THE DOWNWARD ROAD.
Basil Stondon had come to fetch Phemie home. Before he knew of her
departure for Cumberland, Captain Stondon had invited some of the
friends of his bachelor days to stay at Marshlands, and he accordingly
wrote to his wife, begging her, if she felt at all well enough, to
return to Norfolk.
“And later on in the season,” continued Captain Stondon, “if you,
dearest, wish it, we can take a house for a month or so beside
Derwentwater or Windermere, which surely would be pleasanter for you
than the Hill Farm.”
To this Phemie had agreed, so far as returning home was concerned. She
only begged her husband to allow her to remain as long as possible. “If
you let me hear from you one day, when your friends are certainly
coming, I shall be ready to start the next,” were her words; and when
Captain Stondon read them out to Basil with the comment that he thought
she ought to return at once, the young man proposed going to Cumberland
to fetch her.
“I have never seen the lakes,” said Mr. Basil, “and I should like to
take a look at them.”
“Very well,” agreed Captain Stondon, “only do not fall down the side of
a mountain as I did.”
“It proved a very lucky fall for you though, I believe, sir,” remarked
Basil. To which Captain Stondon answered that it had, little dreaming
what was passing in his companion’s mind at the moment.
Thus it came about that Basil Stondon found his way to Cumberland and to
the Hill Farm, from which place Mrs. Aggland showed him the path to take
to reach Strammer Tarn.
Mrs. Aggland had grown fat and unwieldy in her later life, and offered
no temptations for a _tête-à-tête_.
“One of the children can run with you to show you the way,” she
volunteered; but Basil declined her politeness.
“He could find Strammer Tarn, no doubt, thanks to her explicit
directions; and if he did not find it he would turn back when he thought
he had walked far enough.”
All of which he said with such courtesy and politeness that Mrs. Aggland
was quite taken with him, and greeted her husband on his return with a
glowing account of the “nice young gentleman” who had come to take
Phemie home.
“So pleasant-mannered and genteel,” she said, “and as handsome as a
picture, too; but what are we to do with him here, Daniel? He’ll never
put up with our house.”
“Then he must go to Grassenfel,” was Mr. Aggland’s reply. And he went
out to the top of the hill to watch for their coming.
“I can offer you but poor hospitality, Mr. Stondon,” he said. “If you
think you can sleep in so humble a dwelling I shall be only too proud to
do my best to make you comfortable; but at the same time I must tell you
we are very plain people, and that I am sure Mr. Conbyr would give you a
hearty welcome at the vicarage.”
“Thank you,” answered Basil, simply, “I had much rather remain at the
Hill Farm. I have heard of it so constantly that it seems like the
realization of a dream to sleep beneath its roof.”
For which speech Phemie hated him. According to her ideas he ought to
have left her then and there—left her for ever. After her explicit
answer, was not all over between them? Could not he take his “No,” and
go, and leave her to return to Marshlands under her uncle’s escort?
“You can make a tour of the lakes, and stay away until you have decided
on your future plans,” was Phemie’s suggestion; to which Basil listened
in silence, without the remotest intention of following her advice.
No programme, indeed, was ever more altered than that sketched out by
Phemie for his guidance. Had there been no lakes in England—no Skiddaw
to climb, no Stockghyll Force to see, no Langbourne to visit, Basil
could not have stayed on more contentedly at the Hill Farm.
What Captain Stondon had done before him Basil did now. He walked over
the hills, he sate by the tarns, he drank of the waterfall, and wished
that he might keep Phemie’s heart till his own was cold. He visited Mr.
Conbyr and talked with him of the outer world; he sate in the same pew
in church where Captain Stondon had sate beside the ill-dressed girl who
was now as stately-looking as any princess in the land. He leaned over
the wall of the graveyard, and looked at the rivulet wandering away and
away. He lay on the grass where the mountain stream came tumbling over
the rocks and dropped into the basin beneath; he looked at the ivy and
the lichens, the foxgloves and the broom, the grass and the ferns, the
mossy stones and the trees that waved their branches over him. He stood
in the garden at the Hill Farm and gazed down the valley—the sweet
valley of Tordale; he went about with Mr. Aggland and won golden
opinions from all men—particularly from all women.
He was so frank, so pleasant, so kind, and so handsome, that he won upon
the inhabitants of that remote spot, as he had won upon the inhabitants
of very different places.
