KNOWLEDGE.
Time went by—it was autumn—it was winter—it was spring—and still Captain
Stondon found some good reason why Basil should remain at Marshlands.
Nothing loth, Basil stayed on; stayed to be always with Phemie and her
husband, to go with them everywhere; stayed till people forgot the time
when he had never been seen in Norfolk, and came to consider him not
merely the heir, but the child of the house.
A child in comparison to Captain Stondon, perhaps; but how about Phemie?
Phemie, who was younger ever so much than he; Phemie of the blue eyes,
and the auburn hair, and the divine voice; Phemie, who was growing to be
all the world to him, who was becoming fonder, and fonder, and fonder of
him—fonder and fonder as the days went by.
“That virtue which requires to be ever guarded is scarcely worth the
sentinel,” says the Vicar of Wakefield; and yet I doubt whether, in this
case, it had not been better for Captain Stondon to have trusted Basil a
little less, to have thought of consequences a little more.
We watch the woman whose purity we suspect; we leave perfect purity to
be sullied if it choose. Is not this locking the stable door after the
steed is gone? Is not this being “wise afterwards” with a vengeance?
Time, as I have said, went by; but to Basil and to Phemie the months
seemed days, for they had entered into that dreamland where, as in
eternity, there is no account taken of the passing hours. They were
happy, for Phemie did not dream of danger, and Basil would not think of
it. He liked the river, and he wilfully shut his eyes to the fact that
it was flowing to the sea; besides, if there were any harm done, it
would be only to himself. Mrs. Stondon, “of course,” was safe. Of
course; ah! well-a-day!
A young man who from his earliest boyhood had been in love with some
one, was scarcely likely not to know that he cared for Phemie more than
it was quite in the proper order of things for him to care for another
person’s wife; in fact, by the time the primroses were blooming on the
banks and under the hedgerows, he knew perfectly well that his fancy for
Miss Derno was gone, and that an attachment for Mrs. Stondon had taken
its place. He knew it, but he would not acknowledge it. He was like a
man who, feeling every hour in the day twinges and pangs that are the
premonitory symptoms of a mortal malady, will yet not even whisper to
himself that he is sick. He has not courage to turn from the sunlight
and look down into the grave. Basil Stondon was for once in his life
afraid to think of his new love. All his wounds before had been trifling
in comparison to this cancer, that he dared not show to mortal.
Not even to the woman who was to “fix the wandering heart at last,”
durst he show by word or look or sign what she had become to him. He had
to know and suffer in silence; he had to bear his pain with a smile on
his lips; for he understood well enough that if once he spoke he would
be cast out of his earthly Eden; and though there might be a serpent in
it—a serpent stinging him every day—still it was Eden for all that.
“The battle between evil and good,” says a living preacher, “is
perpetually being fought in silence.”
Have you ever thought about this, my reader? ever laid it to heart that,
under all the decorum of our nineteenth-century life, the old, old
warfare that began so many thousands of years since is still being
waged? that the devil is defied, that the devil is triumphant, that
temptations are resisted, that tragedies are acted out with no
spectator, save God, looking on the while?
Smooth and bright may be the surface of the waters, but what about their
depths?
Happy and peaceful seemed that Norfolk household: there were pleasant
walks about the grounds, there were drives through the narrow lanes,
there were rides across the breezy commons; within sight of the quarries
where the “crags” were hewn out; beside marshy pools, from the margin of
which geese stretched out their long necks and hissed at the strangers
as they paused to look; there were parties at Marshlands, and at the
houses of friends and neighbours. There was the usual routine of an
English country life; its calm, its contentment, its want of excitement,
its affluence, its propriety, its monotony; but there was something else
besides, something that was changing Phemie and altering Basil, that was
eating the heart out of that happy life; eating, eating at the core of
that rich ripe fruit, and changing all its former sweetness to
bitterness and decay.
He should have gone when he first learnt how dear she was growing; he
should have left her, “loved her and left her—left her for ever.” He had
friends; he might have visited them. He had a mother; he might have
resided with her. Had he pressed the point, Captain Stondon would have
got him some appointment; but even supposing none of these roads open,
he ought to have left Phemie; ought to have been man enough to say, “I
will not bring sorrow on her; let the future hold what it may for me.”
