Phemie Keller

The grief must have been terrible, the anxiety intense, that could have made Phemie Keller indifferent to her personal appearance; and, accordingly, in spite of all her sorrow and indecision, the young lady took Peggy’s advice kindly, and—followed it. She bathed her face, and then removed the traces of tears by breathing on her handkerchief and holding it to her eyes; she unfastened her hair, and let it fall down in thick luxuriant waves, which she combed and brushed caressingly.

She was very proud of her hair; her own beauty was a great pleasure to this mountain-reared maiden. Perhaps she would have been a more perfect character had she not taken such delight in her own loveliness; but then she would not have been Phemie Keller. She would not have been the girl who, full of innocent vanity, stood before her little glass, arranging her plaits and braids in the most becoming manner she could devise.

I have read a good many books, but I never recollect meeting in one of them with an account of a heroine who made herself look ugly in order to let down a rejected lover easily, nor among my own acquaintance have I ever known a woman forget, when discarding a suitor, to put on her best looks for the occasion.

It may be cruel, but is it not natural? Would you have Lesbia leave off her padding and stays, and her robe of gold, so that she might send the poor wretch away disenchanted? Would you have Nora Creina bind up her dishevelled locks, which are no doubt amazingly becoming to her, though they do not suit Lesbia, and put on a stiff robe of state, instead of the picturesque costume which floats as wild as mountain breezes, when she trips across the lea to say No, sir, no? Would you have Hebe push back her hair from her charming face, and make herself look a fright? Would you have Miss, with the fine forehead and Roman nose, wear lackadaisical curls over her temples? Would you have Drusilla uncover her scraggy shoulders, or Lavinia veil her snow-white neck? Can you expect the dear creatures to send the man away, wondering at his own unutterable want of taste? Is it not most natural that they should wish him to depart in a frame of mind bordering on insanity, possessed by seven fierce devils of loveliness, who make his last state worse by far than his first.

And finally, although the success she had achieved might not be that precise kind of success which Phemie’s little heart desired to compass, was it not natural that, having gained a certain worldly triumph, auburn hair and dark-blue eyes should want to look their best over the matter?

For all of which reasons, and more especially because the girl’s vanity was as genuine as her grief, Phemie Keller brushed and smoothed and braided her hair as daintily as though she had been going down stairs to meet the hero of her dreams.

All women cannot go to the queen’s drawing-room, though they may all wish to do so; but, spite of that, they put on their best dresses, and adopt the newest style of head decoration, when invited to a select tea-party at the squire’s just outside the village.

Even for Mr. Fagg’s benefit, even to gladden Mr. Conbyr’s failing sight, Phemie would have made the best of herself, and as it was—so it was—this innocent, unsophisticated beauty took as much pains in arraying herself for the campaign as though she had been born and bred amongst those ancient ladies who wore tires on their heads and pillows to their arms, and went mincingly, making a tinkling as they went.

On the whole, the result was satisfactory. At sweet sixteen, tears are not altogether unbecoming. Rain, in the summer-time, produces a different effect on the landscape to rain in the winter; and, in like manner, it is one thing when tears wet the sweet buds of youth, and hang heavy on the roses of girlhood; and quite another when they roll heavily down the worn cheeks of middle age, and mingle with the snows of later life.

All the sweeter did Phemie Keller look for the shower so lately fallen. There was a certain languor about her eyes, a certain pallor in her cheeks, which made her beauty irresistible; and as she turned to leave the room, the girl felt perfectly satisfied with her own appearance, and equally certain that Captain Stondon would be satisfied with it too.

And yet, spite of this conviction, there was a sick, faint feeling about Phemie’s heart while she went slowly along the passage to decide her fate. How fearfully prosaic! how horribly matter-of-fact! how terribly real seemed this question which she was called upon to decide! There was no haze of love—there was no wild attachment—no passionate hero worship. She had never listened for his step with hand laid on heart to still its throbbings; his voice had never sent the blood rushing to cheek and brow; she had never thought of him through the day, and dreamed of him by night; she had never walked with him hand in hand among the flowers of that enchanted garden which is the only Eden man ever now enters upon earth; the whispers of love were not in her ear, urging her footsteps on. It was a hard, cold bargain, and though Phemie did not, could not reason all this out for herself, as I have done for you, reader, still she instinctively hung back, and delayed the evil moment as long as possible.