“An amazingly fine young fellow,” remarked Mr. Aggland to his niece,
when he saw that Basil really did not care about his inner man, that
luxuries were indifferent to him, and that he made himself as much at
home in the parlour of the Hill Farm as he might in Captain Stondon’s
drawing-room. “An amazingly fine young fellow. I wonder, Phemie, that
you have never taken to him kindly.”
To which speech Phemie answered—
“One never does like the next heir cordially, does one, uncle?”
“Shame, shame!” exclaimed Mr. Aggland; “I never thought, Phemie, to hear
you make a speech like that. When you have enjoyed fully yourself, you
ought not to grudge another the chance of enjoying fully in his turn
likewise.”
“Still one never does like an heir, unless he be of one’s own blood,”
persisted Phemie, who never missed an opportunity of throwing dust in
her uncle’s eyes.
“Can she be grieving because she has no children?” wondered Mr. Aggland.
“Does she dislike this young man because he occupies the place that
might have been more happily filled by one of her own sons? I should
like greatly to know now,” thought her uncle, “if it be envy and hatred
and all uncharitableness that is the matter with poor Phemie after all.
‘As rust corrupts iron, so envy corrupts man,’ says Antisthenes. Solomon
declares it is the ‘rottenness of the bones,’ and Cowley calls envy ‘of
all hell’s throngs the direfulest.’ According to Socrates it is a poison
which drieth up the marrow of the bones and consumeth the flesh.
Daughter of pride, he calls envy. Now Phemie was always proud,—a little,
I mean,” modified Mr. Aggland, “and she has never been the same—at least
judging by her letters—since this young man came to the house. I
remember her expressing strong dislike to him before we went to Cromer.
It may be that she is jealous.” And for years afterwards Mr. Aggland
believed that Phemie cordially hated Basil Stondon—that she hated him
because he stood where her children might have stood, and that she was
pining and fretting because she had no living sons—no prospect of having
sons who might oust the intruder out. Of which idea Phemie herself, I am
sorry to say, took no pains to disabuse his mind, but rather encouraged
his notion, and led him to believe she was very sorry Basil must inherit
after her husband, when the real truth was, that if Phemie had been able
to shower gold and property on him, she would have done it.
“You should not dislike him, Phemie,” Mr. Aggland said one day; “it is
not right. Though you are my own niece, and he a stranger, I cannot say
that I think you treat him properly at all.”
“Now pray, pray, uncle,” entreated Phemie, “leave that Basil Stondon
question alone; you cannot tell in the least what you might do if you
were in my place.”
“I know what I should do if I were in his,” retorted Mr. Aggland; “I
should not endure your manner, Phemie. I declare I hear you speaking to
him sometimes as I should not speak to the poorest labourer I employ.”
“Well, you can address your labourers in whatever form of language you
think best, uncle,” she said, a little flippantly; “but I mean to talk
to Basil as I choose.”
“Phemie!” was Mr. Aggland’s only remonstrance.
“I am not a child any longer,” she burst out, passionately; “I will say
what I like, as I like it. If people think I am wrong, they may think
it; but they shall not tell me. I know what my own sorrows are; but I
will not let anybody intermeddle with them. I know my own business, but
I will not have anybody interfere with it; not even you, uncle,” she
added, “not even you.”
“I cannot imagine what has come to you, Phemie,” he said. “I think you
must be mad; one day you are as docile as a lamb, and the next you are
rabid.”
“There is a pleasure sure in being mad,” she answered; but when he
turned away, pained and wearied, she followed him into the garden, and
hanging on his arm, said coaxingly,—
“Forgive me, uncle; the things I would not say, I speak; the things I
would speak, never, somehow, pass my lips. Does not some wise man say
that clocks will go as they are set; but that we will not? That is the
way with me, I want winding up. I want new works. I want sending to the
jeweller and seeing to. It is not my fault, uncle; it is my misfortune.”
“Phemie, dear, you are ill; you ought to have first-rate advice; you
must go abroad.”
“I never want to see ‘abroad’ again,” she answered; “I should like to
stay in the hills with you always. I should like to go to Scotland and
see the coast I loved when I was a better girl than I have ever been
since.”
And Phemie dropped her uncle’s arm as she spoke, and sate down on the
grass, saying she was tired.
I should think she was tired! The conversation that ought, in her
opinion, to have ended the subject of love between her and Basil, proved
only to have been the commencement of her troubles. He would not leave
her alone; he could not let her be; she had fled from Marshlands to be
rid of him; she must return to Marshlands to see if she could escape
from him there.