A man can get away from temptation, but a woman cannot. Without telling
any one, without asking advice or seeking assistance or making a
disturbance, a man may always turn his face north, east, south, or west,
at a moment’s notice. He can cease visiting at a house; he can walk
where he is certain not to meet the woman he loves best; he can do, in
fact, what Basil Stondon ought to have done—leave her.
But this was just what Basil Stondon did not do. He would pay a flying
visit to London, or go to see his mother, or accept an invitation to
stay for a day or two with a friend here, or another friend there, but
he always came back to Marshlands, hungering and thirsting for a sight
of the woman whom he ought never to have seen more.
His mother would not come to Marshlands. It was well for Basil to remain
there if he liked, she said, but she could not forget her husband, which
was the less praiseworthy of Mrs. Montague Stondon, as Marshlands would
have killed her in a month.
“How you bear the monotony,” she remarked, “I cannot imagine.” To which
Basil made answer that men were different from women; “we can ride and
hunt and shoot,” he explained.
“And she” (the “she” meant Mrs. Stondon), “she, you say, is really
presentable. I have heard the same thing from other sources, but I can
scarcely credit it. She was so dreadfully unformed when I first saw
her.”
“You would not think so now,” answered her son.
“Those kind of people,” said Mrs. Montague, “soon learn our ways—that
is, if they are clever; and she is clever, Miss Derno tells me.”
“I suppose she is,” replied Basil, who found his mother expected him to
make some answer.
“And that cousin. Now, my dear Basil, I do not wish to put ideas into
your head, but pray be on your guard, pray—pray. You who may marry so
well—you who will have such a property—do not let any one entrap you
into marrying that girl. Whenever you told me ‘she’ was getting more
civil, I suspected her reason. As she has no children, she would like
one of her own family to marry the next heir. Be on your guard,
therefore, I entreat, be on your guard.”
Basil very solemnly promised her that he would, and remarked that if she
would only come to Marshlands when Helen Aggland next visited it, she
might see for herself how little danger there was of his falling in love
with such a chit of a child; but his mother would not believe in his
safety.
“I cannot forget, if you can,” she answered. “If Captain Stondon had
only done half as much for your father as he is doing for you, I should
not now be a widow.” Upon which Mrs. Montague began to cry, and Basil
changed the subject, for he knew he had altered his opinion about that
matter entirely, and that he did not now consider either Phemie or her
husband had any share in his father’s suicide.
“Blameable share, of course, I mean,” said the young man to Miss Derno,
and Miss Derno remarked she was glad to find he was growing so sensible.
This was in the spring, when Miss Derno came down into Norfolk again, to
stay with the Hurlfords, who meant to have quite a gay time of it, in
honour of a General Sir Samuel Hurlford, who having done great things in
India, had returned thence, been knighted, and was now making a tour of
his relations prior to returning to India in the beginning of the new
year. He was a very wonderful man, so everybody said, and the Hurlfords
were naturally proud to have, and anxious to exhibit him, as well as his
daughter, Miss Georgina Hurlford. This young lady had been educated in
England, and after having been brought out (unsuccessfully) in London,
under the most excellent auspices, was about to accompany General Sir
Samuel back to India.
Money and fame had not quite kept pace together in the General’s case,
and prudent friends thought it was quite possible Miss Hurlford might
marry better on the other side of the equator. At any rate Miss Georgina
meant to try.
She had not found the husband crop plentiful in her season, but she
hoped matters would be different in India. She was just the girl to “go
off” there, her acquaintance said—lively, good-natured, ladylike. She
liked the idea of travelling; she did not mind the sea; she did not care
for the heat; she thought it would be something new; and besides, she
could then be always with “dear papa.”
Dear papa was very fond of Georgina; very proud of her hair, which
curled naturally; of her eyes, that were a light cold brown; of her
cheeks, which were round and rosy; of her mouth, which was small and
pretty.
He admired his child excessively, but when he said she “is like her poor
dear mamma,” he sighed.
There were those who knew that “poor dear mamma” had led the worthy
General a pretty dance before she reluctantly left a world that seemed
to her a very desirable one to inhabit; but no one in Norfolk, unless,
indeed, it might be Miss Derno, was aware of this, and the sigh was put
down to regret for the dead, not to solicitude for the living.
