STRANGE TIDINGS.
There was silence in the house which had lately been so full of
merriment; the guests were gone; the rooms deserted; the sweet laughter
of women was heard no more echoing round and about Marshlands; the
sunshine had given place to gloom—gaiety to sadness; for Phemie lay in a
darkened room, struggling for life as the young only can
struggle—fighting, fighting for the victory.
She had not been strong from childhood; but there are some weak
constitutions that have a wonderful hold on existence; and though Phemie
had a hard battle for life, still she won the day at last, and came
forth from her chamber after weeks, white as spring lilies, delicate and
beautiful, fragile and weak as they.
Weak, mentally and physically. God help us! in the great day, will not
the Lord Omnipotent—the Judge of all the earth, remember how feeble His
creatures are? how frail His servant was at this point and at that? Has
He not, think you, more knowledge and more pity than we? Will He, who
took our poor humanity upon Him, not have mercy upon us, and bid many
poor sinners pass into Heaven who have gone with weary feet far astray
on earth?
Will He not be merciful? Friends, dear friends—I say nothing against the
righteousness of the world’s verdict in cases grievous and terrible;
but, after all, may the world not oftentimes be but God’s officer, who
brings the accused before His bar to be judged on higher evidence, to be
pardoned because of fuller knowledge?
It may be right—it is right—in the plan of the Almighty that men and
women should suffer here; but it is comforting to think that, maimed and
bleeding, many a man and many a woman may stand up for judgment at the
last day, when He who sits on the Great White Throne, knowing what they
have suffered, shall wipe the tears from their eyes, and bid them enter,
wanderers though they may have been, into the joy of their Lord.
I think, hard and lonely, sorrowful and desolate as Phemie’s life was,
still that the Almighty ordered every step of her way and brought her to
Himself by paths which, though weary to travel, led ultimately to the
beautiful city whose maker and builder He is.
Phemie never sinned. Let me say this much before going farther—never
sinned as the world views sin—never “fell,” as society puts it—never, I
may even go this far, trod the edge of the precipice of vice
voluntarily.
There is many a woman at this present moment whom the world talks well
of standing at the very mouth of the pit of hell—many a woman, wise,
discreet, decorous, keeping herself straight with society, believing in
no sin except the sin which is found out, and forgetful that there is
another bar besides that of a certain “set” in fashionable society,
before which things that have been hidden shall be made manifest, and
all that has been concealed shall be brought to light.
There is many a woman worse by far than Phemie ever was, who yet knows
nothing of the pangs of remorse, of the agony of the self-reproach, of
the prickings of conscience, of the fierceness of the battle through
which she had passed, ere wearied and worn, ere faint and exhausted, she
ceased to struggle against her fate, and, lying between life and death,
considered that, after all, love was very sweet; that to her, who had
always stood without in the cold darkness, the warmth and the brightness
of loving and being loved was something wonderful.
For a moment they had been close to one another, close as people are
who, with all the conventionalities and fashions and artifices of
society stripped off them, draw near, soul answering unto soul.
To Phemie that moment was a revelation—the “might have been”—the
certainty of the awful mistake she had made—the assurance of Basil’s
love—the hopelessness of that love—its very uselessness, and the
impossibility of it ever bringing happiness to either of them—all
conspired to weaken her resistance of evil—all caused her to lie
bruised, and shattered, and suffering, hugging this sinful affection to
her heart, while she wished for death, while she prayed for no better
boon than to be taken away from the struggle and to pass out of life,
carrying her love with her.
Only to float thus away—only to glide down the stream, away from the
duties which had become intolerable, from the affection for which she
was ungrateful, from the ties which were now unendurable—only to float
with the sweet music she had listened to sounding in her ears—only to
touch his hand before passing away for ever—only to feel his lips press
hers once more, with a knowledge that all necessity for battle was
over—only to leave her memory with him, and then to sink to rest.
Reader, pity her! for though she might be a grievous sinner to wish to
enter eternity burdened with a love which she found too heavy to carry
through time, still her ways had not been ways of pleasantness; she was
very young—she was very weak—the sunshine was very beautiful, and that
fair land wherein even the very birds seem to be singing the old old
story was lovely in her eyes.
It was a dream, shall we say?—a sad, sweet dream, in which the slave
imagined herself free, in which the prisoner thought her chains were
unloosed, her fetters struck off, her dungeon doors opened. It was a
dream, and Phemie woke to find that reality’s cold grey shadows were
stealing in on her life; that she had to come off the shining river, and
return to the shore she once hoped she should have to tread no more—that
Death holds back from those who court his embrace; and that there
remained for her in the future only what the past had held—duty and
struggle—a colder duty, a fiercer struggle, and repentance and despair.