“I am going down now, uncle,” she said, opening the door of Mr. Aggland’s private sanctum, a room filled with books, ornamented with fire-arms, littered with fishing-tackle, into which none of the household were privileged to enter excepting Phemie herself. “I am going down now,” and she stood in the doorway, looking as if she never wished to go down, but wanted to stay there for ever; while Mr. Aggland, who was busy among the pipes of the organ referred to on one occasion by Mr. Conbyr, lifted his head, and bade her come in.

“I do not tell you to do anything, Phemie,” he said; “remember that,” and he laid his hand on her shoulder while he spoke. “So far as I see, you need not even make up your own mind just at present. Do not be in a hurry to say either yea or nay. ‘Hasty marriage seldom proveth well,’ Shakespeare says, as you know, and further—

For which reason, do not let anyone over-persuade you in this matter.

“I know as much about my mind now as I shall ever know,” answered Phemie. “I have been thinking, thinking all day, till I am sick of thinking. Advise me, uncle,” she added, with sudden vehemence; “tell me what I ought to do.”

“Seneca says—” began Mr. Aggland.

“Oh! never mind what Seneca says,” interrupted Phemie; “I want to hear what you say.”

“Well, then, my opinion is exactly his,” persisted her uncle; “that no man should presume to give advice to others who has not first given good counsel to himself.”

“You are playing with me,” she said, pettishly. “I want advice, and you give me old saws instead: I want help, and you will not hold out a finger towards me.”

“Because I cannot,” he answered. “You are coming for advice to a man who, never having followed any rule of reason in his own life, is incompetent to show the wisest course to another. I have been led by impulse for so long that I believe I have forgotten there is such a thing as prudence. All my life long I have lacked ‘good sense;’

It was but the other day I was reading what William Finlay wrote about himself, and I thought then that the picture might have been drawn from me.”

And Mr. Aggland hummed—

“Uncle, if you asked me for anything, I would give it to you,” said Phemie, reproachfully.

“And so would I give you anything but advice,” he answered.

“Anything except what I want,” she said—“anything but that;” and at the words, Mr. Aggland rose up, startled.

“Phemie, child,” he exclaimed, “do you know what it is you are asking from me? do you think what it is you want me to decide? It is your future; it is the whole of that which I once owned, but which is now behind me for ever; and I have made such a wretched thing of life, that I cannot tell you what to do. I am no judge, my dear; I am no judge.”

“But I have nobody else,” she said, piteously, “and I cannot keep him waiting all night, and I do not know what to say, and—and my heart is breaking.” At which point, Phemie’s composure gave way, and she covered her face with her hands and sobbed aloud.

“Damn marriage!” was Mr. Aggland’s remark, and he uttered it in all sincerity. “I wish we were in heaven, Phemie, where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage; where there are no bad crops, and no anxieties concerning the future. I cannot advise you whether or no to take Captain Stondon’s offer; but I do advise you to hear what he has got to say about the matter. He is a good man, and a true:

You may find some one whom you could love better, Phemie, but you would never find anybody better. And, because I believe this, I bid you go and listen to him first, and afterwards, if you like, we will talk together.”

And with this safe counsel, having dismissed his niece, Mr. Aggland turned him to his work again, muttering Otway’s opinion, “‘The worst thing an old man can be is a lover.’”

It was not the worst thing imaginable, however, for Captain Stondon; it was well for him to have an object given to his objectless life; well for him to have some one to think of beside himself; well for him to have at last a definite hope in existence: and sitting all alone by the fire, the officer was dreaming some pleasant dreams, and thinking himself far from unfortunate, when Phemie turned the handle of the door and entered shyly.

But as she did so—as she came slowly out of the darkness into the light, something like a shadow seemed to come out of the darkness more swiftly than she and stand between them. It was not a doubt, and yet Captain Stondon felt himself remain irresolute for a moment; it was not fear, and yet he had experienced the same sensation before entering a battle from which he had been afterwards carried wounded: it was a cloud thrown for a moment over a landscape, fair to see, lovely to contemplate; it was one of those intangible messengers of evil who, fleet of foot, rush through our hearts in the midst of our joy, bidding us prepare for the sorrows that are following more slowly after into our lives.