Miss Georgina had been most carefully educated, so the General’s sisters
assured him. She had spent eight years of her life at a school where
there were masters for everything, extras in abundance, a pew in church,
and a clergyman once a week to catechize the young ladies.
Her vacations she had spent with one or other of her aunts; either with
her aunt in town, or her aunt in the country; either at Kensington, or
at an old Grange in Berkshire. In London she learned the value of a good
settlement; at the Grange, how to sit close to her saddle, and not to
ride on the reins. Miss Georgina was an apt pupil, and gave great
satisfaction to all who were kind enough to instruct her. A most
discreet young person, who could dance well, sing German songs, talk
French with any one, take her fences, interpret Schulhoff and Chopin,
play waltzes and quadrilles, and who withal was pleasant-mannered and
agreeable. What more could a man and a father desire? particularly as
Georgina was prudent, which her poor dear mamma had never been.
She had met Basil Stondon before, in London; as who, indeed, among the
upper middle class had not? She liked him greatly (they danced together
many evenings); and if I may say such a thing of a young lady brought up
as Miss Georgina Hurlford had been brought up, she loved him.
There are some men whom all women seem to like or to love, and Basil
Stondon was one of them.
The dear creatures have a fancy for extremes—extreme of strength or
extreme of weakness.
It is your medium man whose love goes a begging, in whose face the door
is shut unceremoniously.
Without fortune, Basil might have looked long enough for a wife, but he
need not have walked abroad to look for love and affection.
Women were very fond of this young fellow; women who, it is to be hoped,
met with husbands calculated to make them happier in course of time; and
one of the girls who liked him excessively was Miss Georgina Hurlford.
To General Sir Samuel, Captain Stondon took amazingly, as in duty bound;
they talked about India together all the day long. In a small and
friendly community any strange face is welcome, providing it be a
pleasant one; and Mrs. Stondon made quite as cordial advances to Miss
Hurlford as her husband did to Miss Georgina’s father.
Here was an opportunity not to be despised, and Miss Hurlford was not
above availing herself of it. She met Mrs. Stondon half way, more than
half way; and after the curious manner of the gentle sex, fell in love
with her straightway.
If a man had paid her half the compliments that fell from Miss
Hurlford’s lips, Mrs. Stondon would have thought him deranged. Hero
worship! What was any hero worship in comparison to such heroine worship
as Miss Georgina offered to her new friend? It was incense all the day
long; and Phemie never, because of the smoke, could see the meaning of
it.
Everybody joined together in making much of her; and Phemie was pleased
to be made much of, and basked in the sunshine.
She was happy; ah, heaven! she was so happy: she was so innocent; she
was still so young. This girl, fresh from a boarding-school, was wiser
in her generation than the seven years’ wife, and wound Mrs. Stondon
round her finger like packthread; but there was a balance! the sun and
the wind and the rain could never talk to the one as they did to the
other; the voices of the night never spoke to Miss Hurlford as they did
to Phemie. Never since she was a child had Georgina looked at anything
with the same guileless eyes as those with which Mrs. Stondon stood
gazing through the calm twilight of a summer’s evening at the woods and
the fields, on the last night when she and perfect truth and unsullied
purity walked through life together.
For ever—for ever, the Phemie we have travelled with so far in poverty
and riches departed, and another Phemie came and stood in her place.
It was as though the calm, self-possessed, unimpressionable nature set
with the sun; as though the night, the cool, calm night, took her in its
soothing embrace, took her away and hid her, and gave back with the
dawning day—not the same, ah! no, but another—a passionate, sorrowful,
despairing woman, who knew why the hours had sped by, why time had
seemed to fly instead of to travel at ordinary speed; why a glory had
all at once come over her life; why she had appeared to be always living
in the sunshine; she knew all this, I say, and knew at the same moment
that the sun had set, that the glory was departed—the illusion
dispelled—the happiness passed to return no more—no more.
Knowledge came to her thus—came in the twilight as she stood under the
verandah, watching the night steal on.
She had never felt so happy before, I think; and as she leaned against
one of the pillars of the verandah, and drank in the thousand perfumes
that arose from the garden beneath, she gave herself up to the full
enjoyment of the moment, to that sensuous enjoyment which is produced on
the minds of some by the scent of flowers, by the fading light, by the
trees standing dark and silent in the distance, by the balminess of the
air, by the lights and shadows on a landscape.