When she was well enough to travel they all went together to the sea—to
Hastings—a place Phemie had never previously visited, and which, it
being the very height of the season, was full of youth and beauty, of
fashion and frivolity, of sickness and sorrow, of age and infirmity.
Had she not a happy time there? I am afraid she was dangerously happy
then—that in the midst of her weakness there was a subtle sense of
pleasure and triumph tipping the moments as they fled by with sunshine,
making her poor, cold, narrow life seem wide and beautiful. She was
taking her heart’s holiday—the working days were all to come. Out over
the sea she looked, but she must return to the woods and the fields of
Marshlands for all that. She sat and listened to the music; but the
years were advancing when the drip, drip of the rain, and the falling of
her own tears would be the sole music of her life. She passed among
crowds, and was amused and interested by the variety of characters, by
the succession of fresh faces. She beat time to the waltzes, as in a
state of delicious convalescence she leaned back and hearkened to the
band on the Parade. Under the moonlight she saw gay groups standing: she
beheld the visitors walking up and down: to the laughter of children, to
the happy voices of the young, and beautiful, she inclined her ear.
Night after night she walked slowly up and down, up and down the Parade,
with her husband on one side of her, and Basil on the other, while the
music rose and fell, and the feet of many people hurried by, and the
faces of the young and the old, of men and women, succeeded to each
other as the scene changes in a panorama, and the moon sailed high over
the East Cliff, and the waves came washing up on the shore—now
advancing—now receding, and the sound of the waters fell on the ear like
a subdued accompaniment to the noisy melody of human fears and hopes
that was being sung continually on the strand.
To Phemie, who was dreamy and fanciful, it seemed that the Parade was
the stage, the visitors the performers, the sea the orchestra, herself
the one solitary spectator. She seemed to do nothing save listen and
feel; and yet there was at times a tone in the great sea which woke an
answering chord in her heart, and caused her vaguely to marvel whether
in the dim future every string in her nature might not be tried and
tested; whether she should not some day understand more fully the
meaning of that eternal murmur which never ceased by day nor by night;
which went on just the same, whether men stood on the shore or left the
coast desolate; which took no heed of human sorrow or of human joy;
which had gone on through the ages, and which should continue through
the ages, till there was no more sea—till the heavens were rolled up
like a scroll—till time was merged in eternity, and the great problem of
existence solved at last.
Life! She was beginning vaguely to think, not merely about her own life,
but about all lives—about all those men and women who went hurrying
along within sound of the great sea. She was commencing to understand
that there was a lesson to be learnt out of these things somehow, though
she had never conned a line of that lesson yet herself. It was all very
vague—it was all very sweet, but there was a terrible sadness in it
notwithstanding—a minor that brought tears into Phemie’s eyes
oftentimes, she scarcely knew why or wherefore.
Yet it was a happy time—sinfully happy to the poor misguided woman—until
the Hurlfords and Miss Derno arrived at Hastings also. Then in a day all
seemed changed; the liveliest tunes sounded sad to Phemie; the sweetest
airs grew wearisome; she tired of the rush of the hurrying feet; the
moon ceased to rise over the East Cliff; there was no longer any track
of silver light on the waters; the evenings felt chilly; the sun did not
shine the same as formerly.
It was all as when a man puts a sprig of some bitter herb into the
wine-cup, and bids his neighbour drink—the flavour of the wine is lost,
and he turns from the rich juice of the grape, because of the
disagreeable taste of the herb. Phemie’s visit to Hastings was spoilt.
“Well, let it be!” she said, wearily to herself. “What does it matter?”
What! though she could not see the waves for tears; though she sat alone
indoors while they went about enjoying themselves?
Mrs. Stondon was not strong enough to bear the rocking of a boat. She
grew dizzy when the little vessel was tossed about on the waters. She
was unable to ride for very weakness, and so in time it came to pass
that—as she was not selfish at this advanced period of her story—as her
affection would not let her keep Captain Stondon always at home for her
sake, as her pride would not allow her to make any sign to Basil, she
was often lying on the sofa solitary, whilst the Hurlfords, and Miss
Derno, and Basil, and her husband were riding, or boating, or walking.
In most lives there are such pauses, when the musicians are silent—when
the voices of the singers are hushed—when there is a time between the
lights—when we lay down the volume of experience, and think, tearfully
it may be, of all we have read out of it. Happy the man or the woman
who, unlike Phemie, think to some good purpose; who can trace the
meaning of the life story; who can resolve that the future shall not be
as unprofitable as the past.