She felt like a hunted creature; she felt every day that her strength
was decreasing—that his power over her was increasing. His words sounded
sweet in her ears; she grew weary of struggling; she learned to listen
to his poor sophistry and believe it.
He was taking nothing from Captain Stondon that had ever belonged to
him; he only wanted Phemie’s love—only a kind look, a pleasant word.
There was no sin in speaking civilly to him, surely; there could be
nothing wrong in talking quietly and gently as she used to do. If he had
said anything to offend her he was sorry; if she had not run away from
Marshlands and left him desolate he would never have told her how he
loved her—never. He would have borne any pain rather than wound her—she
ought not to be so unkind when his very heart was breaking for her sake.
And at that, somehow, the words of that old, old song she had sung when
she was still free, came into Phemie’s mind.
Oh! if she could only go back—only be a girl again—what happiness might
not be hers!
Alas! the happiness might be, but the misery was.
Who can travel a dangerous road and keep clear of the pitfalls? Who can
begin descending and not slip? Who can touch pitch and not be defiled?
Who can handle sin without becoming less virtuous? Who can drink of the
wine cup and keep his head perfectly clear?
Phemie could not at any rate. She was quaffing in a draught that was
stealing through her veins like poison. She had her times of
repentance—her seasons of despairing remorse—her hours when the sound of
Basil’s voice was hateful to her—when she detested her own weakness in
listening to him; but after all, what did this signify—what good did
this effect?
When purity is sullied, who may make it otherwise than soiled?
“The fleece that has been by the dyer stained,
Never again its native whiteness gained;”
and the man whose hands are guilty may not wash them in innocency.
I have no excuse to offer for Phemie, save that the heat and burden of
the day was too much for her; that she had not strength enough to
extricate herself from the net; that she had no one to help her; that
she was not called upon to resist absolute sin, such as the world frowns
on. He did not ask her to leave her husband; he never again spoke of a
future in which she might be his wife. He only prayed for love that it
was no wrong for her to give him, because she had never given it to any
one else.
“It belongs to me, Phemie,” he said; “though you are another man’s wife;
though you may never be my wife, yet I own the love of your heart; and
whether you try to keep that love from me or not, you cannot prevent my
having it.”
He was right: Phemie could not prevent his having all the love of which
her nature was capable. She could not help the tears with which she
watered her pillow; she could not help her thoughts, her regrets, her
misery.
“I will go back to Marshlands,” she said, “and get rid of you; it will
be impossible for you to say these things to me under the same roof with
him.” And Phemie turned from the mountains and the valley, and, weary
and wretched, travelled home.
How shall I tell of the time that followed?—of the torture that woman
passed through—of the frantic projects she formed—of the resolutions she
took—of the plans she devised?
She would go away, where neither Basil nor Captain Stondon could find
her. She would tell her husband—and she would have told him, too, but
that she dared not even think of the anguish her fault would cause him.
She would try to get rid of Basil; but Captain Stondon did not want
Basil to leave Marshlands. She would never be alone with him. How was it
possible for her always to have some one at her elbow?
And besides, it was so hard—so hard! He loved her so much; better than
Captain Stondon had ever done! Better? Down on your knees, Phemie, and
pray God to deliver you from such love that would drag you down to hell.
Better? There is a love which can love a woman better than itself; but
of such a love Basil Stondon knew nothing.
It was not in his nature to be thoughtful for others, unselfish towards
himself. He did not care about its being the road to perdition along
which he was leading Phemie, because he chanced to fancy travelling it
himself.
He had no mercy, because he was weak; he had no pity, because he was
foolish; he had no forbearance, because he had no principle: so he
tortured the woman he professed to love; he put her on a mental rack,
and tormented her every hour in the day.
“I cannot leave you, for I love you,” he said once.
“You will not leave me, because you love yourself,” she answered. And
yet still his love, whatever it might be, was sweet to her. She was
making a journey from which few ever return in safety; she was trying an
experiment from which no heart ever came forth pure.
She was endeavouring to love two men; she was striving to serve two
masters: and still she was slipping—slipping towards the precipice over
which no one who fell ever came back.
She loved her husband no less than ever; nay, rather, she loved him
more. She was so repentant, so wretched, so angry with herself, so sorry
for him, that there came into her manner a tenderness—a thoughtfulness
which it had always lacked before; and many and many a time Captain
Stondon would follow her with his eyes, and wonder, with the wonder of
old increased and magnified, if any man was ever so fortunate as he—so
blessed in home and wife and friends.