The roses were blooming beside her; the honeysuckle was lying against
her cheek; the night air fanned her forehead. They had no company that
evening save General and Mr. Hurlford, and Miss Derno. Dear Georgina had
not been able to accompany her papa: so at that present moment Captain
Stondon was doing the agreeable to General Sir Samuel and Mr. Hurlford;
being assisted in his laudable efforts by Mr. Basil Stondon.
Miss Derno, who had been staying for a few days at Marshlands, was, to
the best of Mrs. Stondon’s belief, writing a letter in her
dressing-room, and Phemie had consequently the twilight and her reverie
to herself.
It was getting dark—darker, but still Phemie stood leaning against the
pillar, with her dress concealed by the trailing creepers that covered
the low light trellis-work dividing the balcony from the terrace,
thinking dreamily and happily, until it suddenly occurred to her that
under the distant elm-trees she could see something moving.
If we fancy anything of this kind we watch, and Phemie therefore only
did what her neighbours would have done under the circumstances—she
strained her eyes to see if she were right in her conjecture.
She was not frightened, she was hardly curious; she thought it might be
some of the servants; and though the servants had no business to be
making love under the elm-trees, still Phemie was not likely to speak
harshly about their having done so.
“It must be two of the servants.” Phemie said this to herself over and
over, as the shadows changed to figures, and came slowly on.
“It must be the servants,” and her heart began to beat quicker.
“It must be the servants,” she repeated, and she could have struck
herself for refusing to believe her own words. She knew well enough who
it was. She knew even in that dim light the sweep of Miss Derno’s dress,
the gracefulness of her walk, the lithe beauty of her figure. She
knew—she would have known it among a thousand—the pleading softness of
Basil’s voice, the whispered music of the tones that came to her through
the stillness.
She plucked a rose from its stem, and pulled the flower to pieces in her
nervous irritability. She dropped the leaves from the naked stem, and
the thorns pricked her soft dainty fingers.
They came nearer—nearer still, and then they paused for a moment, and
spoke earnestly and eagerly together. After that they turned on to the
grass, and walked across the turf closer and closer to where she stood,
till Phemie could almost hear their words rising to her in the
stillness.
Then they paused again, and one sentence reached Phemie.
“I could never doubt you, never misinterpret you: if all the rest of the
world proved false, I should still believe you true till the end.”
It was Basil who spoke—who, stooping over Miss Derno’s outstretched
hand, kissed it ere they parted.
He walked down towards the fir plantation where he smoked a solitary
cigar: she went round to the conservatory, and re-entered the house that
way.
It was all past, and that was all, and yet Phemie, kneeling in her own
room—kneeling with her face buried in her hands, wept such tears that
night as had never fallen from her eyes before. Passionate tears,
jealous tears, tears of shame, of anguish, of despair.
She knew all about it now—knew that the foe she had mocked at was her
conqueror—knew there was such a thing as love in the world, and that she
loved—knew she had been walking along the road leading to
destruction—knew that she was fonder of this man than she had ever grown
to be of the husband who had raised her to what she was.
To what she was! Alas! was it for this he had taken her from the sinless
quiet of her former life? for this he had given wealth and rank and
position? Had she passed from the peace of that tranquil valley, so far
away in point of distance, so much further away in memory and feeling,
to be sobbing her heart out all alone in the dark?
She had wept once looking down the valley of Tordale, but not like this;
she had shed tears before, but not like these; she had looked out on
life then—on an ideal, an untried life; she was facing its realities
now; the wells of her heart were open at last, the secret chambers were
unlocked after all, and with an exceeding bitter cry Phemie woke to a
full knowledge of what nature had dimly foreshadowed to her before
marriage.
She had never loved her husband—never. She loved this other man who
could never be anything to her—never. Among the hills she had owned one
life—among the hills she had pledged that life away. She could not go
back to the hills now, and begin existence in the new. She had sinned;
she had sinned in marrying; she had sinned in loving; she could never be
happy, but she could be true; she could, though her sorrow killed her;
she could, though her tears fell ceaselessly; she could and she would.
Poor child! poor wife! poor Phemie!