Wearily, she thought, ah! wearily—grievously she misjudged the best
friend God could have sent her—a woman who loved and pitied the poor
wife.
There was nothing Miss Derno did that seemed right at that time in
Phemie’s eyes.
Dressed in mourning for the aunt she had spent best part of her life
with, Mrs. Stondon considered her a hypocrite.
“People who have been left handsome legacies can afford rich mourning,”
Miss Georgina Hurlford suggested; and that was a view of the question
upon which the invalid thought it pleasant to dwell.
If Miss Derno offered to remain at home with her friend, Phemie viewed
her kindness as a piece of deception. If she went out riding or boating,
walking or driving, Phemie still thought she was playing her cards—doing
her best to win Basil.
And supposing she did win Basil, what then? Had Phemie not said she
never would step over a grave to happiness? Could she expect him to
remain single for her sake all his life?
“Can you guess the course Miss Derno is urging me to adopt?” Basil said
one day as he leaned against the window, looking out over the sea. “She
wants me to accept General Hurlford’s offer, and go out to India.”
“Perhaps she would not object to accompany you herself,” Phemie
answered.
For a moment Basil, though a gentleman, hesitated; he knew Phemie’s weak
point, and his power through it, then he answered—
“Miss Derno would not marry a poor beggar like myself even were I
inclined to ask her.”
“The heir to Marshlands cannot be considered a beggar,” Mrs. Stondon
answered, coldly.
“Phemie!” it was the only word he uttered, but their eyes met, and she
turned hers aside abashed, but, woman-like, she held to her opinion, and
brooded over it.
“You will go, Basil,” she suggested.
“And leave you?” he replied.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” she entreated; “don’t, for God’s sake.
Leave me and seek your own life—that which a man at any point, at any
age, can make it. Leave me—my life is gone. I ask nothing but to be let
do my duty which I have neglected. Take his offer, Basil—take it, and
go;” and then she buried her head in the sofa pillow while he answered—
“And you think I could do this—you think a man’s love is no more
constant than all that comes to. You imagine I could go away and
forget—forget you, Phemie—forget you”—
Then with all the strength of her nature Mrs. Stondon uprose, and said—
“I think, Basil Stondon, that if in the book of a man’s life there are
two wicked pages, he should paste them together, and go on and make a
better of the leaves that are to come. I think that if I were in your
shoes I should flee from temptation, and not remain even within sight of
dishonour. I do not think I could eat a man’s bread, and be conscious
all the time that I loved his wife. I do not believe—woman though I am,
weak though I may be—that could I go, as you can go, I should stay.”
“Shall I take General Hurlford’s offer, then?” he asked. But she had
exhausted her strength, and was lying weeping in the very extremity of
her physical weakness. God help us! again I say, when the weakness of
our bodies is sometimes able to subdue the strength of our souls. God
help men and God help women, for we are all poor frail sinners alike!
“I did not think,” said Miss Georgina Hurlford to Mrs. Stondon, “that
Olivia would have counselled Mr. Stondon to accept my father’s offer;
but I suppose her aunt’s death has made all the difference? It cannot
matter to her now whether she marries in England or goes abroad.”
In her desperation Mrs. Stondon turned to Miss Derno. “I suppose,” she
said, “your aunt’s death will make a difference in your future plans?”
“Most assuredly,” was the reply. “I have some idea of taking a cottage
near Marshlands; I feel that I should like to be near you.”
“If Basil remains in England, you remain, I conclude?” answered Mrs.
Stondon, and at her remark Miss Derno flushed scarlet.
“I am at a loss,” she replied, “to imagine how Basil’s future plans can
influence mine.”
Whereupon Phemie laughed. “That is what we all say,” she answered, and
the laugh grew hysterical.
“We! Ah, heaven,” thought Miss Derno, “what can she know about the
matter?—she who has never felt what it is to love honestly and
passionately all her life long—whose purest love can never more be
anything but sin—who, if she had only known Basil Stondon first, and her
husband afterwards, might have loved her husband with all her soul and
strength and might, but who can never love anything but this poor weak,
unstable young man—never, for ever—for ever, never.”
Was she right in this, my reader? No. For there came an hour when Phemie
was able to put the two men in the scales together, and weigh their
merits impartially—when she knew which of them had been true and
faithful, which false and fickle—when, for the second time, she could
make her heart’s choice, and took the better man.
But according to her then light, Miss Derno argued—according to her then
light, Phemie judged.