It just came between them for a moment and departed, and next instant Captain Stondon was holding the girl’s hands in his, and praying her forgiveness for his over-haste. In one sentence he told her, he had not been able to rest at the vicarage; that he could not sit patiently waiting to hear his fate: in the next, he begged her to believe he was in no hurry; that he would not hasten her decision; that whenever she chose to give him an answer, would be the time he should like best to hear it.

“All this day,” he went on, “I have been thinking of you. I have been longing to be at the Hill Farm once more. I have been wishing for the sound of your voice. I know I ought not to have come here this evening; but I could not live without seeing you. Do not say anything to me if you would rather not. Send me away again now, and I will go through the darkness and the rain, content to have looked in your face once more.”

It was needful for him to do all the talking, for Phemie never opened her lips. She never helped him in the least, but stood with one hand resting on the stone chimney-piece, looking intently into the fire. If she had been born deaf and dumb, she could not have made less sign, and yet still all the time she was struggling to find words to tell him what was passing through her heart; she was trying to discover what she was feeling, so that she might show him honestly all that was in her mind.

He might not be a hero, but he loved her; he might not have black hair and piercing eyes, but he was not beyond the pale of humanity on that account. All the strength of feeling—all the power of affection he had never, since his earliest youth, lavished on any human being, he was now wasting upon her, as the sea lays its treasures upon some bare and thankless strand: and even as the waves of that same sea, meeting some tiny stream, force back the waters of the rivulet and prevent it mingling with the ocean, so, the very force and vehemence of this man’s passion stopped Phemie’s utterance and made her shrink back into herself.

She felt as one standing out unsheltered in a hurricane—she felt powerless to speak—to lift up her voice and protest against marrying him solely because he wished to marry her. She felt what many an older woman has felt—that she had got into a mess, out of which it was impossible to extricate herself. Through no wish—through no striving—through no desire of her own—this man had fallen in love with her, and she would never have the courage to bid him go: she could do nothing but what she did do—lift her lovely, pleading eyes to his and burst into tears.

Then he knew—then the shadow fell between them again—then he paused before he took the girl gently to him and soothed her grief, and calmed her agitation as though he had been her father. He had deceived himself; he had thought this young thing could love him; he had thought, because he was still able to feel affection, that the power of winning the heart of a creature in her teens was left also. He had remembered his lands and his houses, his gold and his silver; but he had forgotten what mere gewgaws these things seem in the eyes of a girl unless she has some one dearer to her than aught else on earth—to hold and to spend with her.

He had deceived himself, and he awakened to the knowledge with a pang, and then straight away he fell to deceiving himself again, and thought that if once he could get her to say yes—if once he could induce her to marry him—he would earn her love; he would purchase it by his tenderness, by his forbearance, by his devotion.

Anything rather than give her up—anything sooner than lose auburn hair and blue eyes for ever—any trouble—any sorrow—any pain—if trouble, sorrow, and pain, could hinder his going out again into the wide world without Phemie Keller by his side.

And never had Phemie seemed so charming to him as she did at that moment; never in her gayest mood had he loved her so much as he did when she stood there passive, letting him stroke her hair, and draw her hands away from her tear-stained face, as though she had been a child.

Everything which strikes us as most beautiful in girlhood adorned Phemie Keller then: innocence, timidity, dependence, guilelessness—the man could have knelt down and worshipped her. She was so young, so fresh, so lovely, so different from anything he had ever seen before, that Captain Stondon felt his pulses grow still as he looked at her—felt the spell of her purity and beauty laid upon him soothingly.

He could not give her up; he told her so more calmly than he had spoken any sentence yet. He knew that in many respects he was not the lover to win a young girl’s fancy, but he would prove none the worse husband for that.

She should have as long a time as she liked to think the matter over; he would not hurry her; the winds of heaven should not breathe upon her too roughly if she married him; they would travel. He would take her to Paris and Rome; they would go to Switzerland and Spain. She should see all the places of which she had read. He would make her uncle’s position more comfortable.

Duncan should be sent to school, and Helen also; and Helen should come and spend her vacations at Marshlands. As for Phemie, if his love, if his care, if his wealth, if his devotion could keep trouble from crossing her path, life should to her be but as a long pleasant summer’s day; and then Captain Stondon went on to tell her how he had never loved but once before, and of what a desert his life had been since.

