BASIL’S COMFORTER.
There is a story told of a boy who, journeying through a thick wood,
prayed diligently that Providence would deliver him from the dangers of
the forest, until at last the trees were left behind, and the open
country reached. Then said the lad, breathing a deep sigh of relief,
“That will do; I can take care of myself now.”
What the boy said, we feel—not merely in our relations with the
Almighty, but day by day in our dealings with our fellows.
While the danger is imminent, we are glad of any assistance, of any
help, but the moment the wood is left behind, and safer ground reached,
we mentally echo the lad’s cry, and exclaiming, “We can take care of
ourselves now,” are glad to be rid of our benefactors, and think we
never can get the pilot fast enough off our decks—on to his own.
It was not long before Phemie discovered that Georgina, having got back
her husband and escaped his anger, desired to be rid of the instrument
who had brought about this result.
Prospective gratitude, as I have often before remarked, is one
thing—retrospective another. Prospectively, Mrs. Basil Stondon had
promised wonderful things to Phemie, if she did her bidding;
retrospectively she rather underrated her services, and felt in the
present jealous of her influence and power over Basil.
In those days if Phemie said “Go” to Basil he went. The more he thought
of the woman whose life he had made so poor in happiness, the more he
loved her—not with the unholy love of old—not with the passion which had
scorched and blighted the green verdure, and the fair flowers of their
once sweet Paradise—but soberly and purely, as a worshipper might love a
saint.
He was not afraid of being with her now. He did not feel her presence
torture—the sight of her a snare. No great human passion, unless indeed
it may be revenge, can live within sight of death—and the way in which
Phemie told him of his calamity had cured Basil, and changed him for
life.
In his vigil beside his boy the past came and kept him company, and he
repented him of the evil, and wished unavailingly he could go back
through the years, and live them over again.
He had made her a lonely, desolate woman—a woman who in her widowhood
could not even take to her soul the poor consolation of having done her
duty faithfully by a husband she never loved. He had broken Captain
Stondon’s heart—he had wakened him from a pleasant dream. He had shown
him the gold of the crown he wore was to him but as valueless tinsel—the
gem he had prized so highly but glass in his possession. From the old
man he had snatched away the last precious thing life held for him—faith
in his wife’s love—belief in her perfect truth and purity. He was taken
home and warmed beside his hearth, and when he had eaten his bread, and
shared his affection, he turned and stung his benefactor; and then he
left England, and the years had come and the years had gone, and he was
rich and respected—yet—should he escape?
If he had forgotten, had God? If his sin had passed from his memory,
like breath from the surface of a mirror, did it follow that the sin was
forgiven? Though he had buried his fault—though he had hidden it away
from sight—though the turf was green, and the roses blooming—there was
still the body of his fault lying waiting for that resurrection which
comes, even in this world, at an hour men least expect it, for the sins,
and the follies, and the shortcomings, and the commission and the
omission of their youth.
Trouble makes a man reflect: like adversity, it is a great teacher—and
in the weary, weary hours that elapsed between his son’s death and the
funeral, Basil Stondon learned more than he had ever done before, all
his life long.
Hitherto the tale which experience traces on the memories of each of us
had been to him as a narrative in a strange tongue; but now he got by
degrees the clue to the mystery—the key to the cypher, and read the
story day by day painfully and carefully. It had not been all a confused
jumble of events, sorrows, temptations, joys, trials. Neither did it
prove a disjointed puzzle that would not piece together and make a
finished and perfect whole; but rather it was the fulfilment of a great
truth which, once forced upon his attention, he had still elected to
make light of—“The wages of sin is death.”
Painfully he patched the map of his life together, and found those words
traced across it.
Death—not such death as had come to his boy, not such peace and quiet,
not such repose and freedom from trouble, but death like what had fallen
upon Phemie—living death—death to happiness, to hope, to the future. For
wages are paid that they may be spent; and there can be no spending, no
buying; no eating and drinking, of the bread of bitterness, of the
waters of affliction, in the grave.
It was clear to him at last. He should have to bear as she had been
forced to bear. She told him this truth herself—not hardly or
pharisaically, not with the air of one who having been a martyr glories
in recounting his sufferings, but pitifully and tearfully, across his
son’s body; and when the agony of this new light proved too much for
him, when he bowed his head and covered his face and wept anew, she
repeated to him the burden of that which she had said to herself before
she went forth to seek him—
“Would God I could bear it for you; if it might be, I would bear all
gladly.”
“I wish the punishment had fallen entirely upon me,” he answered,
humbly.
He was much changed in those days—changed towards his wife more
especially, and yet Georgina did not feel satisfied. She knew who had
wrought this alteration, even at her own request; and that knowledge
woke to life the old jealousy, the old dislike, the old hatred of her
successful rival.