“You think,” answered Miss Derno, “that _I_ mean to go to India with
Basil if he accept Sir Samuel’s offer—that I intend to take a place near
Marshlands if he do not—and in both ideas you are wrong—how wrong you
may know, perhaps, hereafter. Meantime, I can only say this much:—I
shall not—much as I should prize your friendship, greatly as I should
like to be near you—take a cottage in Norfolk at all. I will flee to the
uttermost parts of the earth—to Wales, to Ireland, to the
Highlands—(what does it matter to me?)” she added vehemently; and Phemie
remembered she had uttered words like them. “I have promised to remain
for a month with my cousin; at the end of that month, farewell, my dear,
a long farewell; for it is ten chances to one if you and I ever meet
again on this side heaven.”
“Where do you mean to go, then?” asked Phemie; “you told me long ago
everybody met somewhere in the end—that there was no ‘never’ in
society.”
“There is no ‘never’ in life, Mrs. Stondon,” was the reply; “there is no
‘never’ in eternity—unless——”
“Unless what?” Phemie inquired.
“Never mind,” was the reply. “I detest religious discussions; this
present life ought surely to be enough for us, without wanting to
penetrate the mysteries of the next, before our time.”
“But we live here for the next,” said Phemie, who could not forget the
teachings of that old Scottish manse; of that lonely house among the
hills.
“Do we?” retorted Miss Derno; “I should not have thought it. Forgive
me,” she added next moment, as Phemie broke into a fit of
weeping—“forgive me, I was thinking more of myself than of you—I was
indeed—I was, upon my word—forgive me, dear—forgive.”
But, somehow, Phemie’s forgiveness was a thing not readily granted in
those days. Phemie, what with her beauty, and her delicate health, and
her devoted husband, and her fine position, was rather a great lady, and
as she had not been born great, she was not perhaps magnanimous: let
this be as it may, she did not accord her forgiveness readily, and
within a few days she and Miss Derno were removed further than ever from
each other, namely, by a visit from one of Mrs. Stondon’s relations, the
first who had favoured her with word, or call, or letter since her
marriage.
Mrs. Keller prefaced her visit with a letter, skilfully worded, penned
in the most beautiful of handwritings on the best of note-paper.
The Stondons were in Hastings; she dated from St. Leonards. They were,
after a fashion, strangers. She was a regular comer, well known and
respected. Captain Stondon was from Norfolk, a place as it might be in
the Antipodes; Roundwood was in Sussex, and every Hastings tradesman,
livery-stable keeper, and lodging-house lady knew Mrs. Keller, and Mr.
Keller her husband, and the young ladies her daughters.
Mrs. Keller had a very bright pair of black eyes, that were capable of
seeing any object at any distance; further, she had a very clear head,
out of which she planned a letter to Mrs. Stondon.
“What does it mean?” Phemie asked, listlessly handing her aunt’s epistle
up for Captain Stondon’s judgment. “I cannot understand what she is
driving at. What does it mean?” And she turned towards her husband, who,
after reading the letter placed it before Basil.
“It means,” said the latter gentleman, “that Mrs. Keller has no
sons,—that there are no more brothers,—that failing direct male heirs,
the estates revert to the female branch,—and that you are the next
heir.”
“I?” and Phemie’s pale cheek grew paler.
“Yes, you,” went on Basil. “Mr. Keller cannot live twelve months, so the
doctors say. Miss Keller is dead. Mrs. Stondon will inherit Roundwood,
and become a greater lady than ever,—so great a lady, in fact, that we
shall all have to approach her hat in hand.”
“Then, if my father had lived,” interrupted Phemie, “he would have
inherited Roundwood before this Mr. Keller?”
“Undoubtedly, after General Keller’s death.”
“And you are certain you are not mistaken?—you are satisfied all that
property will some day be mine?”
“Perfectly satisfied, unless, indeed, Mrs. Keller takes it into her head
to have a son at the eleventh hour, which, considering this note, is
scarcely probable. There now,” added Basil Stondon, “what have I said,
what have I done?” And repressing the strong impulse which made him long
to take Phemie in his arms, and kiss away her tears, and hold her to his
heart, he stood aside while Captain Stondon sat down beside his wife,
and drew her lovely head on to his breast, and let her cry out her heart
there—sobbing—sobbing passionately.
Her life—it was that she was considering—poor disloyal Phemie—weak,
traitorous, unworthy wife—with her head against his breast, with her
face against the heart which held no thought save for her—she was yet
reflecting what a happy lot hers might have been, had this news come
before marriage instead of after. She might have had Basil then, instead
of Captain Stondon—might have had the tinsel instead of the pure gold,
the coloured glass in lieu of the precious gem!