“But you can make it a heaven upon earth now, if you will,” he said; “you can make me either the happiest or the most miserable of mortals.”

Yet still she never spoke.

“Am I to go away without one word?” he said. “Will you not say anything to me before I return to the vicarage?”

But Phemie never answered.

“Am I to take silence as consent so far?” he went on.

In answer to which question the girl remained resolutely mute.

“May I think that you are not averse to me?” he persisted; but the sweet lips never opened, the lovely face never was turned towards him.

“Do not send me away without even a smile,” he said at last. “Well, well, I will not teaze you,” and he made a feint of turning to leave the room.

Then all at once Phemie found words, and cried—

“Do not go, Captain Stondon; I want to speak to you. I have something to say—do not go!”

“Nobody will advise me,” went on the girl, passionately: “if I was to inquire of any person I know, what I ought to do, they would tell me what I could tell them; that you have done me a great honour; that it is a wonderful thing for a gentleman like you to have asked a girl like me. I went to my uncle, and he bade me come to you; and I do come to you, sir. What am I to do? oh! what am I to do?”

It was his turn to be silent now, and he stood looking at Phemie, at her clasped hands, at her beseeching attitude, at her eyes which were swimming with tears, for a minute before he answered—

“My poor child, how can I tell you what to do? I, to whom ‘yes’ will be life, and ‘no’ death, to every plan and hope, and desire of my future existence. All I can say is, do not marry me if you think it will not be for your happiness to do so; and, above all, do not marry me if you care for anyone else.”

He put such a constraint upon himself as he said this, that Phemie, though she caught their sense, could scarcely hear his words.

She did not know anything of the storm which was sweeping through his heart; but she had a vague idea that he was fighting some kind of battle when he went on—

“I love you so well that you will be safe in making me your friend. If anyone else is fond of you, if you are fond of any other person, tell me, and I must try to be disinterested—try to see my duty and do it. Have you any attachment—any preference? Answer me frankly, dear, for God’s sake, for it may save us both much misery hereafter.”

The pretty head drooped lower, and the flushed cheeks grew redder; but the sweet lips parted for all that, and Phemie whispered—“No.”

“You are certain?” he said, and he raised her lovely face, so that he might see the story it had to tell.

This time Phemie lifted her eyes to his shyly, yet trustingly, while she replied—

“I am quite sure, sir—quite.”

That was a comfort, at any rate: terrible jealousy of Mr. Fagg—grave doubts concerning one or two young men he had met in the valley—suspicions of some secret lover, whose very existence was unknown to anyone but Phemie—had all conspired together to make the officer’s life a weariness to him during the last few minutes: but there was no mistaking Phemie’s face and Phemie’s manner. She had no clandestine attachment—no attachment of any kind—not even for him.

There was the misery—there was the next difficulty he had to face, but Captain Stondon did face it for all that, and said—

“I am afraid that you do not care for me?”

“I do not know, sir.” What an aggravating chit it was with its uncertain answers—with its frightened manners and averted face!

“Do you dislike me, Phemie?”

“No, sir.”

It was on the tip of Captain Stondon’s tongue to say, “Then what do you do?” but he refrained, and proceeded: “Could you learn to love me?”

“I do not know;” and the officer struck his heel impatiently against the floor at her reply.

What was the use of catechising her thus? What is the use of asking a child who does not know its A B C, questions about reading, writing, and arithmetic? And was not all the alphabet of love a terra incognita to Phemie Keller? Like a baby, she knew fairy tales; but she was ignorant of her letters. Practical love was a thing of which she knew as little as chubby five-years-old knows of Hebrew. The right master to teach her had never crossed her path; and though Captain Stondon was perfectly up in the subject himself, he lacked the power to impart information to her.

She might marry him—she might be fond enough of him—she might bear him sons and daughters; but she could never feel for the husband she was bound to—love, such we mean when we talk about “The dream of Life’s young day.”

It was natural, however, that Captain Stondon should blind himself to this fact—natural that, loving her so much, he should forget everything except that she was free—that it was possible for him to gain her—that he might hope to see her mistress of Marshlands yet.