“It is quite time we were back at Roundwood, uncle, I think,” said
Phemie to her uncle, as they walked together about the grounds on the
day preceding that fixed for the funeral.
“We will go to-morrow if you like, dear,” he answered. “You have done
all you can do here. Mrs. Basil Stondon is, doubtless, greatly attached
to you, and you have been of much use to her; but yet I believe—
‘Of honey and of gall in love there is store,
The honey is much—but the gall is more.’”
“I am sure there is more gall than honey in her love for me,” replied
Phemie; “and therefore, although I do hope I have been of use here, I
will pack up and go.”
“I would, Phemie, I could see you packing up and making preparations for
happiness on your own account,” he said, significantly.
“You speak in enigmas,” was her reply.
“Do I? Let me try then to speak plainly to you, Phemie. I would see you
married, sweet. I would have you try to give back love for love to a
worthy man who loves you dearly.”
“Who is he?” she inquired.
“One who is much at Roundwood, who misses no opportunity of visiting
you, of talking with you—who——”
“You mean Major Morrice, I conclude,” she interrupted. “He is certainly
much at Roundwood, but for once your penetration has been at fault. It
is Helen he wants. I am forestalling his petition, but you need take no
notice of that when he comes to present it. Only cease connecting the
idea of marriage and me, uncle, for I wed no more till death woos me.”
“Phemie, you grieve me.”
“Grieve you, when I tell you a good man and a true wants to marry your
daughter, and will ask you for her in due time. Uncle, it is you who
grieve me. I did not think you so selfish and short-sighted.”
She spoke laughingly, but he answered her seriously.
“Phemie, was there one of them I ever loved better than you? Had you
been my own flesh and blood a hundred times over, could you have been
nearer to me than has been the case?”
“I think not—I am positive not,” she said; “but what then?”
“Then, dear, because you are so dear to me, I would see you happy.”
“Happiness, uncle,” she answered, “is to be compassed by the widow as by
the wife—by the childless as by the mother. I am happy now—believe me, I
speak the truth.”
And she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek as she said this.
“I told you I would find work to do,” she continued; “and I mean to try
and carry out my idea: the girl’s lovers shall be mine—to paraphrase the
old Scotch song—their husbands mine;—their children, my sons and
daughters. There is a child here I love very much,” she went on, with a
little hesitation; “a poor, neglected child, I wish I had for mine very
own.”
“Do not wish for her, Phemie;—other people have more need of her than
you,” Mr. Aggland replied; and before Phemie left Norfolk she knew he
had advised her well.
Next morning the child who so lately had been regarded as heir to
Marshlands, was borne from its gates and laid in the Stondons’ vault,
close beside Phemie’s husband.
Dust to dust—ashes to ashes. The words were spoken, and the mourners
returned.
“We will go by the last train, and stop in London for the night,” Mr.
Aggland suggested; and as he suggested, so Phemie agreed.
When it was growing dark she went to Georgina’s room, and bade her
good-bye.
“Good-bye,” said Mrs. Basil Stondon, who felt, it might be, some qualms
of reproach at seeing her unloved visitor depart according to her secret
desire. “Good-bye, and thank you a hundred times over.”
“Good-bye,” answered Phemie; “and if ever you want my help again, come
to me, Georgina, for I shall never come to you.”
“Why?” asked the mistress of Marshlands; and Phemie replied—“You know
why as well as I do. Because you do not wish to have me here; because it
is well we should walk on our separate paths, apart.”
“You always were peculiar,” observed Mrs. Basil Stondon.
“Was I?” replied Phemie. “At all events, I always (unavailingly perhaps)
tried to be honest;” which retort silencing her enemy, she put her lips
to Phemie’s face and bade her farewell—not sorrowing.
Phemie then went to perform a harder task, that of taking leave of
Basil.
He had shut himself in what was called the library after his return from
the funeral, and remained there the whole afternoon, refusing to be
comforted.
Time after time Phemie gently knocked, but still obtaining no answer she
went up to the nursery, and taking “Fairy” in her arms came downstairs
again and rapped on the panel loudly.
“I want to speak to you,” she said. “I must speak before I go.”
He came across the room and unlocked the door and gave her admittance,
and then she walked to a chair near the table at which he had been
sitting, and tried to induce him to take the child from her arms, but he
motioned her away.
“Mamma—Mamma Phemie,” sobbed the little girl in a passion of grief,
hiding her face on Phemie’s breast, “is he sorry it was not me? Nurse
says he is.”
Phemie looked at the father, who had heard his child’s words—looked at
him—and as Basil stretched out his hands, rose and gave him his
daughter.
“Fay! Fay!” he cried, sobbing like a woman; and he took the little
creature to his heart, who nestled there.