“If my darling’s health were only better,” he said one day to Miss
Derno, “I should not have a care or anxiety in life; but she looks so
ill, and her spirits are so wretched, that I cannot help feeling anxious
about her.”
“I am afraid she is not strong,” answered the lady, who was a great
favourite with her host. “Let us talk about her,” she suddenly added:
“come down to the lake, and I will tell you my opinion of your wife. She
wants rest; she is wearing herself out: all these people may be very
pleasant, but she ought not to be among them. You should take her
abroad, or winter in the south of England, and send Basil away. He is
strong himself, and he thinks fresh air and exercise is all she
requires; and so she goes out walking and riding and driving, when she
had a great deal better be lying quietly on the sofa. Get Basil an
appointment. In Mrs. Stondon’s state of health she ought to have no
strangers near her: and besides, Basil will not take kindly to work
after all this idleness. He was lazy enough when he came here; what he
will be after this long holiday I am afraid to think.”
“But Basil is the next heir, Miss Derno,” answered Captain Stondon; “I
do not see why he should work. I will speak to him about dragging Phemie
out. She need not stand on ceremony with him as though he were a
stranger. It is only his anxiety for her to get well that makes him urge
her to be constantly in the open air.”
Miss Derno beat her foot impatiently against the ground.
“Do you think idleness good for any one?” she asked. “Do you think it
well for a man to have all the advantages of a large property, without
having any of its anxieties and responsibilities? This is a Castle of
Indolence for him; and if I were his mother I should like to see him
usefully employed.”
“Was it not about my wife we were talking, Miss Derno?” inquired Captain
Stondon.
“Yes; but I have long wanted to speak to you about Basil. He is an old
pet of mine, you know. I know his faults and his virtues better,
perhaps, than anybody else on earth, and I am confident this idle
existence is not good for him: it would be trying to any man; and it is
doubly trying to a man like Basil.”
There was truth in what she said, and Captain Stondon admitted it.
“The same idea occurred to me the other day,” he said; “and I have been
considering whether I could not give him the management of some portion
of the property.”
“Will you be angry if I put a question to you?” inquired Miss Derno. She
was leaning on his arm, and she stooped forward and looked up in his
face as she spoke.
She could see that its expression changed a little; but he answered
kindly and courteously as ever,
“It must be a very singular question, or series of questions, Miss
Derno, that could make me angry with you.”
“You are bringing up Basil as your heir,” she said; “suppose you had a
son; how would it fare with this idle young man then?”
For a moment Captain Stondon remained silent. The idea was one which he
did not think she ought to have suggested. He did not consider it at all
in Miss Derno’s department to talk about such possibilities to him. He
felt it was inconsiderate of her to open up the old sore. He believed
that it was nothing to her whether he had sons or whether he had not;
but still he replied, quietly and calmly,
“If such an extremely improbable event were to happen, I should provide
handsomely for Basil—be sure of that.”
“But still you would not give him Marshlands.”
“I could not if I would,” was the reply; “I would not if I could.”
“And yet you will not make him independent of Marshlands altogether?”
“Should such a necessity as you have named arise, I should do my best to
push him on in the world.”
“Expecting him, doubtless, to be satisfied with a dry morsel, after he
had been regaling himself on the stalled ox?”
Miss Derno could put things as unpleasantly as possible when she had a
mind; and she succeeded in making Captain Stondon uncomfortable for the
moment.
“The fact is,” he answered, “I am very fond of Basil. Having no son, I
like to forget that he is not my son. I should miss him sadly if he were
to leave me; and I do not think it is well to deprive oneself of
pleasure in the present, because of the chance of what may happen in the
future. However, Miss Derno, I will think over what you have said. I
will give the matter my maturest consideration.”
She was grateful to him for what he said. She felt, all things taken
into account, that he had borne her interference as few men would; and
so, with all her heart in her face, with all the earnestness of her
nature thrown into her manner, she spoke her thanks.
“If I have seemed impertinent,” she said, “pardon me; if I have seemed
intrusive, think that I am not really so.” And Captain Stondon assured
her he could never think of her otherwise than as she would wish him to
do; and the pair walked on beside the lake where the lilies floated, and
then back beneath the lime-trees to the house.
“Miss Derno seems to be almost as fond of your husband as she is of Mr.
Basil Stondon,” remarked Miss Georgina Hurlford, who was standing beside
Phemie in the garden.
“Yes, I think she likes them both greatly,” answered Phemie; and the
conversation dropped. But Miss Hurlford noticed that the blood came
rushing into Mrs. Stondon’s face one moment, and that the next she was
pale as death.