He might win this young thing for his wife; and as he thought of this—thought it was only her youth which made her answers vague—her inexperience which caused her uncertainty—his impatience vanished, and sweet visions arose of an angel walking side by side with him upon the earth. He saw her flitting from room to room in the great house that had always hitherto seemed to him so deserted; on the lawn, in the gardens, he beheld blue eyes and auburn hair—pleasant pictures of home-life—home-life, such as he had often read about in books, were before his eyes; that which he had dreamed of so many, many years before was all coming true at last. She did not dislike him: for the rest—“She did not know.” He would be satisfied with that for the present; and instead of pressing the unsatisfactory part of the subject, he would talk to Phemie about what she could understand, viz., her position as Mrs. Stondon, in comparison to her position as Miss Keller.

Wherein Captain Stondon was wise. Phemie possessed as much common sense as her cousins. Setting the lord out of the question, and putting the Kellers along with the lord, she knew exactly how she was situated to a T; and if the officer did put the actual state of matters in plain English before her, Phemie had quite sufficient knowledge to understand that all he said contained neither more nor less than the truth.

Mr. Aggland was not rich. If he died—and Phemie had seen enough of death to convince her disease might visit the Hill Farm any day—the girl would have no home, no friends, no money. Or if sickness came—sickness and bad seasons—how were the family to be supported?

Again, if all went well, did she think she could be content to spend all her life in Cumberland? Would she not like to go abroad, to mix in society, to have plenty of money with which to help her relations, and to repay some portion of what had been done for her?

As a man of the world, Captain Stondon could not but know that the match would be a capital one for Phemie; and though he would have given all he possessed ten times over cheerfully to get her for his own, he still placed his social advantages in their best light before her.

And Phemie listened, and Phemie thought, and the longer she listened and the more she thought, the stronger grew the idea that she should marry this man—that she would be somehow throwing away her best chance if she refused to take him.

She did not like saying Yes; and yet she was afraid the day might come when she would rue saying No. He was very good—he was very patient—he was very kind—he was very generous—why should she not be happy?

If an infant be crying its eyes out, a skilful nurse has but to dangle a bunch of beads before it, and straightway the tears are dried, the sobs cease, and with a crow of delight feeble little hands are stretched out to seize the glittering prize.

Somewhat after the same fashion, Phemie Keller had been crying for that which she could not get; and now, partly because she was weary of weeping, and greatly because the world’s vanities looked tempting as Captain Stondon presented them for her contemplation, she gradually forgot to shed any more tears, and began to listen with interest to what he was saying.

He told her about Marshlands—about its fine timber, about its old-fashioned rooms, its endless corridors, its lovely gardens.

Carriages, horses, visitors, servants—all these things, which are doubtless as valueless to you, my reader, as the string of beads are to the adult, looked very tempting to Phemie Keller.

She had not been used to such vanities, and people who have not known luxuries are apt to overrate the happiness of their possession. By degrees she began to ask questions, and to listen with interest to his answers; almost imperceptibly she came to see that, though Captain Stondon might not be a lord, he was a grand personage—a wealthy gentleman for all that. He was doing her an honour, and a man has travelled a long way towards success when he makes a woman feel this.

“He could get many a great lady to marry him,” thought Phemie, and she felt grateful to him for choosing her. He would give her money to buy toys for the children—a microscope or a telescope for her uncle, and a gown for Peggy M‘Nab.

She would have to darn no more stockings, but he would very probably let her get as much Berlin wool and canvas as would enable her to work a sofa-pillow like one there was down at the Vicarage. She should go to London, and perhaps see the Queen. Altogether, she did not feel so very miserable after he had been talking to her for half-an-hour, and though she was still resolute not to say Yes in a hurry, she promised to speak to her uncle.

Of course Captain Stondon knew by this time that her consent was a mere question of time. His wooing might be tedious, but it could not be difficult; and as he took his way down the valley, he found himself thinking about the marriage service, and picturing to himself how exquisite Phemie would look as a bride.

Ere a week was over, she had promised, reluctantly possibly, but still faithfully, to become his wife some day; and the officer went about in a seventh heaven of ecstacy, whilst Mr. Aggland sat gravely looking on, and Duncan sang in a broad Scotch dialect, which was fortunately unintelligible to the lover, though Phemie understood it all too well—