead, and I shall see his face no
more.”
“One ought not to speak ill of the dead,” remarked Miss Derno. “But sure
am I that whatever has happened to Basil, he never of his own free will,
got into the middle of that mutiny; and it is perfectly unreasonable for
you to insist on anything of the kind.”
“Where is he, then?” demanded Mrs. Montague.
“That I am quite unable to tell you,” answered Miss Derno. “If only for
Captain Stondon’s satisfaction, I wish I knew. But my belief is that
Basil is not dead at all.”
“I wish I could believe that, Miss Derno. Oh! I wish I could,” said
Captain Stondon. And the poor old man, utterly broken down by the
absence of the son and the reproaches of the mother, burst into tears.
At this period Phemie took the most decided step of her married life.
She forbade Mrs. Montague Stondon the house.
“You shall not come here,” she said, “and speak to my husband as you do.
We are as sorry about Basil as even you can be.” For a moment she
faltered. “We did all we could for him while he was in England; and if
anything has happened to him, Captain Stondon is not the one to blame
for it. He cannot bear these reproaches. He is not able to leave his
room to-day; and the doctor says he must be kept perfectly quiet, and
free from excitement.”
Then Mrs. Montague Stondon broke out. She denounced Phemie as a scheming
adventuress; she spoke of Captain Stondon as a cold-blooded murderer.
She declared Miss Derno was a disappointed woman, and that Phemie had
wanted to catch Basil for her cousin Helen; failing in which object, and
angry at having no children to succeed to the estate, she sent him
abroad to die.
She showed how grievously the idea of losing Marshlands had affected
her. She declared the only reason Phemie wished to prolong Captain
Stondon’s life was because at his death she would cease to be a person
of consequence.
To all of which Mrs. Stondon listened quietly, till the speaker was
quite exhausted, when she took her by the hand and led her towards the
door.
“I am not going to put any indignity on Basil’s mother,” she said; “but
as no person shall have a chance of uttering such words before me twice,
I mean to see you to your carriage myself, and must beg you never to
enter the gates of Marshlands again so long as I am mistress here.”
A servant was standing in the hall as the pair passed out together—and
so Mrs. Montague had to content herself with hissing in Phemie’s ear—“I
hope I shall live to see you a beggar, to see you back in the mud he
picked you out of.”
“You are very kind,” Phemie answered, aloud, and she remained at the
hall door watching the carriage till it disappeared from sight. Then she
turned away and walked slowly up the stairs, and along the wide
passages, and entered the room where her husband was lying in bed, with
the doctor seated beside him.
“That letter, dear,” he murmured; “that letter we had this morning. I am
afraid I shall not be able to make the inquiries for some time.”
“If you are better to-morrow, shall I go to town and see Mr. Hunter?”
she asked, “or should you like me to send for my uncle?”
“I should like you to do both,” he answered; and accordingly the next
day Phemie started for London, and proceeded from the Eastern Counties
Railway Station, where Duncan met her, to the offices of Messrs. Hunter,
Marks, Son, and Co., Leadenhall Street.
“You will come and stay with us?” Duncan said. The “us” referring to
himself and his sister Helen, who was his housekeeper; but Phemie
refused.
“I must return to Marshlands as soon as possible,” she said. “I feel
wretched about being away at all, only it was a comfort to Captain
Stondon for me to come up and learn what Mr. Hunter had to tell us. They
have got his boxes, Duncan.”
“Then he did sail?”
“I am going to hear all about it—all they can tell me.” And she looked
out at the block there always is at the point where Cornhill and
Gracechurch and Leadenhall Streets join, in order to hide her face from
Duncan.
The punishment was not over; it was now but the beginning of the end.
Mr. Hunter received her in a large office on the first floor, which was
well, not to say luxuriously, furnished. There were comfortable chairs,
there was a library-table in the centre of the room, the floor was
covered with a turkey carpet, the blinds were drawn down over
plate-glass windows. The only articles out of keeping with the generally
stylish appearance of the apartment were three large boxes, one of which
had been opened, and to which Mr. Hunter directed Mrs. Stondon’s
attention.
“We advertised those boxes for months, and at last opened one of them.
It is so unusual a thing for passengers’ luggage not to be labelled,
that when Captain Stondon applied to us for information we never thought
of associating that luggage with his missing relative. But the papers we
have discovered leave no doubt as to the gentleman’s identity; and one
of the sailors, who was laid up from the effects of an accident when the
_Singapore_ was ready for starting, has since called here and given us
full particulars on the subject of his fate. He says he remembers a
gentleman being carried down to the _Lahore_ the very morning she
sailed. He looked in a dying state when brought on board, and before a
week had passed all was over. He was buried the next day.”
“Where?” Phemie interrupted—then—
“Oh, my God!” It was all the moan she ever made, but she reeled as she
uttered it—reeled and would have fallen but that Duncan caught her.
“There is but one burial-place for those who die at sea,” was the reply,
spoken gently and hesitatingly. “Far from land, it is impossible to do
anything with the body except——”
“I did not know that this lady was so near a relative,” began Mr.
Hunter, apologetically; but Phemie broke across his sentence.
“What more? He was buried, you say? Had he no one with him—no servant—no
friend?”
“He had his servant, the man tells me, who took the bulk of his luggage
away with him directly the _Lahore_ came into the docks. He must have
satisfied the captain on the matter by some plausible tale, or else he
would not have been permitted to do so. How he chanced to leave those
boxes I am at a loss to imagine, for I conclude his object was to
appropriate the property. We can hear nothing further, however, till the
return of the _Singapore_, for the surgeon who was on board the _Lahore_
has gone on even a longer voyage, and will be away for three years.”
“The passengers?” suggested Duncan.
“True,” answered Mr. Hunter, “you might learn something from them. About
these boxes? You would wish them sent on to Marshlands, I presume?”
“No,” said Phemie; “his mother ought to have everything belonging to
him. I will write to her, and then she will say where she should like
them forwarded.”
She asked no more questions, she made no further remark; there were no
confidences exchanged between her and Duncan on their way back to the
station, only as he stood by the carriage window waiting till the train
should move off, her cousin said, a little bitterly—
“How fond you were of that man, Phemie.” And she replied—
“If you had died far from home and friends as he did, should I not be
sorry for you too?”
She put up her face and kissed him as she spoke these words. The Phemie
of old was dead—the vain, fanciful, exacting Phemie; but for my part, I
love better the Phemie who sat back in the carriage all the way down to
Disley than the Phemie who had looked out over the flat Cambridgeshire
fields five years before.
It was over—with her as with him; she had earned her wages, and they
were being paid to her as the months rolled by. Death—he was dead! What
had life to offer her in the future? what could the years bring to her
worse than this?
At Disley, the carriage was waiting for her, and something in the
footman’s face as he stood aside while she entered it, made her pause
and ask—
“How is your master?”
“He has been worse since morning, ma’am; the doctor was with him when we
left Marshlands.”
“Drive fast, Sewel,” she said to the coachman; “do not spare your
horses.” And accordingly Sewel took his favourite pair of bays back to
Marshlands (to the intense astonishment of society) at a gallop.